“There were signs too.”
“Huh?”
“The communications company was paid for signs too,” Paulik said, while bent down, hands on knees, watching the thin stream of espresso pour into a porcelain demitasse. “You know, those big signs they put in bus shelters.”
“Have a seat and let’s go through it together,” Verlaque said, opening the bag from Aix’s best patisserie and taking a glazed brioche. It was so fresh that he almost crushed the soft dough between his fingers.
Paulik carried the espressos over and sat down. “Well, Yvette Tamain—”
“Remind me how long she’s been mayor.”
“Twenty-three years.” Paulik bit into his brioche. “Her term finishes next year. She and her party recently paid a company called AixCom to design and produce pamphlets and signs explaining the new municipal bus routes. The company charged 250,000 euros for the work, but apparently it only cost 40,000. An intern at the municipal tax office caught the discrepancy.”
“Incredible,” Verlaque answered. “Bravo for the intern, but not to the missing 210,000 euros of public funds. They will have to be brought before me and officially put under investigation. Does this intern have enough proof?”
Paulik nodded. “Yes, she does. And she claims she can follow the money to Tamain’s next election campaign and a long weekend she and her cronies spent at a five-star hotel in Saint-Tropez.”
“Who’s in on it?”
“Tamain and her campaign manager, Damien Pacaud, and the CEO of this AixCom, Gilles Gavotto. After the bus campaign, AixCom was hired to publicize the opera festival and a recycling campaign.”
“Payment for their cooperation,” Verlaque said. “I’m not looking forward to this. Tamain and I have never liked each other.” He leaned back and sighed. “Why does my colleague in Nice get all the interesting investigations?”
Paulik laughed. “I read about that this morning in Le Monde. The kidnapping of the heiress?”
Verlaque nodded. “Did you see the cast of characters who made up the kidnappers?”
“You could make a Hollywood movie about it,” Paulik said. “A retired Michelin-starred chef, a hotel manager, a loser paparazzo, and an ex-boxer from the Ukraine.”
“Well, let’s get the intern in here with her paperwork,” Verlaque said. “I’d like her to show me everything before we call Tamain.”
Paulik got up and left the office, pulling his cell phone out of his jacket. Mme Girard was on her way in, and she paused in the doorway. She saw the empty Michaud’s bag and tried not to scowl. “There’s a retired magistrate on the phone for you, Judge. His name is Daniel de Rudder. I was about to take a message when I saw the commissaire leave.”
“Oh! Rudder was one of my professors in Bordeaux,” Verlaque answered. “I’ll take it.
“llo?” Verlaque said into the phone. “Juge Rudder?”
“The one and only,” the judge answered and then fell into a coughing fit. Verlaque held the phone’s receiver away from his ear and tried to estimate how old Daniel de Rudder was. Possibly eighty. “Sorry about the cough,” Rudder went on. “But when you’re eighty-eight, these things are bound to happen.”
Verlaque raised his eyebrows at his poor guess. “It’s great to hear from you! Where are you living these days? Still in Arcachon?”
“Yes, I’m sitting here with a woolen throw across my knees like an old man, staring at the flat gray ocean. My daughter-in-law, a retired nurse, keeps bringing me tea. All day long. I hate tea. Do you remember Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”
Verlaque laughed. “So you’re living at your son’s? I’m glad about that.”
“Yes, having children was the best thing I ever did,” Rudder answered. “Especially now, when they can take care of me.” He laughed and exploded into another coughing fit. “I heard you too have finally settled down, and may I say congratulations? Marine Bonnet is a fine woman.”
“You’ve met?”
“No, I’ve read her articles in the law journals,” Rudder answered. “At least I did. But now articles exhaust me. Tintin is about my speed these days.”
Verlaque laughed, not able to believe that Daniel de Rudder—champion sailor, beloved professor, then terrifying magistrate—was now staring at the ocean and reading comic books. “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you out of the blue,” Rudder said.
