His stomach growled, and he decided to go for lunch in Puyloubier. And he knew exactly who to invite. He stubbed out his cigar and left it in his hiding spot, safely wedged between the outside wall and a metal bracket on the shutter. Grabbing his jacket and phone, he walked out just as Mme Girard was gathering her things. She looked at him and curled up her nose.
“I’m going to lunch and then to Puyloubier, if anyone asks,” he said, trying to ignore the cloud of cigar smoke that seemed to have followed him. “Any minute now there will be a delivery of important evidence from Cannes, escorted by two policemen. Could you call down and tell the guys at the front door to keep it with them under lock and key until I get back?”
“Certainly,” she answered, picking up the phone. “Have a nice lunch.”
“Thank you. You too,” he answered. Mme Girard, in his opinion, was far too thin, and he didn’t like to imagine her meager lunch of a bit of cold tomato and tuna from a can. He was in a sour enough mood that he almost said his thoughts aloud. A younger Antoine Verlaque would have. But he stayed quiet and walked downstairs and out of the building as quickly as he could. As he walked up the rue Mignet, to get his car out of the garage, he scrolled through the list of contacts on his phone. He wasn’t sure if he still had Auvieux’s phone number, but it was there, third from the top. He dialed, and after three rings Auvieux answered.
“Jean-Claude, it’s Judge Verlaque. How have you been?”
“Monsieur le Juge! Well, my oh my. I can’t believe it’s you,” Auvieux answered, with obvious delight in his voice. Verlaque smiled; it was the kind of response he had hoped for. The one he needed.
“I have business in Puyloubier this afternoon,” Verlaque said. “Are you free for lunch? I know it’s last minute.”
“You mean, that nice restaurant . . .”
“Yes, on the rue qui monte.”
“Well, I say, this is a nice surprise! I’ll just put my daube back in the fridge.”
Verlaque smiled. Only an old peasant—one who worked outside every day—would be eating beef stew on a hot July day.
* * *
Jean-Claude Auvieux read the menu, holding it tightly with his large, rough hands. Verlaque watched the farmer, his brow furrowed and his mouth partly open. Auvieux wasn’t that much older than Verlaque, but his childlike naivety made him seem almost elderly. His name didn’t help either: Auvieux meant “of old.” His face was red and weathered—the face of someone who worked outside, in the sun and wind—and he had lost most of his hair, save for the short white whiskers that covered his face.
Auvieux flinched when the young waitress brought over a small blackboard and propped it up on the edge of their table. “The chef’s daily specials,” she announced, beaming, her shoulders thrust back and her back straight, as if the dishes were brilliant offspring.
“Oh my!” Auvieux cried, setting the menu down. “I’ll have to start all over!”
“I’ll have one of the specials,” Verlaque said, trying to make the choice easier for Auvieux. “The cod with fennel and orange.”
“Excellent choice, monsieur!” she cried.
“Osso bucco?” Auvieux asked, looking at the blackboard and then at Verlaque.
“Veal,” Verlaque replied.
“But the chef has made an unusual osso bucco today,” the waitress explained. “With white wine, fennel, and artichoke hearts.” She lifted up her right hand, gathered the tips of her fingers, and pressed them to her mouth, making a loud kissing noise. Verlaque looked down at the table to try to control his laughter, and Auvieux beamed.
“That’s that, then!” Auvieux exclaimed, lifting his hands into the air. “I’ll have the osso . . . whatever it is.”
“We’ll have a white burgundy,” Verlaque said, putting on his reading glasses to look at the short but well-put-together wine menu. “From Rully, the—”
“If I may be so bold,” the waitress cut in, “as to suggest a white côtes du Rhône. Its floral bouquet will be excellent with both the cod and monsieur’s osso bucco.”
“Thank you. That sounds fine,” Verlaque said, handing her the menu. “And might you have a first-course recommendation?” He loved this girl and couldn’t wait to tell Marine that she still worked here.
