The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

by M. L. Longworth

  “No, thank you,” Charlotte answered. “If I lift up my head a little bit, I can see the lights on the cathedral steeple.”

  “I love that view too,” Marine said as she turned off the lights. A house in the country wouldn’t have that view, only darkness. Marine had never lived in the country and even as a child had preferred being in town. She went into the bathroom, showered, and brushed her teeth, putting on a new, sheer nightgown that she had bought on the first day of the July sales. Walking into the bedroom, she did a pirouette.

  Verlaque was in bed, reading. He’d arrived home, in a sour mood, just after her parents left. Marine cleared her throat, but he did not look up. “Antoine,” she said, getting into bed. “Why are you so cranky this evening?”

  “Is Sylvie out again?” he asked.

  Marine, who usually liked to defend her best friend, agreed. “Sylvie’s absences are beginning to bother me too,” she whispered. “I’ll try to talk to her tomorrow.”

  “No idea who’s she seeing?”

  “Nope,” Marine replied. “She was at the international photography conference in Arles last week. Perhaps she met someone there. That’s where she met Charlotte’s father.”

  “And he has no idea about Charlotte, right?”

  “He was married, with ten- and twelve-year-olds, and living in Berlin,” Marine answered. “So Sylvie never told him. She didn’t want to upset his marriage.”

  Verlaque snorted.

  “Don’t throw stones,” Marine said.

  “You’re right.”

  “Your meeting went late this evening.”

  Verlaque coughed. “It was a waste of time. How was the Sèvres museum, by the way? I was so busy on the train we really didn’t get to talk.”

  “Agathe Barbier’s letters were more interesting than I thought they’d be,” Marine answered. She had detected an intentional switch in the conversation but decided to let it go. “Not so much in what they said but in how they were written. She really was a beautiful letter writer.”

  “Those were the days,” Verlaque said. “I remember my grandmother Emmeline spending a good part of her day writing letters. It’s a practiced art that’s been lost.”

  “I still have the letters you wrote me,” Marine said, kissing Verlaque. She rubbed his stomach, and he kissed her.

  “I spent about an hour writing that first postcard to you,” he said.

  “From Rome.”

  “Yes, I remember the exact café where I wrote it. You were such a good catch, and I so desperately wanted to impress you.”

  Marine smiled but secretly wished he had said something other than wanting to impress her. What, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t put it into words.

  Verlaque continued, “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Charlotte, but Valère’s stepson showed up late last night from Paris and was promptly kidnapped. There was a ransom note and a phone call this morning asking for fifty thousand euros.”

  Marine sat up. “What?” Verlaque filled her in on the details. “Did the stepson set this up?” Marine asked. “They’ve never gotten along very well.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Paris Match,” Marine answered. “At the doctor’s office.”

  Verlaque laughed. “Bruno and I asked Valère the same thing, but he was adamant that Erwan isn’t capable of carrying out such an organized plan. Valère was a wreck.”

  “I should think so, the poor man.”

  “He looked like a recovering drug addict or alcoholic who hasn’t been allowed to drink for two weeks,” Verlaque said. “He was sweating and had the shakes. He admitted he hasn’t been sleeping.”

  “More ghost stories?”

  “Yes. They’re more frequent and of a more disturbing nature.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Something is making him wake up in the middle of the night,” Verlaque said. “Even his housekeeper said so.”

  “Sandrine?” Marine asked. “She’s a weird bird. Weird in a good way, though.”

  Verlaque held up a battered copy of Rebecca. “It was one of Emmeline’s favorites. When the first VCRs came to France, my grandfather bought one for the Normandy house, and Emmeline would let us stay up late to watch the Hitchcock film.”

  “I’ve never read it. Can you give me the condensed version?” Marine asked as she lay on her side, propped up on her elbow.

  Verlaque began: “A wealthy widow, Maxim, marries a young woman, who upon arrival at his estate, Manderley, is tortured by pranks perpetrated by the housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, more famously known as Danny, who will do anything to get the young wife out of the house and drive the couple apart.”

  “What was Danny’s motive?”

  “Love,” Verlaque said. “Or obsession. You’re never really sure. She was in love with Maxim’s dead wife.”

  “Rebecca.”

  “Exactly.”

  Marine took the book from him and asked, “Are you thinking that Sandrine is behind the late-night frights?”

  “I don’t know,” Verlaque slowly answered. “Sandrine began living in the house almost the day he moved in, which is—”

  “Odd,” Marine cut in.

  “Yes. Valère’s lawyer is her uncle,” Verlaque said. “I’m going to call him tomorrow. Physically, Sandrine doesn’t resemble Danny at all, but Ursule Genoux certainly does.”

  “Valère’s secretary?”

  “Yes, tall and gaunt, with not a hint of emotion in her voice. A very sad woman.”

  “But she’s in Paris, while Sandrine is in the house.”

  “Yes, it would be difficulty to play those kinds of tricks from the 8th arrondissement.”

