“This is indeed serious,” Verlaque said. “When did you first notice it missing?”
“Yesterday morning,” she replied. “I looked for it during the day, but to no avail, and after dinner Brice helped me search the room. I went to bed upset, and I was planning on telling the Le Bons this morning, but—”
“Yes,” Verlaque cut in. “Do you think,” he said, slowly, “that M. Denis could have taken the ring?”
Mme Denis looked at the judge in amazement. “What for?”
“I don’t know . . .” Verlaque’s mind raced. Did Alain Denis need money that badly? Would someone kill for the ring? Or did Denis take the ring because it was given to his wife by a former lover? “Money, perhaps,” Verlaque went on. “Were your late husband’s finances in order?”
“His accountant keeps them in order, yes,” she replied. “But there’s not much to keep in order, as I understand. Hence the television commercials. This week’s stay was a splurge, and we got a discount from the Le Bons; they were hoping Alain’s staying here would attract business.”
“All the more reason for your late husband to take the ring,” Paulik suggested. Mme Denis didn’t reply.
“Have you seen M. Denis’s will?” Verlaque asked.
“Our lawyer is arriving tomorrow,” she answered. “Provided you’ll let him on the island.”
“Of course,” Verlaque said, smiling. “We’ll leave you in peace now. Try to rest a bit more.”
“I’ll try. Thank you . . . for your help. I know that you’re meant to be here on vacation.”
Verlaque considered making a joke that he had been getting bored by the sun and sea, but kept the thought to himself. “It’s no problem.”
The minute Mme Denis was out the door Verlaque said, “I’m ravenous.”
“Coincidence that we just interviewed a hotel employee who was jailed for theft,” Paulik noted, seeming not to have heard his boss’s declaration, “and then a ring goes missing . . .”
“I don’t see Niki stealing anymore,” Verlaque said, getting up to stretch.
“Oh really?”
“Nah,” Verlaque said, not having heard the sarcasm in Paulik’s voice. “She’s got too much to lose.”
“But it would be so tempting,” Paulik continued. “I can’t believe a ring could be worth that much money.”
“I can,” Verlaque replied, thinking of his grandmother Emmeline’s jewelry, now in a safe in a bank on the Rue d’Opéra in Paris.
“With two hundred fifty thousand euros Hélène could buy one of those new stainless steel grape presses from Italy,” Paulik said, “Or even two.”
“Does she need a new press?” Verlaque asked.
“No, no, don’t worry,” Paulik quickly replied. “The old one is fine.”
“Who’s next on the list?”
“Sylvie, and then Marie-Thérèse Guichard.”
“Marie-Thérèse Guichard,” Paulik said. “Is she the waitress?”
“A sort of girl Friday,” Verlaque answered. “She’s one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. And no, I don’t think she’s a murderer, or a thief. Sylvie should have been here by now. I’ll pop my head outside the door to see where she is.” Verlaque opened the door and looked up and down the hall. He saw Marie-Thérèse and asked if she had seen Mlle Grassi.
“No, sir,” Marie-Thérèse answered. “Would you like me to run outside and look?”
“No, thank you,” Verlaque answered. “You can come in now, since you’re the next person on the list after Mlle Grassi.” He ushered her in and put the “do not disturb” sign back on the door.
The girl sat down quickly. “Stop ringing your hands, Marie-Thérèse,” Verlaque said.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, separating her hands and placing them, palms down, under her thighs.
Paulik leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. “At what time did you find the body of Alain Denis?”
“Um, just before seven a.m.,” she replied, swallowing.
“Are you normally out walking around in the early morning?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“So why yesterday?”
Verlaque looked sideways at his commissioner but stayed silent. He didn’t want to upset the girl.
“I start work at seven-thirty a.m. . . .”
“Yes, but not down at a small cove, no?”
“I went down to . . . think . . .” she answered.
“Really?” Paulik asked, leaning even more forward. “That’s a little far, isn’t it? For a think?”
