There was more muffling, and the other voice came back on the phone. “We will see you at the chapel. Alone.” Before I could ask any more questions, the line went dead.
“How did they get the house number?” Paulik asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve been careless,” Sandrine quickly said, her voice trembling. “I’ve given it out in the village as the cell reception is lousy here.”
“We have two days,” Verlaque said as he paced the room. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“Certainly not,” I replied. “He seemed to be trying to hide a southern accent. It popped up now and again.”
“They were obviously watching the house,” Paulik said. “But how did they know that Erwan is your stepson? He could have been just a casual visitor, stepping outside to look at the stars, as he said.”
I held up my hand. “I still don’t think Erwan is behind this.”
“The whole village knows of M Barbier’s wealth and fame,” Sandrine said. “It’s no secret.” She paced back and forth, and I winced when I took a good look at her clothing: tight, stretchy faux-leopard-skin pants with a red tube top and matching high heels. I pictured her the night before, at my bedside. That’s when it clicked: When she came into my bedroom to calm me down, she had been fully dressed, just like that. Not in her pajamas.
“So they would know he has a stepson,” Verlaque said. “And it would be easy enough to find a photograph of Erwan on the Internet. But how did anyone in the village know that Erwan was here? Unless, like the commissioner suggested, they were watching the house.”
“Wait,” I said. “He stopped at the bar to ask for directions.”
“Who?” Verlaque asked.
“Erwan,” I continued. “The cabbie was Polish and didn’t speak French.”
I saw the judge look at the commissioner, who nodded. The judge asked, “How would they know the Parisian asking for directions is your stepson?”
“I took Erwan to an awards ceremony last year, and a few weeks later there was a photo spread in Paris Match. I felt sorry for him, and anyway I had no one to go with.” Sandrine threw me a look of disappointment. Once again, I was alienating my new friends. And what would they think if, or when, they found out . . .
* * *
Valère’s hands had slowly slid off the table and were now resting in his lap. Justin saw the fatigue on the writer’s face. How different Valère Barbier was now, compared to the jovial man who had come bouncing into the restaurant a few hours before. Justin snuck a look at his watch; it wasn’t yet eleven, and he knew there was still much more story to be unraveled. He had to get Valère to talk more. “Sandrine,” Justin said, pouring them both water, “do you think she had been out that night?”
Valère said, “Of course. She couldn’t have changed that quickly. But even if she was deceiving me, I still needed her as a friend. I felt guilty. We had been arguing, too. Stupid things, like the house renovations.”
“Leopard-patterned wallpaper?”
Justin’s comment evoked a laugh from Valère, which is what he had hoped for. “She wanted to change the kitchen,” Valère said, pushing his water aside and pouring them each more wine. “I thought it was perfect, except for the old gas oven. There was a little shallow round stone sink, which Sandrine said I should take out and replace with a double stainless steel job. The walls were rough-hewn stone, and some former occupant or servant had fastened thick wooden shelves to one of them, supported by simple metal brackets. One of the first things I had done was to put a selection of Agathe’s smaller earthenware bowls on them, along with some big Riedel wineglasses. I saw Sandrine eyeing the shelves, imagining oak cupboards in their place. But we agreed that the outside of the bastide, and the views, were perfect. We’d had long discussions about that.” Valère smiled and took out his cell phone. “I’ll show you some photos.”
“I love this one,” Justin said, looking at Valère’s phone.
Valère nodded. “A few months before I moved in, an acquaintance in Paris advised me to get a gardening team out to the bastide and install a drip system. It was excellent advice, because when I arrived in late spring the gardens were thriving, and the grass was still green. In a photograph taken in springtime, the field between my house and Hélène’s vineyard was full of wildflowers.”
“Look at that emerald-green lawn,” Justin said. “It’s practically Technicolor. And so is that purple flower. Lavender?”
“Yes, it was in full bloom when all the shenanigans began. That photo was taken from the pool, looking back up at the house.”