“It had crossed my mind.”
“I hear that Valère Barbier is living in Aix.”
“Yes, coincidentally Marine had dinner with him last night, at a friend’s house.”
If Rudder was impressed, he didn’t say. “Nurse Ratched is helping me clean up my affairs and go through old documents. Last night I stayed up way too late and reread my diary from the time of Agathe Barbier’s drowning.”
Verlaque slowly nodded. “You were the magistrate investigating that case . . .”
“Yes, it was my wife’s insane idea to move to Cannes to see some blue sky once in a while. We hated it. We were only on the Côte for two years, but I was there when Agathe Barbier had her accident. A few things are still bothering me . . .”
* * *
Three hours later Verlaque closed his office door and headed out for lunch. He had remained on the phone with Daniel de Rudder for another twenty minutes, chatting about friends and the weather, and Rudder agreed that he would arrange to send documents concerning Agathe Barbier. Verlaque imagined Rudder sitting in his wicker chair, tying up the packet of documents with a string, his age-spotted hands trembling, the tea-crazed daughter-in-law hovering in the doorway.
As Verlaque headed out into the noon heat, uncertain where to go, he winked at Mirabeau’s statue—how could a man with a deformed foot, too many missing teeth, and an oversized head have been a lady-killer? He took out his cell phone and called Marine, to see if she was at home, but got her voice mail. She was probably at the library or eating with friends. Marine seemed to know half of Aix.
And so he did what he usually did when he had no lunch plans. He wandered. Wandering in Aix wasn’t as fun for him as wandering in Paris; when he was a teenager his father had jokingly told a friend that Antoine was going to get his PhD in flânerie. In those days he could leave the family home in the 1st arrondissement in the morning, walk up to the top of the butte of Montmartre, then walk back downhill and cross the river to eat lunch in a Left Bank café. Nowadays he couldn’t imagine walking up to Montmartre, but he could possibly walk downhill, if a good dinner met him at the end of his stroll. But Aix, despite its small size, was still a town that surprised him. It held lots of secrets, little gems hidden in its gold stone. Myths, stories, hopes, and wishes that the Aixois had held on to for centuries.
The impending investigation of the mayor depressed Verlaque and at the same time bored him. He walked up the rue Mignet, hands in his pockets, humming a Van Morrison song. “Caravan,” he thought it was called. His paternal grandparents, Emmeline and Charles, would play the record after they had worked a long day in the garden and had poured themselves each a celebratory aperitif: Pimm’s for Emmeline, who was born in London and held fast to certain English traditions, and an inexpensive whiskey, diluted with water, for Charles. Emmeline would sing along, and Verlaque’s grandfather would tease her. She was a much better watercolorist than singer.
He stopped before number 9 and watched as a couple walked out the door, excitedly talking. “Ça alors! C’était magnifique!” the woman said, squeezing her partner’s arm. “Mais oui! Plutôt insolite,” her partner replied, turning his head around to look back down the narrow passageway before closing the door. Verlaque loved the word insolite and asked the couple what lay beyond, as there was no sign or lettering on the front door. “Une boutique surprenante!” they replied almost in unison, and he thanked them, opened the door, and stepped inside.
It was immediately cool in the damp pa
ssageway, and as his eyes adjusted from leaving the bright sun he saw dozens of metal objects hanging from the stone walls on either side. Soft music played, and he could see the green of a garden at the end of the passage. He walked on, and the green got closer—it was bamboo, and it cut off the courtyard from the private garden beyond. On small wooden tables and chairs were set out more objects fashioned out of wrought iron, and a middle-aged man with a goatee walked out of a makeshift cabin, rubbing his hands on a blacksmith’s thick gray apron. “Bonjour,” he said.
“Bonjour,” Verlaque replied, looking around in awe. “I’ve lived in Aix for years, but never knew—”
“Yes,” the artisan answered. “Many people don’t know. I don’t advertise.” He had a trace of a Spanish accent.