Marie-Thérèse bit her lip and her eyes filled up with tears.
Verlaque now leaned forward. “We’re sorry to upset you,” he said. “Please go on.”
The girl stifled a sob and began speaking. “I thought it would bring me good luck. . . . When I got the job on Sordou I had done the same thing . . . in Marseille . . .”
“Went down to a cove?” Verlaque asked.
“Well, I walked to the end of the old port,” she said, sniffling. “There were a bunch of us being interviewed the next day, and I didn’t think I had a chance to work at such a fancy hotel, so I sat at the edge of a pier, looking at the sea . . . and . . .”
“Prayed?” Verlaque asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Prayed. That’s what I wanted to do at the cove yesterday. I wanted to be alone.”
“What were you praying for?” Verlaque asked. Paulik looked at him sideways.
She began to cry. “Lausanne . . .”
“The city in Switzerland?” Verlaque said, trying to coax her on.
“Hotel school,” she went on, sniffing.
“Oh, I see,” Verlaque said. “You’ve applied to university in Lausanne?”
“Yes, but it’s all for nothing, even if I do get in,” she said, blowing her nose.
“Why is that?” Verlaque asked, but as soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew the answer. “Oh, it’s a private school, isn’t it?”
“It’s so expensive,” Marie-Thérèse almost wailed. “I was so stupid to even apply.”
“What about a scholarship?” Paulik asked, leaning forward again.
“I phoned them,” Marie-Thérèse answered. “That’s when you saw me,” she said to Verlaque.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Marie-Thérèse, if I spoke sharply to you,” Verlaque said. “I was trying to figure out who leaked the murder to the press.” He looked at Paulik and explained that on Tuesday he had come across Marie-Thérèse in the office, making a phone call but hanging up when she saw him.
“It’s okay,” she whimpered. “I forgive you,” she said, now smiling a tiny bit. “The Swiss secretary I spoke to on the phone was mean and told me that even if I did get a scholarship, it would never cover the costs of living in such an expensive city.”
“Don’t give up hope,” Verlaque said. “Where there’s a will, there’s—”
“What did you do when you first saw M. Denis’s body?” Paulik asked, cutting off his boss.
“I screamed.” She looked at the men and realized she was meant to continue. “I ran over to him . . . his body, I mean. . . . He was lying on the beach, facedown. I didn’t want to touch him. I screamed again . . . and ran.”
“How would you describe M. Denis?” Paulik asked.
“Um . . . not very nice . . . and snooty.”
“Was he rude to you?” Paulik asked.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean . . .”
“No one is accusing you, Marie-Thérèse,” Verlaque said, glancing at Paulik.
“When was he mean?” Paulik asked.
“Um, most of the time,” she replied. “He was fussy, and impatient. I was upset by it at first, but Émile calmed me down. He told me that M. Denis was like that with everyone, so I shouldn’t take it . . . um . . .”
“Personally?” Paulik asked.
“Yes.”
“You must see a lot of what goes on around Sordou,” Paulik said.
“Um, I guess . . .”
“Did you ever see M. Denis and one of the other hotel guests, or staff members, have a fight?”
“Well . . . he yelled a lot at his wife,” Marie-Thérèse replied, shifting in her seat. “And we all saw Hugo get mad at him. Plus, M. Denis told Émile that his food was boring!”
Paulik tried to keep a straight face. “Émile must have been upset by that.”
“Yeah! He said that Alain Denis wouldn’t know a trout from a tuna.”
This time both men had to hide their grins. “Anything else, Marie-Thérèse?” Verlaque asked. “Anything at all, even if it seemed insignificant at the time.”
“Well, there was this thing he was doing.”
“Who?” Verlaque asked. “M. Denis? Go on.”
“He, M. Denis, was walking in the garden the other day. Twice I saw him do it that day . . .”
“What?”