“Purple, then silver from the olive trees, then the bright green grass and pebbled terrace, and finally—”
“The house.”
“Those skinny green trees,” Justin said, seeing Valère turn glum again. “Van Gogh was crazy about them.”
“Cypresses,” Valère said. “In Provence they are a symbol of welcome. But I’ve always seen them more as guardians, erect soldiers guarding a house. Although in my opinion the cypresses of La Bastide Blanche were doing a piss-poor job.”
Chapter Twenty
Aix-en-Provence,
Saturday, July 9, 2010
Marine held the door open as she waited for Charlotte to climb the four flights of stairs to their apartment. “Coucou, chérie,” she said when Charlotte got to the landing. She gave her goddaughter the bise.
“Coucou, Marine,” Charlotte replied, not even out of breath. She was thin, like Sylvie, but taller, and, like her mother, a natural athlete.
“I’m so lucky,” Marine said, closing the door after Charlotte. “That makes three visits we’ve had together this week.”
Charlotte sighed. “I’m sorry about that, Marine.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining!” Marine said, embarrassed that Charlotte had taken it the wrong way. But in truth both Marine and Verlaque wondered why Sylvie had needed to send Charlotte over so many times that week. Sylvie did have a busy professional and social life, but she was utterly dedicated to Charlotte, and one night out a week was usually her limit—that is, if Charlotte was at home in Aix and not with her grandparents in the Alps.
“Maman spent too much time in the bathroom again,” Charlotte said, flopping down on the sofa.
Marine sat down beside her and said, “So I guess she isn’t getting dressed up for a faculty meeting at the Beaux-Arts.” She realized that it was Saturday she had lost track of the days—and that Sylvie no doubt had a date.
Charlotte laughed. “No, I guess not! Whoever this guy is, he’d better be nice!”
“I’m sure he is,” Marine replied. “You know, sweetie, your maman has been a single woman for a long time, and she’s young. There might be a day when she finds a man to share her, and your, life with.”
“I know, I know,” Charlotte replied. “She’s already told me all that. Can we play cards now?”
Marine hugged her goddaughter—who smelled of the warm sun mixed with a tiny bit of little-girl sweat. She got out the Sept familles card set she kept in the console. “We’ll play one game,” Marine said, “and then after you beat me, you can help me prepare a salad to have with the dinner.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said. “When’s Antoine coming home?”
“He’ll be late. But my parents are coming over. They’re thrilled to see you again.” Marine leaned toward Charlotte and whispered, “My mother’s very smart and nice, but she’s not a very good cook, so I invited them here.”
Charlotte laughed. “What are we having?”
“Ceviche,” Marine replied, shuffling the cards.
“Huh? That’s not French.”
“Correct. It’s Mexican, or South American perhaps.” Marine began dealing, hoping that Charlotte wouldn’t ask any more questions about the meal.
“What’s in it?”
“Well,” Marine began. “I may as well be frank with
you. Raw, cold fish that sort of cooks itself as it marinates in lime juice. I made it this morning and now it’s in the fridge. And there are red onions, olives, and avocados in it too.”
Charlotte lifted her right hand and brought it up to her throat. She made a gagging sound, and Marine fell back onto the sofa in a fit of laughter. “I also bought a package of gnocchi for you,” she said after her godchild recovered. She reached out to give Charlotte a squeeze. “I can make it with butter and Gruyère.”
Charlotte hugged Marine and thanked her, then, licking her lips, picked up her hand and deftly began arranging her cards.
* * *
It was the kind of restaurant Verlaque loved. One Michelin star—enough for it to have great food and fine service, but not three, which often meant stuffiness and ten-euro espressos at the end of the meal. The restaurant, part of a five-star hotel, was on a mountain road with views of olive orchards that spilled south all the way to far-off Grasse. He hesitated when asked if he would like to dine inside or out, until he saw that the terrace was set with sturdy yet delicate reproduction Louis XVI chairs and linen-covered tables. No plastic in sight. “Sur la terrasse, s’il vous plaît,” he said. “Et un verre de Fonseca Bin No. 27.”