“You’re a blacksmith?”
“Yes. I’ve made these objects, and I take commissions for bigger objects too. Furniture, gates—things like that.”
Verlaque saw candelabras, trivets, fireplace utensils. None of those things interested him, but the idea of a gate for their future country house did. “I’ll come back with my wife,” he said.
“I’d be delighted,” the blacksmith said.
Verlaque turned to go and then saw, in a corner of the covered terrace, a rickety green wooden bookshelf. “Used books?” he asked.
“Yes, I have too many books,” the blacksmith answered. “So every now and then I sell them.”
Verlaque could see that some of the bindings were old, and he bent down, his head tilted to one side, to read their titles. Insolite certainly suited this shop and its owner: “out of the ordinary.” A blacksmith and a bibliophile. Down a narrow hallway in Aix. An unmarked door. And then Verlaque saw it: Red Earth. He had no idea where his own copy was. Not at his apartment. Possibly in a box in Paris. He saw that the clothbound book was old and gently pulled it out, opening it to the copyright page: 1975. It was a first edition, and was signed, in a flourish of black ink, under the publishing house’s name, by Valère Barbier. “How much?” Verlaque asked, holding up the book. He hoped his voice sounded casual.
The blacksmith smiled. “It’s a signed first edition.”
“So it is,” Verlaque said, laughing.
“But I need the money. I’ll sell it to you for fifty euros.”
“Sold,” Verlaque said, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, thankful that he had gone to a bank machine that morning. It would be a great gift for Marine, and he could show it that evening to M Barbier, who had left a message via Bruno Paulik saying that, yes, many thanks, he would attend the cigar meeting. Verlaque turned to the last page, eager to remind himself of those words he had so adored when he was a teenager, the flâneur wandering around Paris, blissfully unaware of the kind of life that lay ahead for him.
Chapter Ten
New York City,
September 22, 2010
I’d like you to go back a bit,” Justin said, leaning away so the waiter could set the lamb medallions in front of him.
“Where to?” Valère asked, already cutting his lamb.
“The part about Michèle’s taxi driver making the sign of the cross before heading up the drive.” Justin carefully cut a small piece of lamb and dabbed it in the dark-red jus. He couldn’t believe he was here, eating in this restaurant, hearing these stories from Valère Barbier’s own mouth. Except for the comings and goings of the waitstaff and the discreet sommelier, Justin felt like he was alone, in a bubble, with Barbier; he had no idea if the restaurant was full or empty, or even what time it was. He was wearing a watch but didn’t want to look at it and risk appearing rude or bored.
“Are you superstitious too?”
“I’m Chinese American,” Justin said. “Of course I am.”
Valère laughed and picked up his wine, taking what Justin thought was too big a sip. More of a gulp. “Good choice, this Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”
“Thanks.”
Valère wiped his mouth and continued.
* * *
Bon. The next morning Sandrine showed up, as I suspected she might. Despite her threats, she’s too hard a worker not to—and, well, I sort of threatened to fire her if she didn’t. Don’t look at me like that, Justin. I had no choice: I needed Sandrine. There was too much to do, and, yes, I didn’t want to stay alone in the house with Michèle. I yawned continuously as Sandrine made coffee, and when she handed me my bowl of café au lait, I said, “Thank you, Sandrine,” looking her in the eye. “Thank you for everything.” That’s exactly what I said.
She smiled, recognizing my apology. “I won’t leave you, M Barbier.” That’s exactly what she said. Did she sense what was going on? Did she know about the nighttime visitations? I could hear Michèle snoring in the big salon, and I thought it might be a good time to fill Sandrine in. She must have wondered why I was always so exhausted in the morning. “Sandrine, this place, at night . . .”
She stopped buttering a baguette, set the knife down, and looked at me. “Oui?” she asked.
I rubbed my face, hoping what I was about to say wouldn’t sound completely insane. I may write fiction, but I do know that ghosts do not exist. “There’s someone else here, in the house,” I began. “They pull at my bedcovers, they walk around at night, and last night the . . . person, or whatever it is, whispered in my ear as I slept.”
