“Then that even puts Hugo Sammut lower down on the list.”
“Exactly,” Paulik said. “From what you told me about that outbreak at breakfast, Hugo is strong, but doesn’t think before he acts. And to shoot someone, you don’t have to be strong. You just have to know how to handle a gun and have decent aim.”
“But Hugo, unlike Émile, has a motive. He got fired because of Alain Denis. Let’s check the public shooting ranges,” Verlaque said. “In Marseille, and the Paris region. Especially for someone who fits Hugo’s profile, and for women who have recently signed up.”
“I’ll put someone on it tomorrow,” Paulik said, putting on his sunglasses. “Okay, I’m ready to face the sun and boat.”
• • •
“Say hello to Hélène and Léa,” Verlaque said as he and Paulik shook hands on the dock.
“I will,” Paulik said, gently stepping into the speedboat that awaited him. “I’ll start the research tomorrow morning, and will call you ASAP.”
Verlaque saluted and the boat backed quickly up and sped off. He turned around and saw Marine standing just a few feet behind him. “You’re a beautiful sight,” he said, kissing her. “What are you up to?”
“I wanted to say goodbye to Bruno,” she said. “I’ve been swimming, and then working.”
“Working?” Verlaque asked as they walked on the path that led up to the hotel’s front steps.
“Yes, it’s getting my mind . . . elsewhere,” she said. “And Sylvie’s off somewhere with Hugo.”
Verlaque bit his tongue; although he liked Sylvie Grassi more and more, he also knew that she was the kind of woman who prioritized things, and her comfort and happiness came first. “Care to take a trip to the lighthouse?” he asked.
Marine looked at her watch. “Dinner isn’t for another couple of hours,” she said, knowing that they could show up on the terrace anytime before 9 p.m. “I’d love to.”
“We need to interview Prosper,” Verlaque said. “I’ll fill you in on the other interviews as we walk. The housekeeper had one humdinger of a story.”
They walked along the north side of the island, on a path that Hugo Sammut and Max Le Bon had worked at clearing. The smells of wild thyme and rosemary surrounded them, combined with the briny smell of the sea that seemed to come in waves. The cigale noise was almost absent here; there were fewer trees. They walked most of the path in single file, but when they could walk side by side they did so holding hands. “So, no people can be linked to Alain Denis except his wife and stepson,” Marine said after Verlaque had filled her in on their sessions with the hotel’s staff and guests.
“So it would seem,” Verlaque said. “Except Mme Poux, from way back when. Bruno will begin tomorrow with more detailed research into every guest’s and staff’s background. We can’t possibly do that from here.”
Marine laughed. “I’m amazed the hotel’s phone even works. Did you meet with Mme Denis’s lawyer?”
“Yes, very briefly,” Verlaque said. “He showed up just as we were finishing our interviews. He met with Mme Denis alone for about a half an hour, then spoke with Bruno and myself. She’s to inherit.”
“Everything?”
“Yep.”
“And the lawyer has gone?”
“Yes. It was like he couldn’t wait to get off of Sordou.”
“Don’t tell me our lovely island has become sinister,” Marine said, pulling at some rosemary and rubbing the stalk between her palms and then smelling them. “All the same, I can’t see Emmanuelle Denis shooting a gun.”
“Nor can I.”
“A hit man?”
“A hit man who’s a champion swimmer?” Verlaque asked. “Why not?”
Marine told him of her conversation with Sylvie, and the idea that Alain Denis was involved in something not quite legal. “Mme Denis could be involved too,” she added. “That’s why she asked for protection.”
“And she was faking hating her husband?”
“That part was Sylvie’s idea.”
“Not bad.”
“Mme Poux could have hired the hit man,” Marine said, grinning. “At Le Cercle des Nageurs . . . that was quite a story she told you two.”
“There may be something there,” Verlaque said, slowing down. “She is the only person, outside of his family, that has a link to him. A swimming link. Come to think of it, Eric Monnier told me he swam too.”
