Murder on the Ile Sordou

by M. L. Longworth

  “The judge,” Niki answered. “Antoine Verlaque is an examining magistrate.” Seeing the blank look on Marie-Thérèse’s face, she went on, “He has more power than the commissioner, technically. A magistrate can do anything he wants: wiretap, enter a suspect’s home without a warrant . . . all kinds of things. The commissioner works alongside the magistrate and is the boss, so to speak, of all of the police in his or her town.”

  Marie-Thérèse whistled. “You sure know a lot about the law.”

  Niki laughed. “Yeah, I could go on and on. There was a time in my life when I had lots of free time on my hands, and had free lodging, so I thought of studying law. But it was way too boring.”

  “So you studied hotel management instead?” Marie-Thérèse asked.

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “That’s what I’d like to do,” Marie-Therèse said, straightening her back. “I’ve just decided. In Lucerne. I’ve sent in my application.”

  “Wow!” Niki replied, laughing. “Do you have an extra twenty-five thousand euros lying around?”

  “Does it cost that much? They were kind of vague about the costs . . .”

  “That’s just for one year.”

  Marie-Thérèse’s face fell. “I had no idea. Maybe I could get a scholarship.”

  “Maybe,” Niki quickly replied, feeling suddenly very touched by Marie-Thérèse’s bright enthusiasm, and naivety. “But do you really need school? You’re getting great experience here, on the job. . . . That’s worth its weight in gold. And we’re all so happy with how well you are doing at Sordou.”

  “Really?” Marie-Thérèse asked, her eyes sparkling. “Even when I drank the judge’s wine?”

  Niki laughed. “If I had a centime for every mistake I’ve made, I’d be a millionaire.” Voices echoed down the hallway and got closer and closer to the dining room. “Here comes everyone,” Niki said. She then reached over and touched Marie-Thérèse’s arm and gently caressed it. “Look sharp,” she added, smiling. Marie-Thérèse saluted, smiling back, and Niki felt a flush of joy. It had been so long since she had made another human being feel good about herself—she had learned that from Claire, all those years ago in Néoules. Niki had worried over the past few years that she had lost her capacity for joy. And here, on this strange day, she found that it was not lost.

  “Hello, Niki; hello, Marie-Thérèse,” Verlaque said as he entered the dining room. The early evening sun reflected on the blue sea, making it sparkle. It was as flat as glass. “This has to be one of the best views on the whole of the Mediterranean,” he added.

  “I never tire of it,” Niki said.

  “And you, Marie-Thérèse?” he asked, smiling.

  “Mais oui, oui,” she answered, falling over her words. “But I’m so busy it seems that I often forget to look at the sea.” She added, “But I love this dining room.”

  “It’s perfect,” Verlaque replied. “Here they come. . . . I’ve asked that all of the staff and guests come here to meet the commissioner of Aix-en-Provence’s police force.”

  Within five minutes everyone was present and introductions had been made. Bruno Paulik stood with his back to the picture windows and addressed the group. The guests and staff, out of some kind of respect, stood standing in a semicircle, except for Mme Denis, who had been woken and was sitting, slumped forward, in a chair.

  “Thank you all for coming so quickly,” Paulik began. “As you now know, I’m Bruno Paulik, police commissioner of Aix-en-Provence, and to my left is your fellow guest, and my colleague, Judge Antoine Verlaque. Mme Denis,” he continued, “my sincere condolences, and I’m sorry to have woken you.”

  Mme Denis nodded, and then looked at her hands, twisting her large rings.

  Paulik continued, “And the chef . . .”

  “Émile,” Marie-Thérèse quickly replied.

  “Thank you. Émile. I’m sorry for interrupting this evening’s dinner preparations.”

  “No problem,” Émile replied. “But I won’t be able to stay long.”

  “Understood. As you all know, M. Denis was found dead early this morning on the south side of Sordou by the hotel’s maid, Marie-Thérèse.”

  Almost each member of the group looked at Marie-Thérèse, and she cringed, looking down at the floor.

  “The coroner has just called me, reporting that M. Denis died sometime last night, between four p.m. and eight p.m., from one shot to the head.”