Sandrine raised an eyebrow and began to spread apricot jam on the bread. She handed me a piece and said, “I’m not surprised.”
“What? You don’t think I’m crazy?”
She shrugged. “Don’t you remember what happened to me in the cellar, M Barbier? And, well, they talk about this place in the village—”
“They do?”
“Well, sure. Gérald couldn’t believe I took a job here.”
“Who in the world is Gérald?”
“The mechanic who fixed Clochette!”
Justin, Sandrine has this annoying habit of saying something out of the blue and expecting you to understand it, which of course you don’t, and when you ask her to explain, she treats you like an imbecile. “What did this Gérald say?”
She leaned forward and whispered, “Gérald says that the Bastide Blanche is haunted, and it always has been.”
“When I said that someone’s been tugging at my sheets, I meant a real person,” I said. I got up to get us some more coffee.
“I did ask Gérald for more details,” Sandrine said, ignoring my comment, “but he didn’t know when or why the stories about the Bastide Blanche began.”
A noise in the hallway made us both jump. Michèle appeared in the doorway. “I have the worst headache in the world,” she muttered.
Sandrine didn’t hide her smile as she walked over to one of the kitchen cabinets and took out a box labeled FIRST AID. Isn’t she incredible? Even my dear, très froid retired secretary, Ursule Genoux, wasn’t that organized. Sandrine thrust a box of aspirin into Michèle’s hands. I added, for comic effect, “Take two and call us in the morning!”
“Very funny,” Michèle muttered, and walked away.
I could see the look of loathing on Sandrine’s face as her eyes followed her out of the room. “Michèle’s not that bad,” I whispered, wanting to keep peace in my house.
“Oh yeah?” Sandrine replied. “I overheard you two talking last night.”
“What?” I asked, concerned that Sandrine was listening, intentionally or not.
“Mais oui,” she continued. “I don’t think she’s being fair, M Barbier. To threaten you like that.”
“Sandrine, it doesn’t concern you.”
She made a dismissive grunt and sat down. “You’re my boss, M Barbier,” she began. “You asked me, and I told you why I don’t like her. Josy always says to be careful with women like that—”
“Can we change the subject?”
Sandrine tapped the table with her fingernails, each painted in red, whit
e, and blue. “As you wish.” She took a big bite of her tartine. “So,” she said, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. “What did the voice say last night?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I was in one of those moments when you’ve been tossing and turning but don’t know if you’re awake or asleep. The voice spoke quickly, almost hissing. And the funny thing is, it didn’t sound like French.”
“English?”
“No, closer to French than to English.”
Sandrine clapped her hands, then grabbed my arm. “Occitan!”
“You may be right,” I said. “I’ve only ever heard Provençal a few times, but it could have been.”
“It’s an old ghost then,” Sandrine went on.
“Sandrine,” I objected, “I don’t believe in ghosts. That’s all superstition. I’m a well-respected writer—”
“Who was scared out of his wits last night, right? I can see you didn’t sleep.”
“Point taken.”
“Well, from what I know of ghosts in old houses, and we have one here who might have lived over one hundred years ago, they’re not mean, just confused.”
I burst out laughing, which I shouldn’t have. Sandrine started sulking and crossed her arms. She asked, “Do you want my advice or not?”
“Yes, please.” Can you believe it, Justin? I felt like a schoolboy being scolded.
“The ghosts still think the house is theirs. We need to explain to them that it’s yours.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, but we didn’t have much to go on. They visited me every evening and had frightened Sandrine, and even little Léa had felt their presence. “What do we do?” I asked. “Walk through the house with a candle, chanting, and ask them to leave?”
Sandrine didn’t pick up on my sarcasm, or if she did, she ignored it. “No, we don’t ask them; we tell them,” she said. “We need to be firm.”
The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche Page 9