Murder on the Ile Sordou

by M. L. Longworth

  “A big shot,” Niki replied. “Or was.”

  Cat-Cat nodded. “Was, indeed,” she whispered. “Nevertheless, I’ve asked Serge to keep an eye out for you when Alain Denis is around, and you both need to watch out for Marie-Thérèse. She’s so young.”

  Niki pursed her lips, remembering her own young self, stuck in Néoules. “Okay, you’re right. I can stick up for myself around guys like that—don’t worry, I’ll be professional—but Marie-Thérèse is so innocent.”

  Mme Le Bon smiled. “She is, isn’t she? It’s so refreshing.” She thought of her spoiled nieces and nephews in Paris, and their demands for the latest Apple this and that, the right kinds of shoes, and handbags, and sunglasses.

  “I would prefer Hugo looking out for us,” Niki said. “Serge isn’t too . . .”

  Cat-Cat held up her hand. “No Hugo discussion right now,” she said. “We’re all fond of Hugo, but we had to fire him.”

  “He was defending her.”

  “I know, I know,” Cat-Cat said. “But we have to show our guests, and staff, that we won’t accept violent behavior.”

  Unless it’s a movie star being violent, Niki thought. “When is Hugo going?”

  “In the next few days,” Cat-Cat replied. “We’ve told him to lay low and stick to his cabin; we need him here until a replacement can be found. But Max is furious; now Hugo’s gone out somewhere with the boat.”

  “Really?” Niki asked, feigning surprise. She knew that Hugo, when upset, went to the sea. And she guessed that he was probably with Mlle Grassi, the artist. It didn’t bother her; she wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to him.

  Both women turned their attention toward the computer screen, lost in their thoughts: Niki worried about Marie-Thérèse, wondering if such a young girl could be happy working on an island. She vowed that at break later this afternoon she’d try talking to Marie-Thérèse; more than just a chitchat. Cat-Cat Le Bon looked at the screen, thankful that the slow modem brought the hotel Internet; and she was thinking, as she did almost daily now, that she regretted not having children. If she had, when she and Max were first married, they would now be Marie-Thérèse’s age.

  • • •

  Maxime and Catherine Le Bon knew enough about hotels before opening their own to guess that one of the biggest occupations at Sordou would be the laundry. This is where Yolaine Poux, the head housekeeper, found herself now, thankful that her bosses had wisely thought to make the laundry area large enough to comfortably work in, and with windows on two sides to allow a cross draft. The Le Bons, worried about their budget, and the heat that electric dryers would let off, had rebuilt an existing high-walled courtyard where the housekeeper could hang the sheets, towels, and tablecloths up to dry, out of view of the hotel’s guests. The island’s sun and wind dried the sheets, sometimes in under an hour, and they needed minimal ironing afterward. Mme Poux hummed as she ironed the crisp white pillowcases, spraying them with lavender water.

  It was almost a luxurious area to work in, every bit as luxurious as the hotel itself, and it was by far the best job Mme Poux had ever had. The terra-cotta floors and stone walls reminded her of a posh redone farmhouse, the kind that she knew Parisians and foreigners bought in the Luberon and around Saint-Rémy. There were long, wide wooden tables in the middle of the room on which she could spread out her folding and sorting, and an armchair in the corner for when she needed a break. From the chair, where she would have an espresso made by Serge every day at 4 p.m, she could stare, not out to sea, as the laundry room was in the back of the hotel, but out onto the garrigue that led to Sordou’s interior. She loved the view; for years she had worked in the laundry rooms of the Hôpital Nord in Marseille, where the small, high windows gave onto the employee parking lot.

  Marie-Thérèse came into the room, carrying a linen bag, dumping its contents onto the floor in front of one of the industrial-size washing machines. Mme Poux treated these machines like some young men treat their cars; she washed them every second day, cleaning their round windows and buffing the stainless steel handles and window surrounds. She set down the iron and walked over to where Marie-Thérèse was standing, gazing at the washing machine.

  “He sure uses a lot of these tea towels,” Mme Poux said, lifting them up and setting them into an empty machine. “But he’s a good chef, I’ll give him that.”