“When he was young,” Marine said. “I can’t imagine it now. It’s funny, but I have a hard time imagining certain people with wet hair.”
“I know what you mean,” Verlaque replied. “Mme Poux, for instance.”
“And you say they’re all the same age?”
Verlaque said, “Yes. Bill and Shirley Hobbs are a tad younger, born in 1945 and ’47. I saw their passports.”
“Senior discount week at Sordou,” Marine said, laughing. “I still think that Mme Denis is hiding something. She’s a strong woman. We were all surprised at that, the night Brice came back, remember?”
“Yes, I think Prosper was quite taken aback.”
“Could a hit man have camped out overnight?” she asked. “Swum here from a boat? Or got dropped off, even Sunday, and then waited. Near the cove.”
“Interesting theory,” Verlaque said. “Let’s ask Prosper about any boats hovering near Sordou over the past few days.”
“Does Prosper know about Alain Denis’s death?”
“Yes,” Verlaque replied. “Max Le Bon told him.”
“What was his reaction?” Marine asked. “Did Max say?”
“Max said that Prosper rolled his eyes and snickered.”
“How odd. And was Prosper born in 1940 as well?”
“We don’t know,” Verlaque said. “I asked the Le Bons but they had no idea, so we’ll have to ask Prosper that question.”
“If he even knows,” Marine said.
“Bruno sent an officer to Paris to study the lighthouse archives,” Verlaque said. “I’m hoping we’ll be able to fill in some of the missing details, like Prosper’s birth date, when he gets back.”
The path narrowed and they walked on in single file, sometimes stopping to look out at the sea. The coastline of Marseille and Cassis was off in the distance, but too far to make anything out; it was just a hazy gray smudge. The lighthouse, however, got bigger and bigger the closer they got. “You don’t realize how tall the lighthouse is when you’re out at sea, on the boat coming,” Marine said.
Verlaque looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “It must be sixty meters high.”
“Yes,” Marine said. “It’s not as charming as other lighthouses I’ve seen, like those in Britanny.”
“No, this one is meant for business,” Verlaque said. “It’s a serious structure; it’s as if it’s soaring right out of the sea.”
“Look, there’s a boat pulled up to his dock,” Marine said. “Is that Prosper’s?”
“No, I don’t think so. It looks too big to be his, but I can’t imagine him entertaining.”
“Prosper did well enough with Brice.”
“You’re right,” Verlaque said. “Brice was even quoting him earlier today.”
Marine laughed.
“It’s nice to hear you laugh,” Verlaque said, stopping and taking her in his arms.
“The atmosphere isn’t exactly jolly,” she said. “Whenever someone walks into the dining room or bar, we all jump.”
“And people aren’t telling us everything,” Verlaque added. “Sylvie said that Marie-Thérèse overheard that same argument between the Le Bons,” he said. “But Marie-Thérèse didn’t mention it. And Bill Hobbs won’t tell us what Brice divulged when they were out fishing; I’m sure it was something about Alain Denis.”
“How can we break the ice?” Marine asked. “It’s not like we can have a party.”
Verlaque stopped walking again. “Why not?”
“Listen,” Marine said, holding her pointer finger to her mouth. “It sounds as if Prosper is having his own party.”
The closer Marine and Verlaque got to the small stone house that stood at the foot of the lighthouse, the louder the laughter. The house’s small multipaned windows were open, but from what they could tell no one was inside.
“It’s coming from the side of the house,” Marine said. As they rounded the corner there appeared a pair of filthy bare feet resting on an old wooden stool. It was clear that Prosper had company as two men were laughing, and Prosper’s right foot twitched in time along with his laughter.
“Bonsoir, mes amis,” Verlaque said.
“Well hello, dear judge,” Prosper said, quickly getting up, bumping the wood table. Marine lunged forward and grabbed an almost empty bottle of rosé before it fell over.
“Good reflexes, my dear,” le général said, flashing a smile at Marine.