  “I read something interesting about Ursule in Agathe’s letters,” Marine said. “Ursule was recommended for employment by her younger sister, who was an old friend of Agathe’s. All three of them went to Les Loges for high school, and the sister, Célestine Parent, is now the school’s director.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” Verlaque said. “Which campus, Saint-Germain-en-Laye or Saint-Denis?”

  “Saint-Germain,” Marine replied. “The letter mentioned a ‘stressful’ event and that Ursule was smart and a fast typist and needed employment. Agathe must have answered in the affirmative—her reply wasn’t there—but Ursule was then hired as Valère’s secretary, right?”

  “Yes, Ursule began in the late seventies—1979 I think,” Verlaque said. “She’s exactly the kind of woman you’d expect to be a famous wealthy man’s secretary. If Valère’s spoiled and uncooperative behavior today is any indication of what he was like in the days when he was hanging out with the Rolling Stones and Norman Mailer, then Ursule Genoux could have handled it.” He put Rebecca back on his nightstand and sighed.

  “You’re a little out of sorts this evening. Is this case getting to you?” Marine asked.

  “I drove to Cannes this evening,” Verlaque quickly said. “To deliver the Agathe Barbier files.”

  “Oh, that explains why you got home so late. Was the traffic bad? Is that why you’re upset?”

  “I gave the files to the examining magistrate, and then we had dinner in the hills.”

  “And I assume it wasn’t a good time?” Marine asked.

  “It was just like old times,” Verlaque replied. “But I’m so happy I’m married to you.”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten,” Marine said, looking down at her hands. “The new judge there is Chantal Sennat. Your old college flame.”

  Verlaque nodded. “It was a mistake to have gone,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  New York City,

  September 22, 2010

  That evening Michèle returned from the hospital. Sandrine managed to get Tinker Bell started and drove off in a huff, saying she was going to stay at her s
ister Josy’s place. Sandrine had been a ball of nervous energy all day, walking around the house biting her nails and rubbing her hands together. Several times I asked her what was wrong, but she just mumbled to herself and kept pacing.

  I told her she could have a few days off—she deserved it, with all that had been going on at the house. I was relieved not to have the two women there at the same time, but I still thought Sandrine had nothing to do with Michèle’s fall. Michèle had had too much to drink and lost her balance, and because of the drink, she imagined someone had pushed her.

  Michèle was in surprisingly good form. But, then again, she always had an excess of energy. I made cheese-and-ham omelets, and we ate in the kitchen. Her face was still bruised, and I was fascinated by the one on her forehead, which had the same shape as France. “Stare much?” she asked as she gobbled up her dinner. “Wow, you don’t get a simple good omelet in a hospital. Thank you, Barbier.” She pushed her plate aside and lit a cigar.

  “Can you smoke?” I asked.

  She looked at me like I was a stupid boy. In other words, the way she always looked at me. “Of course,” she said. “But I’m laying off the booze.”

  “Right,” I answered, clearing away the plates and going to get my own cigar. “I’ll make us herbal tea.”

  “We are like two old fogies,” she said, watching me pour water into the kettle. “I always knew we’d end up together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Relax,” she said, laughing. “I only meant that I knew that we’d still be friends when we were old.”

  “As fate would have it,” I said. “We grew up on the same street, and here we are.”

  “But you have the Bastide Blanche.”

  “Do you want it?” I asked. “You keep saying how much you’ve always loved the fresco in the stairway. I’m thinking of selling.”

  “You don’t say,” she said, blowing smoke out of her mouth. She didn’t ask me why I wanted to sell the house so soon, and it wasn’t until days later that I realized that was odd. She shrugged and said, “I’m not so sure I want it now. You know me and my instant urges. They quickly wear off. Besides, I have a house in Cuba. And there’s an Italian island near Tunisia that’s awfully hip right now.”

  I put the teapot on the table between us and got two mugs out of the cupboard. With all that had been happening in the house these past days, I had been ignoring my friend on the wall, the lady in the pink dress. I sat down and looked at Michèle. “Where exactly did you first see the fresco?” I asked.

  “Oh, I can’t remember,” she answered, twisting one of the oversized rings she likes to wear. “In some magazine perhaps.”

  “Michèle, why are you here?”

  Her rings made a clunking sound as she smacked her hands on the table. “I told you the other night, before my accident.”

  “All you did was try to threaten me into writing a book with you, based on some phony piece of evidence you claim to have, which Sandrine may have overheard.”

  “It’s not phony,” Michèle said, reaching into her gaudy Louis Vuitton purse. She carefully pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to me. Opening it, I pulled out some faded pieces of paper, typed on a typewriter. As soon as I saw it, I knew exactly what it was.

  “Where did you get this?” I demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter—does it?” she said, grinning, grabbing the pages back from me before I had a chance to do anything. I know, Justin, I wasn’t fast enough.

  “So tell me about your project.”

  “We’d write a book, a great book.”

  “I’m retired.”

  “A writer never retires,” she insisted.

  “I’ve retired from fiction,” I replied. “If I write anything, it will be nonfiction.”

  “Your memoirs?” she snorted. “Like some film star or professional athlete.”