She leaned in and whispered, as if revealing state secrets. “For you, monsieur, the foie gras poêlé, since you have chosen un plat legér. The chef has prepared an exquisite apricot chutney to go with the foie gras. The best local apricots he could find, bien sûr.”
“It was a bumper crop for apricots this year,” Auvieux added, smiling. “I had hundreds.”
“Perfect,” Verlaque said. He didn’t care what kind of chutney the sautéed foie gras came with; simply the liver and browned butter were enough.
“And for your friend,” she continued, “to balance the veal, and the acidity of the white wine and artichokes, might I suggest the roasted chèvre?”
Auvieux rubbed his stomach.
“I think you can take that as a yes,” Verlaque said.
Auvieux nodded and took a large gulp of water, as if preparing his palate.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll be right back with the wine.”
Verlaque smiled and leaned back, glad that Auvieux had been available at such short notice and feeling slightly guilty that it had taken him so long to call and invite him out. He thought back to the Bremont case, trying to remember exactly when it was that he had first met Auvieux, caretaker of the Bremont estate, while investigating the case involving the brothers Étienne and François.
The wine was opened and the first course came. They talked about the weather, the food, and Aix’s rugby team’s losing streak. After the waitress had taken their plates away, Verlaque poured them each another glass of wine and rested his forearms on the wooden table. “Jean-Claude,” he began, “what do you know about the Bastide Blanche? It’s just down the road, on the way out of the village.”
Auvieux bit his lower lip. “I’ve never been there. It’s a big place, very old.”
Verlaque nodded, but Auvieux stayed silent. “Yes, it’s hundreds of years old,” Verlaque continued. “Tell me, what’s its history? A friend of mine has just bought it, and he said that some of the villagers make the sign of the cross before going there.”
“Oh yes, oh yes. That they do, that they do.”
Verlaque tried to remain patient with Auvieux’s repetitive nonanswers. “Some old tale?” he asked.
“They say it’s cursed and haunted.”
“By whom?”
Auvieux looked up at the ceiling. “Why, someone who once lived there, I suppose,” he replied. “I’ve never really known. We were simply told it was haunted and not to go near it. Bad things happened there many years ago.”
Verlaque sat back. That would explain the villagers’ apprehensions but not how Mme Baudouin fell down the stairs—that is, if she wasn’t pushed by the housekeeper. “The new owner is a famous writer,” Verlaque said.
Auvieux nodded. “I know. Everyone knows.”
“Do the villagers like him?”
Auvieux shrugged. “We hardly know him,” he said. “He’s just arrived and stays at the house. But he does have the housekeeper buy his food at the market and in the village shops, so he’s well liked for that. He doesn’t send her to the hypermarchés in Trets or Aix.”
“Anyone else new in the village?”
Auvieux rolled his eyes. “It’s summer! The village almost doubles in size! Let’s see, a Dutch family is renting old lady Coydon’s house for a month while she visits her grandson in Lyon,” he said. “There’s a German couple, two men, who have just bought une maison du village and are restoring it. Oh, and there’s a Parisian, very well dressed she is, very proper. Someone said she’s a retired librarian. She hardly goes out, only to buy food. But you can hear her coming down the sidewalk.”
“Why is that?” Verlaque asked.
“Her cane,” Auvieux said.
“She’s elderly?”
Auvieux shook his head, ready for the judge’s questions to end. “Blind,” he said.
“Are there any ruffians in the village?”
“Quoi?” Auvieux asked. His gaze was fixed on the waitress, who was coming toward them, carrying two steaming dishes on a tea towel that stretched between the two plates.
“You know,” Verlaque said, realizing he was running out of time with the farmer. “Bad boys. Ne’er-do-wells.”
Auvieux smirked. “The Pioger cousins. Hervé and Didier. They’ve both been in jail, one for theft and the other for roughing up his ex-wife. They live together in an apartment above the old hardware store.”