He sat down and tried to enjoy the view, but his stomach was turning somersaults. Whether this was because of nervousness or excitement, he wasn’t sure. A waiter brought the port, a brilliant ruby red, and as Verlaque took his first sip—plums, chocolate, and berries all at once—he wondered why he didn’t drink it more often. He closed his eyes.
“You look like you’re enjoying that,” a voice said.
He opened his eyes and quickly got up. “Salut,” he said.
“Hello, Antoine,” Chantal Sennat said, giving him the bise. “It’s been a long time.” She sat down, and a waiter appeared. “A glass of champagne, please,” she said. Looking at Verlaque, she added, “So you came, after all. I hope you remembered the dossier.”
“It’s in the car,” Verlaque replied.
“What made you change your mind?”
“Don’t be coy, Chantal. I thought it right that we see each other. We did spend two years of our lives together.”
“Which I’ve never regretted,” she said. A flute of champagne was placed in front of her and she made a toast. “To Daniel de Rudder, professeur extraordinaire.”
Verlaque smiled. “Cheers.”
The waiter reappeared with a rectangular-shaped plate that he placed between them. “Savory macarons compliments of the chef,” he said. “Enjoy.”
“You chose a nice out-of-the-way restaurant,” Chantal said after the waiter walked away.
“I don’t like Cannes.”
She smiled. “Neither do I. So did you find anything interesting in Agathe Barbier’s file?”
“Nothing much,” he said, lying. “I think Rudder’s old age has affected his judgment. Plus, he feels guilty about that case.”
“No wonder,” Chantal said, “with Agathe Barbier’s body having never been found.”
Verlaque was about to take a bite of a macaron and stopped. “It’s a big sea.”
“What if she made herself disappear?” Chantal asked.
“Why would she want to do that?”
Chantal shrugged. “Sick of being married?” Her dark-blue eyes gleamed at Verlaque.
The waiter came to the table, seeing that their glasses were empty. “Another aperitif?” he asked.
* * *
Le Bar des Sports looked like most village bars in Provence. It was lit by fluorescent lights that gave the bar a bright bluish-white glow. The television mounted on the wall behind the bar—it was Le Bar des Sports, after all—was permanently on. The countertop might have once been zinc or wood but was now Formica with an edge of scuffed and stained pine. Four imitation-leather stools lined the bar, each a different color, and one missing the footrest. The floor had been retiled in the seventies, in beige-and-white checks, the cheapest tile sold at the hardware store. The sole object decorating the stucco walls was a calendar from the volunteer fire department, dated 2008.
Paulik took a breath before he opened the door. He came to the Bar des Sports once or twice a year, usually after a village event, and would quickly drink a pastis, chat, and leave. In the daylight, the bar wasn’t as depressing, as the fluorescent lights weren’t on, and one could stand outside on the sidewalk with a drink, pretending it was a pretty terrace. Paulik thought about all the books glorifying life in Provence, and how they usually left out the village bars: Le Bar des Sports, La Boule d’Or, Le Bar des Touristes, or Paulik’s personal favorite name, Le Bar du XXème Siècle.
“Salut,” Paulik said when he got to the bar. He smiled and nodded to two men standing to his right, both probably in their seventies and both missing about the same number of teeth.
“Bonsoir, Bruno,” the barman said. “How have you been?”
“Excellent, thank you,” Paulik replied, amazed that the barman remembered his name. “And you?”
“Fine. Things have calmed down now.”
Paulik looked around. There were the two old guys at the bar, and at a corner table was a guy, perhaps in his thirties, fast asleep. “Right,” he said, remembering. “The World Cup.”
“It was great fun, except for Les Bleus,” the barman said, wiping down the Formica. “But at least the Spaniards beat the Dutch.”
“Bloody Orangemen,” muttered one of the old guys.