“Do sit down,” Prosper said, motioning to two empty chairs. He picked up the bottle and waved it at his friend.
“I’ll be right back,” le général said. “Emergency trip to the cooler on the boat is needed.”
“The jacket looks nice on you,” Verlaque said.
Prosper looked down at his upper chest and touched le général’s medals with his fingers.
“Have you two always been friends?” Verlaque asked.
Prosper shrugged. “Depends what you call friends . . .”
“Come off it,” Verlaque said.
“We’ve been friends for about ten or twenty years,” Prosper said.
“Good,” Verlaque replied dryly. “Very precise. I’ll get right to the point; where were you Monday evening around six p.m.?”
“Monday? What happened Monday night?”
Verlaque sighed and looked at Marine. “It’s the night of Alain Denis’s murder.”
“I mean what was the sky like that night?” Prosper asked. “Dates and days of the week don’t mean anything to ol’ Propser.”
“The sea was rough,” Verlaque said. “It had been calm all day, and at the end of the afternoon it was rough. I don’t remember the sky.”
“Ah, you should always pay attention to the sky.”
“It was the day you saw the couple on the rocks,” Marine added. “And Brice was here with you.”
Prosper slapped his knee. “And there was a gunshot by the cove,” he said. “And it wasn’t me.”
Le général returned, opening a new bottle of chilled rosé as he walked.
“So where were you?” Verlaque repeated.
Prosper shrugged. “Here, where else?”
“And Brice was with you?”
“Why does it matter?” Prosper asked.
“Because,” le général said, leaning over to pour wine in his friend’s glass tumbler, “you need an alibi.”
“As does Brice,” Verlaque said. “You two showed up at the hotel late that night, remember?”
“What night was it again?” Prosper asked, scratching his flyaway red hair.
“Monday,” Marine said.
Verlaque leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands.
“The sea, and sky, were . . . busy,” Marine continued. “And you may have heard a shot, sometime in the late afternoon.”
Le général set the glasses down and Marine looked on, amazed at how dirty they were. “I was here!” Prosper said. “I did hear the shot, with the boy.” Relieved, he grabbed the empty glasses and the bottle of rosé.
Verlaque quickly took the tea towel off the back of le général’s chair and wiped the glasses before their host had a chance to pour.
“Prosper’s housekeeper is on leave,” le général said, winking.
Prosper poured Marine and Verlaque each a full tumbler of pale rosé. “Thank you, Prosper,” Verlaque said, taking the still-smudgy glass in his hands and smiling at Marine. “Did you know any of the kids from Marseille when you were growing up here on Sordou?” he asked.
Prosper stared at Verlaque.
“I’m sorry if it’s a tricky question,” Verlaque said, rolling his eyes. “A simple yes or no will do.”
“I didn’t know any of them,” Prosper said, taking a gulp of his rosé.
“So they were around?” Verlaque asked.
“Who?”
“The kids from Marseille,” Marine said. “Alain Denis?”
Prosper shrugged. “They didn’t have anything to do with me.” He looked away, and then added, “You’re like that pretty woman from Paris, asking questions . . .”
“Who’s that?” Marine asked, leaning forward.
“A civil servant who was researching the islands,” le général answered for his friend. “Prosper just wants to be left in peace. Isn’t that right, my friend?”
Prosper lifted his glass and toasted le général. He then set his glass down and tugged at the sleeves of le général’s jacket. “I think this is a perfect fit,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-one
Antoine’s Feast
Marine and Verlaque got into Général Le Favre’s boat, Verlaque taking the steering wheel.
“I don’t see why you insist on driving,” Le Favre said, falling into Prosper as they got into the boat.
“I’m thrilled by the opportunity,” Verlaque said. “I haven’t driven a boat in ages.”
“Where did you grow up?” le général asked, hiccuping.
“Paris, but also Normandy,” Verlaque answered. “Where there are real waves.”
Prosper laughed and hit his knee.