  “Mmm . . .”

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “It’s that boy, the sad one . . .”

  Mme Poux said, “He missed lunch, right? He’ll be back for dinner, you can bet on it.”

  “The judge—oops, I’m not supposed to know that—and his girlfriend went out looking for him,” Marie-Thérèse said, bending down to help Yolaine load the washing machine. She liked to help Mme Poux, whom she thought to be about one hundred years old.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. They made it sound like they were just going on a walk, but I know they’re trying to help Mme Denis. She’s really upset.”

  “Ca, alors,” Mme Poux replied, pouring soap carefully into the machine and turning it on. “That woman doesn’t look like she would care one bit about her son, but I’ve only seen her once, in the hallway.” Mme Poux, who dressed in traditional aprons and flat comfortable shoes, didn’t like the high heels and leopard prints.

  Marie-Thérèse shrugged. “She does care. She was crying, and yelling at her husband after lunch yesterday. They’re not even sharing a room; she sleeps in Brice’s room, in the extra twin bed; did you notice? She said—”

  Mme Poux put her hand up. “I don’t want to hear. You shouldn’t be listening to them.”

  “I couldn’t help it . . .”

  “Still, I don’t want to hear about other people’s problems, especially rich people’s problems. I worked in a hospital, where people were sick and dying, but every day I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn’t a nurse or doctor, having to deal with all that mess.”

  Marie-Thérèse didn’t reply that she’d rather that mess—helping people get better—than the hospital mess Mme Poux must have found daily on the sheets and towels: blood, shit, piss, vomit, and who knows what else. She knew that the other employees didn’t like Mme Poux very much; it wasn’t like she was mean or anything; she just kept to herself, and was a maniac about her laundry room. But, then, Émile was fanatical about the kitchen; he climbed up on the stove every night and cleaned the hood, and Serge was constantly wiping down the bar and checking glasses for spots, so why did they make fun of Mme Poux? If it was because her name, Poux, was the same name for lice, then they were stupid and immature.

  “Want me to get you your coffee?” Marie-Thérèse asked.

  Mme Poux pulled her watch out of her apron pocket. “It’s a quarter to four. That would be awfully nice of you.”

  “It’s no problem; then I’ll take my break.”

  “Yes, you should,” Mme Poux said. “You get a long break; don’t forget that you need to rest as you work at dinner this evening.” Mme Poux then made a hissing sound with her mouth. “They really need more employees.”

  “They have to watch their money the first year,” Marie-Thérèse replied.

  “Oh, so you’re an expert, eh?”

  Marie-Thérèse put her pointer finger up to her eye and tapped three times. “I keep watch, and listen too.”

  “Ah oui! You listen a little too much, missy,” Mme Poux said, laughing despite herself.

  Marie-Thérèse swung around, grinning. It pleased her to make Yolaine smile. She’d get the coffee and then see if Émile had any cookies left that she could put on the saucer. It was just a little bit extra effort, and if it made people feel better—whether they were staff or guests—then it was a good thing in her books.

  Mme Poux finished ironing a pillowcase—it was her last of the day—and carefully folded it and set it in a wicker basket. She walked across the room and s
at in her armchair and looked out at the bright-blue sky. She reached into her pocket and took out her watch, flipping it over and rubbing its smooth back, tracing the inscription with her fingers: Yolaine, ma chérie. She remembered clearly the day that Rémy had given her the watch; a clear summer’s day, much like this one. He had saved for months, and bought it at Levy’s on the Rue Paradis. She still had the velvet box. And it was a day like today that he had died, at forty-two years of age.

  “Oh, you’re alone,” a voice said from the doorway. “I thought Marie-Thérèse was here.”

  “She was,” Mme Poux replied. She didn’t care for Niki Darcette; there was something about her that was just a little malhonnête. Yolaine Poux didn’t like the way Mlle Darcette waltzed around the hotel in short skirts and tight blouses, thinking that she was on the same social standing as the Le Bons, or even crazier, as the hotel’s guests. If Niki wanted to speak to Marie-Thérèse she could just go and find her.