The barman asked, “What can I get you?”
“Un Ricard, s’il te plaît,” Paulik said, relieved that a pastis could be drunk quickly. He was about to reach into a bowl of peanuts but pulled back his hand, realizing that the two old men had probably been eating the peanuts all night, and hadn’t washed their hands in hours. He wondered how he could bring up the subject of Valère Barbier, and Erwan’s appearance in the bar the other night, without raising too much suspicion.
“Here you go,” the barman said, leaning his hands on the counter. “How are things going with your famous neighbor?”
Paulik laughed, relieved that he hadn’t needed to start the conversation. “M Barbier is very low-key,” he said. “He seems to be a thoroughly good guy.”
“That’s the word around here,” the barman said. “No late-night parties or orgies with his famous girlfriends, eh, Gaston?” The barman laughed and tugged at one of the old men’s shirts.
“He’s hardly had any guests,” Paulik went on, taking a sip of his pastis. “Except a fellow writer, and now his son from Paris. He’s in his early forties, named Erwan. He arrived the other night. Apparently he and his taxi driver got lost. Lost in Puyloubier!”
Gaston laughed. “They came in asking for directions, they did.”
The barman said, “Was that Valère Barbier’s son? The stuck-up Parisian?”
“Is he stuck-up?” Paulik asked. “I’ve never met him.”
The barman made a grunting noise and began pouring another beer for Gaston’s friend.
“He made it quite clear that he didn’t like the looks of this bar, or of us, he did,” Gaston said.
“Who else was here besides you two?” Paulik asked, taking a sip of his pastis.
“Who wants to know?” the barman asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Paulik said, “I’ll be frank with you. There’s been a spot of trouble at the bastide, involving Erwan. I need to know who saw him arrive in the village last night.”
Gaston looked down into his beer, and his friend pretended to be very interested in the Michael Jackson video that was playing on the television. The young man in the corner still seemed to be asleep.
“Sorry,” the barman finally said. “Can’t help you there. People were in and out of here all night.”
Paulik nodded and drained his pastis. “Thanks anyway.” He laid two euros on the counter and left, discouraged that
he hadn’t handled the situation as well as he could have. His Range Rover was parked in front of the bar, and as he unlocked the front door a squealing noise sounded behind him. He turned around and saw Thomas pull up on his pizza scooter. “Hey, Thomas,” he said, walking toward him.
Thomas took off his helmet and shook the commissioner’s hand. “Bonsoir,” he said, opening the red box behind his seat and taking out a pizza.
“Bar delivery?” Paulik asked.
“Old Gaston and his buddy. Gaston’s great-niece bought him his first cell phone, but I think the only calls he makes are to us and to her.”
Paulik laughed and grabbed a menu out of the box, pretending to read it. “Thomas,” he said, keeping his eyes on the menu. “Pretend we’re talking about pizzas, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Did you deliver any pizzas here last night?”
“Yeah, late,” Thomas answered. “It was after ten.”
“Bingo,” Paulik replied. “Who was in the bar?”
“Gaston and his buddy and the barman, of course, and the guy who usually sleeps at the corner table and two thugs, I think they’re brothers or cousins. Pioger is their name.”
“Who are they?”
“You don’t want to know,” Thomas answered. “Or maybe you do, given your day job. They’re bad news. Sometimes I deliver pizza to their place. They live in a shabby apartment above the old hardware store.”
Paulik handed Thomas the menu and patted him on the back. “Thanks, mate.”
* * *
After dinner Marine received a text message from Sylvie, asking if Charlotte could spend the night. Marine answered in the affirmative and went to the linen closet to get sheets. If they bought a house in the country, they would have more room for guests, she thought as she set up a bed for Charlotte on the living room sofa. She gave Charlotte a new toothbrush and a clean T-shirt and tucked her in. “Would you like me to close the living room curtains?” she asked after she kissed Charlotte on the forehead.
The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche Page 18