  “It’s a great genre.”

  “It’s voyeurism.”

  “That’s funny coming from you,” I said. “You’ve made millions selling love stories.”

  “Tens of millions,” she corrected. “But I haven’t written a serious literary book. One that will be read in schools, like yours are.”

  “Who’s stopping you?” I asked, draining my tea.

  “Valère, you know I can’t do it alone. I have the ideas,” she said, tapping the side of her head, “but not the poetry. I need you for that.”

  I tapped my own head, mimicking her. “It’s all dried up.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said. “You’re just being lazy.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Your name would be up in lights again,” she answered.

  “We’d be coauthors?”

  “Why not?” she asked. “A joint venture between lifelong friends.”

  “It’s one of your crazier ideas,” I said, getting up and taking my mug with me. I let my cigar burn itself out. “Well, this lazy boy is going to bed.” I was so tired I didn’t even care if the ghosts were rattling around that night. I was sure I’d sleep through any noise they could make. Let them keep Michèle up.

  I walked across the kitchen, toward the door. Michèle stayed sitting at the table. “Or if you prefer,” she said, twisting to face me, “you could be a silent partner. A ghostwriter. Sleep tight, Valère.” She then winked, relishing the power she had over me.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Aix-en-Provence,

  Saturday, July 10, 2010

  Verlaque ordered a café crème and took a soft croissant out of the basket and bit into it, brushing aside the crumbs with a paper napkin. He saw Bruno Paulik walk in through the Café Mazarin’s swinging doors and waved.

  “Salut,” Verlaque said, standing up and shaking the commissaire’s hand. “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday.”

  “Good morning,” Paulik said. He ordered the same coffee as Verlaque and sat down.

  “Croissant?” Verlaque asked. He tipped the basket in the direction of Paulik.

  “No thanks. I ate with the girls this morning.”

  Verlaque looked confused. “But you can eat a croissant, surely?”

  “I’m trying to be careful.” Paulik laughed and rubbed his stomach. “I ran into Valère this morning at the mailbox. He’s thinking of selling the bastide.”

  “He’s only just moved in.”

  “Yes, it seems too soon,” Paulik said. “Hélène and I were talking . . . What if someone is trying to scare Valère into doing just that?”

  Verlaque nodded, thinking of the book on his bedside table. “I thought of that too. Any ideas? Sandrine?”

  “I don’t see what she has to gain,” Paulik said.

  “True. She’d be out of a job, for one.”

  “And yesterday she seemed genuinely frazzled.”

  “I agree,” Verlaque said. “All the same, I’m going to call her uncle when I get to the office. What do we really know about Sandrine Matton?”

  Paulik shrugged. “Go ahead,” he said. “But I think she’s harmless. Just high-strung. Hélène has a cousin like that.”

  “You think?” Verlaque said, smiling. “You can’t use hunches in this line of work, remember?”

  “But you do become good at knowing when someone is telling the truth,” Paulik answered. “Although I suppose one can always be tricked.”

  Verlaque finished his croissant and made a neat pile of crumbs with the back of his hand. “The vines on Valère’s land might be worth almost as much as the house. Are there winemakers who’d want them?”

  “Like Hélène?” Paulik asked, visibly irritated. “No local vintner could afford to buy the place. Including us.”

  “Erwan’s kidnapping—any leads?”

  “The only kidnapping case in Aix happened over ten years ago,” Paulik said. “And the three guys responsible
are still in jail, but I’ve assigned two officers to search the records for criminals living between Aix and the Var. I went into our village bar last night and found out who was in there the night before: two old guys, the barman, a guy who everyone says sits in the corner and sleeps—I can verify that’s what he was doing last night—and two brothers or cousins named Pioger. Although it’s not clear if the Piogers were there when Erwan walked in.”

  “Pioger?” Verlaque asked. “Jean-Claude Auvieux told me about them. They’re cousins and bad news. Live above an old store—”

  “The hardware store.”

  “That’s it. Let’s start with them—shall we?” Verlaque said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll get your coffee.”

  “Thanks,” Paulik said, getting up. “My turn next time.”

  “One last question,” Verlaque asked. “Which bar? Des Touristes? La Boule d’Or?”

  “Bar des Sports,” Paulik answered.

  “Drats,” Verlaque said. “I was hoping it was Le Bar du XXème Siècle. It’s my favorite local bar name.”

  * * *

  When Verlaque got to his office, he picked up the telephone and called Guillaume Matton on his cell phone. “llo,” Matton replied.

  “Bonjour, Maître Matton,” Verlaque began. “This is Antoine Verlaque, the examining magistrate in Aix-en-Provence. Thank you for taking the call.”

  “I hope there’s nothing wrong with Valère,” Matton said. “I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

  “M Barbier is fine. But his stepson, Erwan, has disappeared. A ransom note and a phone call have been received.”

  “What? Is he okay?”

  “So far,” Verlaque replied. “They called yesterday, and Erwan was allowed to speak to M Barbier.”

  “Bloody hell, that Erwan,” Matton replied. “How much are they asking for?”