  “Ummm, sorry to bother you,” Niki said, smiling and not hiding the sarcasm.

  Mme Poux said nothing, but turned her head back toward the window, signaling that their conversation was over.

  “Oh mon dieu,” Niki muttered as she walked away. “What did I ever do to Mrs. Lice?”

  Yolaine Poux put the watch back in her apron pocket and began humming Charles Aznavour’s “Elle.” It had been Rémy’s favorite song. She looked outside the window but then quickly leaned back; she didn’t want to make it seem like she was snooping on the clients. For Alain Denis was not far from the window, a small white piece of paper in his hands, and it seemed to Mme Poux that he was laughing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pirates

  “Neolithic peoples came to the islands looking for shellfish,” Hugo Sammut said as he dropped the Calypso’s anchor.

  Sylvie stared at his tanned, flat stomach and hoped he couldn’t see her eyes through her giant sunglasses. “Oh yeah?” she asked, moving toward him and rubbing his muscular forearm.

  Sammut dipped his baseball hat into the sea and drew up some water, carefully dropping it on to Sylvie. He took his hand and gently rubbed the water on her stomach, then her arms and shoulders. Sylvie moved her face toward his and he kissed her, slowly and carefully.

  “Tell me more,” she whispered, leaning against his chest.

  “In the middle of the island are the ruins of a twelfth-century watch tower,” Sammut said, stroking Sylvie’s hair.

  “What would they watch out for?”

  “Barbarians,” Sammut hissed, tickling Sylvie. “Barbarian pirates from North Africa. They would attack ships in the Med and take prisoners—white Europeans—that they’d sell in the slave trade.”

  Sylvie sat up. “That’s sinister.”

  Sammut nodded. “They took over a million prisoners, over the centuries, until they were finally stopped in the early nineteenth century by the French invasion of Algeria. Anyway, the watchtower here would send warning signals to Marseille, where they had a similar lookout post up in the hills behind the city.”

  “Except it wasn’t a city yet,” Sylvie interjected.

  “Of course, silly,” Sammut said. He kissed Sylvie again and drew her close to him, circling the outline of her breast with his finger. “When I was a kid I read an English book translated into French called The Lustful Turk; I found it at our local library in Nancy when I was about twelve or thirteen and would read it under the blankets at home.”

  “Under the blankets, eh?” Sylvie asked, stroking his chest. “What was it about, dare I ask?”

  “Pirates,” Sammut explained. “A ship that was sailing from England to . . . India, I think . . . gets attacked here, in the Mediterranean, by Barbarian pirates. There’s a young Englishwoman on board, a virgin, naturally . . .”

  “Naturally . . .”

  “And she’s taken into custody and delivered to a harem in Morocco or some such place. Anyway, she’s taught lots of things about sex by Ali, her rich captor.”

  “And she grows to like these . . . sexual acts?”

  “Mmmm,” Sammut whispered. “She becomes obsessed.”

  Sylvie closed her eyes and let Hugo’s tongue explore her mouth, then neck, then breasts. Her senses were alive to their surroundings: the gently rocking boat, the sound of the water licking the boat’s sides, the bird song, and the sawing noise of the cigales, audible even from their anchored spot a few dozen yards from shore.

  “Let’s swim a bit,” Sammut suddenly said, readjusting Sylvie’s tiny bikini top.

  “Sure thing,” Sylvie replied. She would have preferred to go on kissing her handsome boatman, but it was getting hot.

  Sammut dove off of the boat and Sylvie watched him swim, his strong arms gracefully slicing the emerald-blue water. She climbed down the boat’s aluminum ladder and fell backward into the sea, her arms and legs stretched outward as if she were a starfish. She floated in the water for a minute, squinting up at the blue sky, until Sammut came up behind her and slipped his hand inside her bikini bottom. She rolled over toward him and, treading water with no apparent effort, he held her in his arms, his left hand now exploring her. Their faces were covered in saltwater and they kissed passionately, Hugo Sammut now thrusting his fingers inside of her with more urgency. Sylvie began to shake and then crumpled in his arms.

  “That was fast,” Sammut said, smiling. He kissed her again and poured some water onto her head with his hand.