  The group gasped and Mme Denis tried to stand up.

  “We heard the shot then,” Marine said.

  “It was just before six p.m.,” Sylvie added.

  Brice quickly took his mother by the arm and sat her back down. “Do you realize what you are saying?” Emmanuelle Denis asked, gasping for breath. “That my, that my . . .”

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Paulik replied. “Alain Denis was shot in cold blood.”

  “Who killed my husband?” she spat out.

  “Maman, s’il te plaît . . .” Brice murmured, sitting down beside her and taking her trembling hands in his.

  “So what does the news mean for Sordou?” Cat-Cat Le Bon spoke up.

  “Cat-Cat,” Max Le Bon protested.

  “This is sheer Agatha Christie,” Sylvie whispered.

  “I’m afraid that no new guests will be able to arrive until we get this cleared up,” Verlaque replied.

  “And we intend to do that as quickly as possible,” Paulik added.

  “Don’t fret too much, Max,” Delphine Viale said. “There’s no such thing as bad news where publicity is concerned. The phone will be ringing off the hook, as I believe it has today.”

  “Chérie!” Clément Viale replied, frowning at his wife.

  “Chéri, you yourself said so this morning,” Delphine continued.

  Mme Denis looked up, her eyes swollen. “I can’t believe you all. . . . Plus, I asked for a policeman to guard my door. The killer may be after me too. Where is our protection?”

  Paulik replied, “There are two policemen guarding the dock, and a boat at the mouth of the harbor, Mme Denis.”

  Mme Denis began to cry and Antoine Verlaque quickly crossed the room and put his hand on her shoulder. Before he could release it, the widow had reached up and clasped his hand with hers. Despite the summer heat, her hand was cold.

  “I can assure you that Sordou will go on running like before,” Cat-Cat Le Bon said, stepping forward.

  Niki followed her by saying, “You’ll all receive the same attention that you’ve been getting all week. We promise.”

  “You don’t need to spoil us,” Shirley Hobbs replied in English. “We’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll keep fishing,” Bill Hobbs added, making a fishing gesture with his hands.

  Bruno Paulik tried to smile. “Thank you all for your cooperation. Tomorrow morning Judge Verlaque and I will begin interviewing you in alphabetical order. Anything you saw or heard will be of help; anything out of the ordinary, however minor it seemed at the time.”

  “Is it possible the murderer came ashore via boat, or by swimming?” Serge Canzano asked.

  “No way,” Hugo Sammut said. “It was—”

  “We’ll no doubt explore that route,” Paulik replied. He and Verlaque had spoken together before the meeting; they had believed Sammut’s opinion that the sea had been too choppy for an outsider to have come onto the island, but it was still possible. But more important, they didn’t want to alarm the Sordou guests and staff that the murderer was, more than likely, among them. “So until tomorrow morning’s interviews, bon appétit.”

  “Speaking of that, I need to get back to tonight’s dinner,” Émile said.

  “Go on, Émile,” Verlaque replied.

  “We’re all starving!” Bill Hobbs exclaimed in English.

  “Bill!” Shirley hissed.

  Émile quickly left, and
Serge whispered something about opening the wine and followed Émile out. Marie-Thérèse looked at Verlaque, wide-eyed. “You may go and help, Marie-Thérèse,” he said.

  “Merci!” the girl replied, almost running.

  “I’m going to retire to my room,” Mme Poux said.

  “I’ll accompany you, Yolaine,” Niki said.

  “There’s no need for that,” Mme Poux replied sternly, leaving the room.

  “Fine, have it your way,” Niki muttered, leaving with the Le Bons and Hugo Sammut.

  “Well, bon appétit, everyone,” Verlaque said, finally moving away from Mme Denis.

  “Brice and I will dine in our suite,” Mme Denis said.

  “That’s fine,” Verlaque said. “I’ll tell Marie-Thérèse.”

  Marine walked over and took Verlaque by the arm. “You’d make a fine maître’d’,” she said, winking.

  “I feel a little like that,” he replied.