“I don’t like the look of that sky,” le général said.
“It never storms in July in Provence,” Verlaque said.
“The sea was pretty rough on Monday,” Marine said, leaning back on the boat’s wooden bench and holding on to the boat’s sides.
“True,” Verlaque said, pulling the boat away from the dock and taking a quick look at the sky, which was blue above them, but black over Marseille. He wished he could telephone ahead to the hotel and warn the Le Bons that there would be two extra guests for dinner.
“I should head back,” Le Favre mumbled, also looking toward Marseille.
“Prosper,” Verlaque shouted over the sound of the engine and waves hitting the small boat. Marine and the gerenal were talking, and so he had Prosper’s full attention. “Who do you think killed Alain Denis?”
Prosper Buffa lifted his head back and laughed. “Not the boy.”
“Well,” Verlaque pressed on. “Who? And why?”
Prosper shook his head back and forth. “It was so long ago,” he began.
“What happened?” Verlaque shouted.
“I wasn’t there, you busybody!”
“Here we are!” le général shouted, tapping Verlaque on the back. “Be careful pulling her up to the dock.”
Hugo Sammut was standing at the dock when they arrived. Verlaque steered the boat in while le général threw Sammut a rope. Sammut quickly tied it around a post, and he reached his hand out to Marine. “It’s gonna blow!” he said. “Did you look at that sky?”
“Like Normandy,” Prosper said, smiling, to Verlaque.
“They’ve all been waiting for you,” Sammut said, holding out his hand.
“Thanks, Hugo,” Verlaque said, grabbing his hand and jumping out.
“Thanks, Hugo,” Prosper mimicked.
“Nice jacket, Prosper,” Sammut said.
Le général rubbed his arms, suddenly realizing where his jacket was.
“What have you guys been doing?” Sammut asked, seeing the red faces of Prosper and Le Favre, and the bright shining eyes of Marine and Verlaque.
“Having a little aperitif,” Verlaque repeated. “And the gentlemen will be
staying for dinner. I have to run up and tell Émile and the Le Bons.”
Sammut said, “You need to call your commissioner. He’s been trying to get ahold of you.”
“I have to get back to my cabanon,” le général said, looking at the sky.
“Not tonight, you aren’t,” Sammut said.
“We’ll arrange for you to stay here,” Verlaque said. He hoped that the Le Bons could set up the extra room, now that Paulik had gone. He had no idea where Prosper would be able to sleep if he couldn’t walk back to the lighthouse.
“Should I bring my cooler up?” le général asked.
“No, you can leave it here,” Verlaque said, hiding his smile. “There’s lots of very good wine in the restaurant. Tonight is my treat.”
Prosper rubbed his hands together.
Verlaque stayed and thanked Hugo while Marine, Prosper, and le général made their way up the steps to the hotel. “I want to thank you for staying on the island, even though you’ve been given your dismissal,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Sammut said, making sure that le général’s boat was securely fastened down. “I really have no other place to go,” he added. “I’m too embarrassed to show up at my parent’s small apartment in Cassis, although when this is all over I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Would it help if I put in a good word for you, with the Le Bons?” Verlaque asked.
“That would be awesome,” Sammut replied. “Thank you. See you around.”
“Ciao,” Verlaque said, running to catch up with Marine.
Max Le Bon saw the foursome arriving and opened the front doors as the rain began to fall even harder. Max looked just as puzzled as Hugo had at the two new guests, and Verlaque pulled him aside and said, “I’d like to throw a party this evening. I’ll pay for le général and Prosper’s dinner.” He looked at them and added, “And their drinks.”
“A party?” Max asked.
“It’s what we need,” Verlaque said, trying not to sound desperate. “Don’t you see? It will loosen everyone up.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .”
“What’s going on, Max?” Cat-Cat Le Bon said as she walked toward the men.
“Judge Verlaque thinks we should have a party tonight,” Max began. “To . . .”
Murder on the Ile Sordou Page 23