  “Um, it’s been a while,” Sylvie replied, now treading water beside him.

  “If we swim to shore, I know of a secret place we could go to, to . . .”

  “To do this properly?” Sylvie asked, wrapping her arms around Sammut’s shoulders and kissing him. “Show me the way.”

  They were both strong swimmers and quickly got to the shore, Sammut holding out his hand to Sylvie as they walked up onto the pebbly beach. Sylvie looked down at her bare feet and said, “I hope it’s not far.”

  Sammut pointed to a cropping of large rocks to their left, stretching out into the sea.

  “Oh, I see it,” Sylvie said. “The flat rock in the middle?”

  Sammut nodded and took her hand. They climbed up onto the rocks, jumping from rock to rock until they came to Hugo’s flat rock, hidden from the sea by a bigger, steeper, and taller rock.

  “It’s incredibly smooth,” Sylvie said as she lay down.

  Hugo Sammut slipped off his swimming trunks and set them under Sylvie’s bum. He then quickly took off her bikini bottom, and Sylvie threw off her wet top. “Tell me more about the book,” she whispered, taking Sammut’s erect penis in her hand.

  “The Englishwoman has a friend who comes on another ship, looking for her,” Sammut said, licking Sylvie’s breasts. “And her boat is also captured by pirates, and guess where she ends up . . .”

  “At Ali’s harem?”

  “Yep, and she too becomes insatiable in her appetite for . . .”

  “Carnal pleasures,” Sylvie said, wrapping her legs around Sammut’s lower back. “Oh, please give me some carnal pleasures,” she cried.

  • • •

  “Did you hear that?” Marine asked.

  “All I can hear are the bloody cigales,” Verlaque said. “I would have thought that they’d be minimal here, given there are hardly any trees.”

  Marine waved her hand through the tiny pale-pink blossoms of a short willowy bush. “There are pine trees growing out of the cliffs, and these tamarisk trees, but that’s enough for the cigales,” she said.

  “Is that what those trees are called?” Verlaque asked. “You see them at the sides of the highway sometimes.”

  “Yes, they’re hardy little things,” Marine said. “They love the sun and can withstand strong winds, so they love the seaside too. My parents have one in the backyard.”

  “Would you have one? A tamarisk? In your ideal garden?”


  Marine smiled. “I suppose I would. They’re always the first trees to flower, in late spring.”

  Verlaque sat down on a rock. “I’m beat and too hot. How are you?”

  “Same,” Marine said, sitting down beside him. “We should turn back, or go and jump in the sea. With this breeze you don’t feel the sun so much, but we should be careful. Did you wear your bathing trunks under your shorts?”

  “I did indeed,” Verlaque said, pulling at his shorts to reveal the waist band of his blue-and-green trunks.

  “Hermès?”

  “Of course,” Verlaque replied.

  “I never thought I’d love a man who wears Hermès bathing trunks.”

  “My mother bought them for me,” Verlaque said, straightening his back. “And Séb got the same ones, but in orange and yellow.”

  “Oh my God, matching presents for brothers in their forties.”

  “The good thing about this island being so small is that you can’t get lost,” Verlaque said, getting up. “You can see the lighthouse from almost any spot on the island, I would guess.”

  “You don’t think that Brice is out there, lost, do you?” Marine asked.

  “No, I think he’s back at the hotel by now, complaining about the nonexistent Internet connection.”

  “Well, I’m sorry that we didn’t see him.”

  “Let’s go,” Verlaque said, taking Marine’s hand. “A swim would feel great right now, and we can’t do that in Aix.”

  They walked over a small rise that was covered in rocks mixed with bright-yellow miniature daisies. Small, chatty birds flew around them, in and out of the low garrigue plants and shrubs. “Look, there’s the Calypso anchored in that small bay,” Marine said.

  “Oops,” Verlaque said, laughing out loud. “Looks like Sylvie and Hugo were out identifying the flora and fauna of the island.”

  Sylvie waved at her friends as she quickly adjusted the thin straps of her bathing suit. Hugo looked like he was dancing a jig, hopping on one foot as he put on his bathing trunks.