  “Wow, the next few days are going to be interesting,” Sylvie said, pulling out a chair at the only table set for four people.

  Marine sat down and looked around the room. “It’s quiet.”

  Verlaque looked over at Monnier, who had already eaten almost all of the bread that Marie-Thérèse had just put on his table. Monnier was hunched over, writing furiously. Verlaque envied the poet’s undying love for, and dedication to, his art.

  “Hey, where was Prosper for tonight’s interrogation?” Sylvie asked.

  “It wasn’t an interrogation, and you know that very well,” Verlaque replied.

  “Judge Verlaque told me about M. Buffa,” Paulik answered. “We thought it best to go to the lighthouse to speak to him. I understand he’s a bit of a . . . distraction.”

  “And how,” Marine said. “He’s straight out of a novel.”

  “A nineteenth-century one at that,” Sylvie replied.

  Marie-Thérèse appeared with Serge, both carrying bowls of soup. “A seafood soup with freshly caught monkfish, Swiss chard, rice noodles, ginger, and cilantro,” Marie-Thérèse announced. “With a touch of chili,” she added.

  “Thank you,” Verlaque replied. “The soup will be excellent with the white wine from Cassis, don’t you think, Marie-Thérèse?”

  Marie-Thérèse beamed. “Yes,” she said. “Serge said . . . I mean . . . the fruity bouquet of the Cassis wine will be perfect with the monkfish, and the addition of the . . . um . . . Marsanne! . . . grape will add the touch of Rhône heaviness that the ginger and chili need . . . um, or rather . . . require.”

  Paulik looked up and smiled. “Sounds perfect,” he said.

  Marie-Thérèse swung around on her heels and went back into the kitchen to fetch the rest of the soups. Marine saw Serge, who had been standing in the doorway, give the girl a thumbs-up. “She’s adorable,” Marine said.

  “Definitely not the murderer,” Sylvie said, leaning toward her bowl. “And this soup smells heavenly.”

  “Have you been eating like this all week?” Paulik asked.

  Verlaque nodded, too busy to reply with words. The smells of the ginger, pepper, and cilantro wafted up to his nose. He twisted some of the noodles around in his spoon, took a piece of monkfish with his fork, setting it gently on his spoon with the broth, and then put it in his mouth and closed his eyes.

  “This broth is so delicate!” Marine said. “I don’t know how he does it, cooking this well on an island.”

  Verlaque nodded again in agreement and then opened his eyes. “What the . . . ?” he said, looking out toward the hallway.

  “What, Antoine?” Marine asked.

  “I just saw Isnard and his goofy cousin,” he answered, quickly getting up.

  “What?” Paulik asked, setting down his spoon. “The fisherman is still here?”

  The two men quickly left, followed by the eyes of all of Sordou’s diners.

  “Isnard!” Verlaque called out just as the fisherman reached the front door. “What is going on? Why are you still here?”

  Isnard shrugged and put up his hand. “I didn’t want to bother you,” he said. “But Fred here has never seen such a fancy hotel, and I thought I could give him just a little tour . . . since you were all busy having your meeting.”

  Fred mimicked his cousin with the same shrug, and then looked down at his running shoes. “Fancy kitchen,” he finally said, looking up. “I’m a good home cook myself.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Isnard,” Verlaque said, sighing. “Get the hell off the island now, before I lose my temper.”

  “And tomorrow,” Paulik added, “you are to come unaccompanied.”

  “Oui, monsieur le commissaire!” Isnard said, bowing. “Let’s go, Fred; a fish stew at my place awaits us. And mine doesn’t have fancy foreign noodles and weird spices.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Rest of Us Are Strangers

  “Even the coffee is good here,” Paulik said as he set down his empty espresso cup.

  “Illy,” answered Verlaque, who had already had three cups for breakfast. That morning Paulik and Verlaque had been set up in the future conference room, which had uninspiring views of the walls surrounding Émile’s potager. “We purposely planned the conference room here,” Max Le Bon had explained that morning as Verlaque and Paulik helped him bring in two small dining room tables and four chairs to create an office. “We figured that if you’re hard at work a view would only be distracting.”