“Cozy.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Auvieux replied, not understanding, or not acknowledging, Verlaque’s sarcasm. “One of my friends saw it once and said it looked like a sirocco had blown through it.” Verlaque smiled, imagining that hot desert wind that in its wake left red sand on every surface.
The waitress set down the plates, warning that they were hot. Auvieux rubbed his hands together as the aroma from his osso bucco wafted into his face. “Bonne continuation, cher Monsieur le Juge!”
* * *
For dessert the two men shared a cheese plate, and then finished the meal with espresso followed by a hard-to-find Roger Groult calvados (the chef was from Normandy). Verlaque quickly paid the bill before Auvieux could argue. He hadn’t got much useful information from Auvieux, except for the names of the Pioger cousins, but he’d had a thoroughly good time. He remembered his grandfather Charles, although vastly wealthy, making a point of dining every week with his managers and mill superintendents. “You don’t learn anything from sticking to what you know,” Charles had told his grandson. “You have to get out of your comfort zone. Besides, I like my men.” Emmeline, Charles’s English wife, had done the same: she was equally at ease with her bohemian art-school friends, their wealthy Parisian neighbors, and the no-nonsense farm wives who lived near the Normandy manor house the family used on weekends and holidays. Verlaque and his brother, Sébastien, had not been raised to mingle with others who did not live as they did—in a grand house in central Paris—and Verlaque, the few times that he saw his real-estate-mogul brother, knew Sébastien would never be able to mix with anyone who did not have the same kind of hefty bank account. Verlaque had always been very aware of his family’s wealth and at university had made an effort to make friends with all different kinds of people. Rugby, he knew, had helped enormously. As had Chantal. He realized that he did have something in common with all of them—the rugby men, his old friends from law school, the cigar club, the farmer: they all loved good, real food. I guess I’m still a snob in some ways, Verlaque thought as he parked his car beside La Bastide Blanche, having taken Auvieux home. No, as much as he respected his secretary, Mme Girard, he could never be friends with her. What would they eat?
He walked across the lawn to the ancient front door, which was wide open. Given that the house was in the country, and it was a warm summer day, the open door did not entirely surprise him. But was it often left open like that? The Pioger cousins could have easily scoped out the grounds, knowing that the old worn-down house, now occupied by a rich and elderly man, was an invitation—gold-embossed—for breaking and entering. Breaking isn’t even needed, thought Verlaque as he called out “llo!” Anyone can just walk right in, as I’m doing now.
He stepped into the elegant entryway and curled up his nose. Something was burning. “llo!” he called out again.
“Shhh!” Sandrine whispered as she walked down the long hallway, holding her index finger to her mouth.
“What’s that awful smell?” Verlaque asked in a soft voice.
“I’m asking you very kindly to leave my home,” Valère Barbier said as he came out of the living room, holding up a clump of burning branches. He saw Verlaque and winked. “This is my home now, and you must all leave.” He walked across the hall and into another room, waving the burning branches above his head. “I appreciate that you may have lived here once, but, well, time goes on . . . Que sera, sera . . .”
Sandrine winced. “He’s not even trying!” she whispered.
“What is that branch?” Verlaque asked.
“Sage,” Sandrine said, leaning in toward Verlaque. “I made it.”
Valère came back into the hallway and walked out the front door, still talking to the spirits. Verlaque and Sandrine followed him and watched as he made a halfhearted attempt to sway the burning sticks around the perimeter of the house. “Holy water up next,” Sandrine said. “I bought it at the cathedral in Aix.”
“Indeed?” Verlaque asked. “Is the house haunted, then?”
Sandrine nodded.
“Don’t you think that’s just village gossip, Mlle Matton?”
Sandrine waved her index finger back and forth. “Is it village gossip that keeps M Barbier awake all night?”
“Perhaps M Barbier has worries that keep him up.” Verlaque watched as Barbier disappeared around a corner.
“What worries could he have?” Sandrine asked. “He’s a world-famous writer. Look at this house.” She gestured toward the bastide, which Verlaque had to admit looked majestic on a sunny summer day.