“I’m trying to tell you,” she said, huffing. “He was walking around, and he pulled out of his pocket . . .” She stared at Verlaque and went on, sitting up straight. “Pants pocket, to be specific . . . I mean precise . . . a little piece of paper, and he read it.”
Verlaque looked at Paulik and then asked, “And?”
“Well,” she said, “I’m telling you this because it happened twice, and both times he read the note he laughed. To himself.”
Paulik wrote the information down. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“That means I can go?” she asked. “It’s almost lunchtime.”
“Yes,” Verlaque replied, getting up.
“Thanks!” she said, already at the door before either man could ask her about Mme Denis’s ring.
Chapter Twenty-two
Past Lives and So On
“What in the hell was that?” Verlaque asked.
“I’m sorry,” Paulik answered. “I shouldn’t have cut you off.”
“You’re bloody right.”
“It’s just that . . . you were getting off topic,” Paulik said, looking straight at the judge.
“I was trying to make Marie-Thérèse feel better,” Verlaque said. “I don’t think that someone so young can give us straight detailed answers if they’re frightened out of their wits.”
“Brice is younger than Marie-Thérèse,” Paulik suggested.
“Oui,” Verlaque replied. “Mais Brice est un garçon.”
“So you’re tougher on boys?”
Verlaque shifted his weight. “You’re right,” he finally said. “I think of boys like me. And I’m hard on myself.”
“Women can commit crimes,” Paulik said. “Although it’s hard for me to imagine.”
“As the father of a girl.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Let’s use the hotel phone and call the Palais de Justice,” Verlaque said, changing the subject. “Get some officers to dig up Denis’s past, especially when he was in his heyday, filming. I’ve heard that he was trouble on set. Find out if anyone ever threatened him.” Verlaque didn’t admit that his source was Sylvie’s reading of gossip magazines.
“Then you’re assuming that the murderer swam here,” Paulik said.
“I still think it’s possible, despite what Hugo said.”
“Or perhaps one of the older guests or staff is a retired film star,” Paulik suggested.
Verlaque straightened his back. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Mme Poux, for example. There you go: a woman. She could have been a behind-the-scenes person on set.”
“The script girl.”
“Wardrobe assistant.”
“Caterer.”
“This good brainstorming is making me hungry, and it’s going to be more bloody fish,” Verlaque said. “Maybe trout?”
“Or perhaps tuna. Let’s go then,” Paulik said, getting up. He took the list in his hand and read, “Next up after lunch, the Americans.”
• • •
Antoine Verlaque and Bruno Paulik closed the conference room door and walked down the hall toward the lobby. They crossed paths with Niki Darcette, who was carrying a champagne bucket. “Lunch will be out on the terrace,” she said, gesturing toward the front doors with her head. “It has cooled off a bit, so you won’t bake out there.”
Verlaque thanked her, noting that she sounded relaxed; almost informal. She must have been relieved to have the interview over with, he noted.
“Is that for us?” he asked, pointing to the bucket.
“Sorry, no,” Niki replied, smiling. “Mme Denis has asked for some chilled white wine; I’m taking it to her room.”
“Very well,” Verlaque replied. “I’ll go into the bar and fetch my whiskey,” he said to Paulik. “Would you like one?”
“No thanks,” Paulik answered. “Maybe later this evening, before I shove off. I’ll meet you outside.”
Verlaque walked into the Jacky Bar, soothed by the bar’s carefully selected vintage furniture and the gentle whirring of the ceiling fans. Eric Monnier was in his favorite corner, writing in his black book. Monnier saw Verlaque and lifted his Bloody Mary in a toast.
“Too hot out there for you?” Verlaque asked.
“The atmosphere among the diners is just a tad too tense,” Monnier replied. “I thought I’d eat in here and then do some reading.”
“Bon appétit, then,” Verlaque said.
Serge Canzano had already poured Verlaque’s drink, setting the crystal glass on the bar along with a small silver-plated pitcher of still water.
