Murder on the Ile Sordou

by M. L. Longworth

  “Oh mon dieu!” she exclaimed.

  “Don’t worry, it tastes nothing like it looks,” Villey said.

  “They’re awful looking!” Marie-Thérèse said. She leaned in to get a closer look. “But I do like their glittery-gold color. And they all have a birthmark.” She pointed to the round dark spot—about the size of a quarter—on each fish’s side.

  “That’s its evil eye,” Villey explained. “Other fish approach it, thinking that they’re looking the saint-pierre in the face, and then he swings around and opens his big mouth and, gulp!”

  Marie-Thérèse stared in disgust.

  “Hey,” Villey said, putting a hand on her thin shoulder. “Don’t worry, it won’t bite you. And besides, some people claim that that spot is where Saint Peter left his thumbprint.”

  Marie-Thérèse smiled. “I like that story better.” She straightened her back and put her hands on her hips. “Did you write tonight’s menu yet?”

  “Yeah, I gave it to Niki a few hours ago to type up.”

  Marie-Thérèse sighed, leaning against the counter.

  “What’s wrong?” Villey asked, taking a knife off of the counter and sharpening it. “Tired?”

  “No, it’s just that actor . . .”

  “Alain Denis? Don’t let him bother you. He’s a certified idiot.”

  “He’s so mean.”

  “I know. He’s complained about the hotel from the moment he got here. Niki told me. It has nothing to do with you, okay? And Saturday night he didn’t like the lamb and complained to Max.”

  “No way!” Marie-Thérèse exclaimed. “That was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten in my life! Even reheated!”

  Émile Villey laughed and tapped Marie-Thérèse playfully on the head. “Now scram and let me prepare these fish, unless you want to help clean and gut.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going!”

  • • •

  “Too Ralph Lauren,” Sylvie said.

  Marine looked at herself in the full-length mirror and turned from side to side. “I like white in summer,” she said.

  “At least jazz up those white pants with some color.” Sylvie opened the closet and took out a silk halter top of sixties psychedelia in blues, greens, and white. “This one; it matches this hotel,” she said, holding it up. “Oh my God, is this a real Emilio Pucci?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Marine replied, taking off the white linen blouse she had been wearing and throwing it on the bed. She looked out to the terrace where Antoine Verlaque was reading and smoking a cigar.

  “A gift?” Sylvie asked, motioning toward the judge.

  “Yes, last time Antoine was in Paris he bought it for me.”

  “Nice boyfriend. Can you take off those bra straps?”

  “Yes, if you’ll help me,” Marine said, turning so that Sylvie could unhook the straps.

  “You probably don’t even need the bra.”

  Marine laughed. “Am I that flat-chested?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “I’m a little too prudish not to wear a bra,” Marine said. “Not like you . . .”

  “Whooooooa,” Sylvie said, handing Marine the Pucci halter top. “Are you referring to this afternoon?”

  “No.” Marine slipped the thin top over her head and then stared at her friend. She went on, “Yes. Maybe.”

  Sylvie looked down at the carefully restored terra-cotta floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Marine quickly said. “It’s just that . . . you don’t know anything about him.”

  “Have you forgotten being single?” Sylvie asked. “Did you always ask your dates their life history before having sex?”

  “Sounds like you two are having an interesting conversation,” Antoine Verlaque called from the terrace.

  Marine was about to close the French doors leading to the terrace and blow her lover a kiss when a shot rang out. “Oh my God!” she said, sighing.

  “It doesn’t sound like the recluse listened to Max,” Verlaque said, turning the page of his Economist. “There will be more bunny on the menu.”