“Wealthy people have problems too.” He thought of his parents, stuck in their mansion a few streets from the Louvre, and never communicating. His mother had died, as she had lived: unhappy. “Perhaps even more,” he added.
Sandrine blew a bubble with her bubblegum. “Nothing’s as hard as cleaning. And loving and losing someone.”
Verlaque turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he began.
“I’m out of sage!” Valère called as he came toward them from the southeast corner of the house. “I almost burned my fingertips!”
Sandrine put her hands on her hips. “What am I going to do with you? I made four of them—don’t worry.”
“Care for a break?” Verlaque asked Valère.
“Go ahead,” Sandrine replied. Verlaque looked at Barbier to see if he cared one way or another that his cleaning woman bossed him around. He seemed not to.
Sandrine looked at the men and said, “I’ll leave you two and go clean up our lunch dishes.”
Verlaque nodded, and Valère led him to the edge of the terrace, where a wrought-iron table and four chairs were set out. “Please, take a seat,” Valère said.
“Thank you,” Verlaque said, sitting down and looking out over the view of purple lavender, silver olive trees, deep green vines.
“May I tell you how charming I think your wife is?” Valère asked.
Verlaque nodded. “It’s the best decision I ever made. Thank you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather cigar carrier, big enough for two coronas. He slipped off the lid and held it out to Valère. “Please,” Verlaque said. “Friends of mine buy these in Havana. They’re hand rolled by a guy named Gustavo.”
“Gustavo! In that little room up above Villa Conde’s courtyard!” Valère said. “I haven’t had one of these in a while.” He reached in and gently pulled one out. They cut and lit their cigars. Valère crossed his legs and sat back. “Marine, your wife, reminds me of Agathe.”
“Really?”
“She’s beautiful but she doesn’t know it. Or doesn’t flaunt it. They’re both tall women too—unusual in our country. Is Marine Breton?”
“One grandmother was,” Verlaque answered. “That’s where she gets her height and auburn hair and green eyes.”
“Marine is beautiful, and Agathe was beautiful in a strange way; she was taller than the Parisian girls, and she had a long straight nose and high forehead that made her look quite regal. She didn’t have the pouty lips and upturned nose that so many Parisian girls have.”
Verlaque
laughed.
Valère, encourage by his attentive listener, went on. “To her I was a renegade, a kid from the 13th arrondissement whose mother worked as a nurse and whose father died in World War II, the guy always writing bits of verse on the backs of envelopes and little bits of paper he found. That was her nickname for me—Lambeau. Scrappy.”
Verlaque smiled. It was a good nickname. “The beginnings of a writer . . .”
“Agathe worked harder than I did; she had more originality,” Valère quickly said. “I knew early on what the critics would like, what kind of book would make more famous writers pat me on the back and refill my whiskey glass.”
Verlaque couldn’t figure out why Valère’s mood had suddenly soured. “But you won the Prix Goncourt.”
“Popularity contest. I also received the Légion d’honneur and was on the short list for a Nobel in 1987—but lost to Wole Soyinka, for obvious political reasons.”
Verlaque laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been tough.”
“My ego was bruised—that’s all. I laughed it off, and Agathe said, ‘A little group of sixteen or eighteen Swedish nationalists might be able to pick the year’s best Swedish author, but how can they ever really know what’s best in the entire world’s literature, with all its styles and different traditions?’”
“Nineteen eighty-seven.” Verlaque knocked some white ash into the ashtray. He looked at Valère and waited.
“Yes. A year later Agathe was dead.”
Sandrine came out, carrying a bottle of cold mineral water and two glasses. “Perfect, thank you,” Valère said. “You’re missing the—”
“Whiskey,” Sandrine said. “I couldn’t carry it. I didn’t forget. I’ll be right back.”
Verlaque said, “I hear that Mme Baudouin is still in a coma.”
The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche Page 12