“Thank you,” Verlaque said, pouring a tiny bit of water into the whiskey. “Cheers.” He took a sip and then walked over to the French doors that led to the terrace. Before going out he paused and looked at the sea—very much the color of Mme Denis’s missing emerald, but much more precious. The limestone cliffs sparkled against the deep-blue sky, and Verlaque looked at the dozen or so scraggy pine trees that managed to grow out of the white rock. He turned his gaze to the terrace, its wrought iron tables beautifully set for lunch with white linen tablecloths, Italian porcelain, and Riedel stemware. But no laughter came from the diners, as it had on previous days. Someone coughed; another diner set down his fork a little too quickly and it rang out when it landed on the plate. It reminded Verlaque too much of formal dinners spent with his parents, in stiff Parisian restaurants that even he knew, as a young teen, were out of fashion. He and his brother, Sébastien, lived for the vacations with their paternal grandparents, Emmeline and Charles, where they would eat in, as Emmeline was a fine, simple cook, or eat out in noisy brasseries. But their favorite vacations with Emmeline and Charles were in Italy, on the Ligurian coast, where they would spend weeks on end in a small family-run hotel.
That’s what Sordou should be, he thought. The kind of hotel where the service is impeccable, and the food delicious, and yet the atmosphere relaxed, familial. It had been like that, he mused, before the murder.
“Over here!” Sylvie hollered.
“Where were you?” Verlaque asked when he got to their table.
“Sorry,” Sylvie replied. “I lost track of time. Marine and I were swimming.”
Marine looked over at her friend, angry to have been made an accomplice.
When Verlaque had sat down, Sylvie leaned in and asked, “Will I still get to be interviewed?”
“Of course,” Verlaque said, putting his napkin on his lap. “Why? You didn’t know the deceased, did you?”
“Antoine!” Marine said, knowing that he was referring to a previous case where Sylvie had indeed known the deceased, intimately.
“I just saw the poet,” Verlaque said. “He said that the atmosphere was tense out here.”
“Mmm,” Marine said, nodding. “The Viales had some sort of argument, and she left. The Hobbses were obviously upset by it and now seem shaken up, and Mme Denis and Brice aren’t even here.”
“They’re eating in their room again,” Paulik answered.
“Can’t say that I blame them,” Marine said. “Before Alain Denis’s death, I had the feeling that we were all becoming friends—Eric Monnier hopping from table to table; Bill Hobbs taking young Brice under his wing; Shirley Hobbs showing me her watercolors . . .”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Verlaque said. Marine’s description was much like that small Italian hotel.
“I overheard the Le Bons arguing,” Sylvie said. “Should I tell you now, or wait until my interview when you have a cheap desk light shining in my face?”
Verlaque laughed despite himself. “Save it for later.”
Marie-Thérèse arrived and announced the lunch menu. “We didn’t have time to type it up,” she said. “Because of the . . . interviews. So, the starter today is a grilled tuna salad . . .”
Verlaque looked at Paulik and winked.
“Um, made with tuna, of course, and avocado, coriander, spring onions, and a chili pepper.”
“Sounds great,” Verlaque said.
“And the dressing,” she went on, “is made with soy sauce, lemon grass, and limes.”
“Wonderful,” Marine added.
“The main dish today will be crab and Gruyère tartlets,” Marie-Thérèse continued. “Chef Émile has made individual puff pastry shells and filled them with crab, Gruyère, and spices. Serge recommends a chardonnay from Burgundy.”
“And with the tartlets?” Verlaque asked. “Vegetables?”
“Um, salad.”
“More salad,” Verlaque said, pouting.
“A light lunch today,” Marine said.
“Well, Isnard didn’t come,” Marie-Thérèse said.
“Oh dear,” Verlaque said. “I’m afraid my commissioner may have frightened him.”
“What?” Paulik asked, finally joining the conversation. He had been trying in vain to get some reception on his cell phone.
Murder on the Ile Sordou Page 17