  Marine laughed and closed the door, looking through the glass at her boyfriend of three years, and tried to remember what she knew of him the first few weeks they had started dating. She knew of his spectacular rise through the French judicial system partly through another lawyer friend, Jean-Marc Sauvat, who worked at the Palais de Justice with Verlaque. The first time she had visited Verlaque’s apartment she had guessed at family wealth—examining magistrates were civil servants and could not afford sixteenth-century Venetian paintings. They had made love, in his apartment, after their third official date, long before Marine had ever met Antoine’s beloved grandmother, Emmeline, or his Realtor brother, Sébastien, and she still had yet to meet his parents. And so was Sylvie’s afternoon any different? Still, it was, but Marine couldn’t put her finger on it . . . was it the boat, and the sea? The fact that they were far from the hotel that afternoon? Perhaps it was just Marine’s own fear; a fear of the sea and a general malaise at being on an island. “You’re right,” Marine finally said to Sylvie. “I’m not sure how much I even knew about Antoine before we started sleeping together. Not a whole lot.”

  “Thank you,” Sylvie said, bowing her head slightly. “Now turn around so that I can tie the halter behind your impossibly graceful neck, and we’ll go down to the Jacky Bar for a few drinks before dinner.”

  Marine looked at her watch.

  Sylvie said. “It’s six p.m. That’s a perfectly reasonable time to have a drink.”

  • • •

  Emmanuelle Denis was waiting at the doors to the terrace, pacing, when Marine, Antoine, and Sylvie arrived for dinner at 8 p.m.

  “No Brice?” Verlaque asked, approaching Mme Denis and carefully taking her by the arm.

  “Nothing,” she replied. She began to cry and put her head on Verlaque’s shoulder. “It will be dark soon,” she said to no one in particular, lifting her head up. “Thank you for looking for Brice this afternoon,” she went on. “Max Le Bon told me. And he gave me Brice’s hat.”

  “We looked for Brice around where we found the hat,” Verlaque said. “But we didn’t have much time; Hugo Sammut had to get the boat back.”

  “I’ve sent Hugo out again,” Max Le Bon said, entering the room. “He’s doing a tour of the island, by boat, hoping that he’ll see the boy close to the shore.” Max looked at Sylvie and then added, “Hugo had the boat out earlier today, but didn’t see the boy.”

  “Thank you, M. Le Bon,” Emmanuelle Denis said.

  “If he doesn’t come back tonight,” Verlaque said, “I’m going to call some colleagues in Marseille and demand a search of the island.” He thought to himself that he should have done it earlier in the day, but he had been sure that the boy would have been back for dinner, his tail between his legs.

  Mme Denis smiled weakly and put her hand on her stomach.

  Marine said, “Would you be able to eat a little something? Some fruit, perhaps . . .”

  “Thank you,” she answered. “I’ll try. My husband is eating in his room—or I assume he is—he left me a note not to disturb him. He’s . . . stressed . . . about this whole thing.”

  Sylvie resisted from rolling her eyes and put out her elbow for Mme Denis to take, while Marine and Antoine followed.

  Eric Monnier got up from his table, as did the Hobbses, when Mme Denis walked by. Only the Viales seemed not to care about the missing boy, but it looked to Verlaque like they were in the middle of an argument.

  Marie-Thérèse appeared with sheets of paper—this evening’s menu—and handed one to each of the party.

  “Hello there, Marie-Thérèse!” Verlaque said.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur le juge,” the young woman answered, smiling, but then putting her hand to her mouth. She had forgotten that the judge was on vacati
on.

  “You’re a judge?” Mme Denis asked Verlaque, putting a hand on his forearm.

  “Examining magistrate,” he answered.

  “Where?”

  “Aix-en-Provence.”

  “Oh, not Paris . . .” Mme Denis said, sounding disappointed.

  Verlaque didn’t want to go any further with the conversation; he was on vacation and didn’t feel like giving Mme Denis advice on divorce, which he guessed her questions were leading to.

  Menu

  • MONDAY, JULY 8 •

  To begin: Freshly caught local rouget fish (thank you, Mr. Hobbs) prepared cold, in a ceviche style, with mango, tomato, onion, lime, ginger, and coriander salsa

  To follow: Steamed saint-pierre (also freshly caught, delivered to Sordou this morning) with fennel, black olives, olive oil, and orange slivers

  Or

  Lapin à Liguria: Rabbit baked with white wine and green olives in the Italian style

  Dessert:

  Lavender ice cream made by our chef

  Or

  Peaches with chantilly

  “Great-looking menu tonight,” Verlaque said, turning the paper over in his hands. “Although a little on the light side. Do you think there will be potatoes?”