  “It’s perfect,” said Verlaque.

  “The guests are outside or in the hotel, milling around until their names are called,” Le Bon said. “It was good of you to give them some kind of estimated appointment time.”

  “We figured twenty minutes each,” Verlaque said. “Although, just like at the doctor’s office, by the end of the day we’ll no doubt be running late.”

  “Better that than finishing early, eh?” Le Bon replied. “Let’s hope that at least one of our clients can shed some light on the subject.”

  “Thank you, M. Le Bon,” Paulik said.

  Max Le Bon took his cue and nodded, leaving the room.

  “There are only three places on the island for a boat to pull up: the natural harbor, the cove where Denis was found—and then, a boat can’t get in very far—and over by Prosper’s lighthouse,” Verlaque said.

  Paulik asked, “How reliable is Prosper?”

  “Despite his eccentric appearance, and affected voice,” Verlaque said, “I’m told that Prosper pays a maniacal attention to his lighthouse—even though it’s now automated—and to his small dock.”

  “I still think that a good swimmer could get here from a boat anchored not far from Sordou,” Paulik offered.

  “Yes, it’s still possible; I’ve seen stranger things before.”

  Paulik didn’t reply but instead looked at the paper laid before him that Verlaque had quickly written up early that morning. “Marine Bonnet,” Paulik said, smiling. “Suspect, and interviewee, number one.”

  As if hearing her name, Marine knocked gently on the door and let herself in. “Hello, you two,” she said.

  “Please have a seat, Mlle Bonnet,” Paulik said trying to keep a straight face.

  Marine sat down and said, “I don’t want to take up too much of your time in here. For the life of me I’m stumped. I can’t imagine anyone killing Alain Denis, so I’m inclined to think that the killer came in from the sea.” She stopped and then added, “How romantic that sounds.”

  Verlaque repeated the conversation he had just had with Paulik.

  “I see,” Marine said. “An obsessive lighthouse keeper and rough sea lessen the chances that the killer came from off the island. I think it best I go back outside and keep my eyes and ears close to the ground.”

  “Or sea,” Paulik added.

  “That would be great,” Verlaque said. “But if there is a killer among us—and I
agree, it is hard to believe—please be careful. They’re unlikely to give anything away and may be dangerous.”

  “I’ll make sure to have Sylvie close to me,” Marine said.

  Verlaque raised his left eyebrow and Paulik laughed.

  “I’ll send the next person in,” Marine said, getting up.

  “Serge Canzano?” Paulik read.

  “The bartender,” Marine said. “I’ll see you both at lunch.”

  “Can’t wait,” Verlaque said.

  While they were waiting for Canzano, Verlaque quickly filled in Paulik on the guests and staff, with brief descriptions of their work and/or personalities. For Canzano he added, “quiet efficiency,” for Cat-Cat Le Bon “tigress,” for Eric Monnier, “the absentminded poet.”

  “The hotel manager?” Paulik asked.

  “Seductress, with a troubled past.”

  “The housekeeper?”

  “Just plain weird,” Verlaque replied. “Plus she may have known Denis when they were young. She told everyone down at the cove that he had been a champion swimmer in his youth.”

  “Alain Denis was from Marseille, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the boy, Brice?” Paulik asked. “What’s he like?”

  “Sad, and angry,” Verlaque said. “Remember when you were like that, at that age?”

  “Like what, sir?”

  Verlaque silently noted that Bruno Paulik had gone back to calling him “sir.” “You know,” he went on, “weren’t you a troubled, angry teenage boy?”

  “Um, no.”

  Verlaque smiled. “And why not, do you think?”

  “The pure unconditional love from my parents,” Paulik replied, and then frowned. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean . . .”

  Verlaque waved his hand. “No worries,” he said. “I got that in spades form my grandparents. But they were in Normandy most of the time.”

  Canzano knocked on the door and Paulik, relieved, called, “Come in!”

  “Sit down, M. Canzano,” Verlaque said, motioning to a chair.

  “Thank you. I’ll have your Lagavulin ready for you just before lunch, Judge Verlaque,” Canzano said. “As usual.”