  Marine stared at the menu and tried not to laugh. She knew that Antoine was trying to lighten up the evening, and she knew that her boyfriend could eat potatoes at each of his three daily meals.

  “What do you think you’ll have?” Marine asked, leaning toward Mme Denis.

  “Just the first course; the rougets,” Mme Denis answered, setting the menu down and folding her hands.

  Marie-Thérèse returned to the dining room to take orders, and Verlaque turned around in his chair to face the Hobbses. “Mr. Hobbs,” he said in English. “Thank you for the rougets this evening.”

  “My pleasure!” Bill Hobbs replied, beaming.

  “We used to have more rougets in the Med,” Eric Monnier added from the next table. “But with global warming and overfishing, there are now more in the North Sea.” Verlaque translated for Mr. Hobbs, and Bill Hobbs raised his arms up in mock helplessness, his right hand shaking. Shirley Hobbs quickly and gracefully moved his wineglass from the edge of the table.

  Marine watched Mme Denis, who seemed thankfully distracted by the conversation among the three tables. Marine looked at the woman, not sure if she thought her to be beautiful or a monster who had had too much plastic surgery. From outward appearances Mme Denis had everything: money, a famous husband, a size 6 waist, education, and grace. But Marine saw in her eyes the sadness she so gracefully bore; although she was smiling while listening to the men talk of fish, her eyes watered, and she played nonstop with her multi-diamond wedding ring.

  Sylvie kicked Marine under the table as they saw Hugo Sammut walk across the terrace and into the hotel, alone. Marine excused herself and went into the lobby, where the Le Bons were speaking with the boatman.

  “No sign of him, Hugo?” Marine asked.

  “Nada,” Sammut replied.

  “This isn’t good,” Max Le Bon said as he began to pace across the lobby. “Not good at all.”

  “Famous actor’s son dies on Sordou,” Cat-Cat said, folding her arms across her chest and looking out the window.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Hugo Sammut said. “Don’t jump to conclusions. He’s camped out somewhere. No harm can come to him on Sordou; there are no wild animals, and it’s warm out so he isn’t going to freeze.”

  “Hugo’s right,” Marine said.

  Hugo continued, “For all we know he’s tying one on with old Prosper . . .”

  “Hugo, since you no longer work here, you can leave your theories to yourself,” Max Le Bon said.

  “Max, Hugo did go out looking for the boy,” Cat-Cat said. “Hugo, did you talk to Prosper?” Cat-Cat asked.

  Hugo shook his head back and forth. “Knocked on his door, and on the lighthouse door, but no answer. He must have been out foraging for his dinner.”

  Marine looked from Hugo to the Le Bons. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you talking about the recluse? The rabbit hunter?” Marine suddenly thought of the evening’s menu.

  “Sordou’s only full-time resident,” Max Le Bon explained. “He was the lighthouse operator, as were his ancestors, until Marseille automated the lighthouse in 1986.”

  Cat-Cat continued, “Prosper was permitted to stay on the island, with a small stipend from the region, provided he keep the glass clean and check the lightbulbs every week. It’s still an important lighthouse, after all.”

  “We all saw the lighthouse when we came to Sordou, from the boat,” Marine said. “This Prosper may have seen Brice, no? Shouldn’t we go and get him?”

  Hugo Sammut looked at his ex-bosses and bit his upper lip.

  “Well,” Max Le Bon began. “He’s a little special . . .”

  Just then the group heard a commotion, and loud talking, coming from the dining room. Eric Monnier appeared in the doorway of the lobby, grinning. “I think you’re needed in the dining room,” he said, looking at the Le Bons. “We seem to have a . . . guest.”

  The Le Bons looked at each other and quickly made a move for the dining room. Monnier made a big theatrical sweeping gesture with his hand, as if to usher them in. He was now openly laughing when Marine asked him, “Who is it, for heaven’s sake?” She was getting frustrated at the distraction from their conversation of the missing boy.

  “I think it’s Vincent van Gogh reincarnated,” Monnier said, looking toward the dining room. “Yes, it’s the mad Dutchman himself . . . only instead of sunflowers he seems to be carrying a dead rabbit.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Recluse

  Marine stared at Prosper Buffa; he did indeed resemble Vincent van Gogh, although an older version of the artist who had died too young. Buffa’s once-bright-red hair—with a matching scraggy beard now streaked with white—looked like it hadn’t been combed or washed in weeks. He was extremely thin, his pants being held up by an old leather belt that he wore, oddly, on the outside of a tattered striped dress shirt, not through the pants’ belt loops. The pants, once new, and also once navy blue, were filthy, cut off and frayed just above the ankle, making Buffa look like a shipwreck survivor. But the oddest part of his clothing was on his feet: black leather dress shoes with pointed toes that had been fashionable in the 1980s. Buffa evidently had no use for the leather supporting the ankles, so had worn them down by stepping flat on the leather each time he put them on, transforming the shoes into slip-ons, like slippers.

  Marine tried to guess his age, but couldn’t; somewhere between fifty-five and seventy was the best she could do. Prosper Buffa was in fact sixty-four. He was an only child; born on Sordou and homeschooled on the island as well, by his mother, a former teacher. His father—Honoré—had inherited the job as lighthouse keeper from his father, Pierre, and Honoré did the job well, and with pride, until Mme Buffa died of the flu when Prosper had been ten years old.

  And from there, things went downhill for Honoré Buffa. Although getting supplies to Sordou was always difficult, the supply of vodka was sure to never run out. At the turn of the century a Russian ship had capsized in a freak storm, just off the island. Pierre Buffa, Honoré’s father, had managed to save seven of the sailors, but the rest, including the captain, had perished. The ship’s cargo, much of it vodka, had run up on the shore on the far side of the island, and Pierre Buffa found the crates and hid them, out of sight of his wife, Ginette, who was a teetotaler. Now and again, on a day of celebration, or at the end of a long hard season, Prosper’s grandfather would remove a bottle from its hiding place and bring it to the lighthouse, where he hid it, pouring a little into a glass, savoring it (Ginette Buffa, when she saw the clear liquid in her husband’s glass, and the smile on his face, knew exactly what it was, and where it came fr
om). Years later, Prosper’s father found his own father’s secret, buried in the ground near the orchard that his own wife, before she fell ill, had so lovingly tended. The supply was endless, and Honoré—unlike his father—became addicted to the clear drink, washing away his sorrows in it. Prosper, by then twelve, assumed as many of the lighthouse duties as he could, taking over completely after his father’s death in 1979. And when, in 1986, the government sought to automate the lighthouse, Prosper too took to the drink.

  “Mesdames et monsieurs,” Prosper Buffa said, bowing, “bon appétit.” Prosper was pleased with himself; he hadn’t slurred his words because today, an unusual and surprising day, he had not drunk any vodka. But he would tonight; he deserved it.

  “M. Buffa,” Max Le Bon said, quickly approaching the recluse. “Let me escort you to my office . . .”

  “Not so fast, fancy pants!” Buffa exclaimed.

  Sylvie and Antoine laughed out loud, as did Eric Monnier, who had pulled up a chair at their table.

  “I have here another rabbit for the chef . . . the boy you hired to cook . . .” Buffa laughed at his own joke and looked at the dining patrons, hoping for more encouraging laughter. He held the dead rabbit up by the ears for the diners to see. “Tell him Prosper can catch as many bunnies as he needs.”

  Delphine Viale gasped and put her napkin to her mouth.

  “Will do, will do,” Max Le Bon exclaimed, gritting his teeth. “Come with me, M. Buffa, and our bartender will pour you a pastis.”

  “Better make that a double,” Monnier whispered to the others at their table. “Vincent looks like he likes a tipple. Speaking of that, we need another bottle of wine.”

  “Hear hear,” Verlaque replied, signaling to Marie-Thérèse, who was standing at the far end of the room, her large brown eyes widened to a maximum, mesmerized by the scene. She saw the judge’s finger pointing to the wine bottle, and she ran to the bar to tell Serge that he needed to find another bottle of Vermentino.