“Forget about him, Sandrine,” I said, handing her a tissue. “It’s better to be alone than with someone who isn’t good for you, who’ll bring you down. You’re way above that kind of guy.”
“Really?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“A girl gets lonely, M Barbier,” she said.
“I understand all about loneliness, Sandrine. I’m not judging you.”
She sat up straight and lifted her glass. “I’m better already, thank you.” She looked around and then asked, “Where is everyone? Erwan? Michèle?”
“You’ll be happy to know that they both left,” I replied. “For now, anyway. Erwan left, taking with him one of Agathe’s smaller vases—”
“You let him?”
“I’m tired, Sandrine, and I wanted him out of here.”
“He’ll only sell it—”
“His mother made it,” I answered. “He has a right to it.” I skipped over the part about why I let the little bastard take the vase.
“And Michèle?”
“In the Luberon at some film producer’s megamansion,” I said. “She’s coming back in a few days, to get the rest of her bags, and then leaving.”
“Phew!” Sandrine said, lifting her glass again and touching it to mine.
We were taking our first sip as Léa walked in. “Coucou!” she called from the kitchen door. “Sandrine!” she called, running into her arms. “I knew you’d be back soon. But we didn’t know where you were!”
“I’m sorry, chérie. Technical hitch. I was in the Cévennes, but now I’m back, and on my way here I swung into Aix and picked up something for you.” Sandrine dug into one of the bags and pulled out a flat rectangular box, handing it to Léa.
Léa sat at the table and opened it. It was the photograph of me and Maria Callas, framed. I won’t tell you about the frame. Let’s just say it had lots of rhinestone hearts on it. “Thank you!” Léa said. She hugged it to her chest then carefully put it back in its box and set it on the counter, as I had challenged the girls to a game of Scrabble—them against me. We spent an enjoyable hour or so playing, Sandrine helping her team win by turning on into déception in a triple-word score using all their tiles. Well, it was Sandrine who thought of the word but Léa who correctly spelled it.
At eight Léa looked at the kitchen clock and said she had to go home for dinner. Sandrine said that she had found a risotto recipe in La Provence and asked Léa if she’d like to help. “That’s the least we can do for creaming you at Scrabble, M Barbier,” Sandrine said. I argued that it was a close game and they were lucky with their letters, while Léa telephoned her parents for permission to eat with us. Sandrine and Léa had left the finished game set up, pushing it to the edge of the table, teasing me. Sandrine flew around the kitchen, gathering ingredients for the risotto, and Léa helped stir the rice, a long and arduous task, and one that always made me glad not to be involved.
We finished eating around nine thirty and got out some flashlights and walked Léa home through the garden. Yes, Justin, I know this sounds like a detailed unemotional police report, but I’m trying to give you all the facts here. This Tennessee bourbon is very good, by the way. I would have gone for the traditional Armagnac.
When we got to the Pauliks’ house, the lights were on and Léa opened the door, waved good-bye, and that was that. Sandrine said, “Zut! Léa forgot her photograph.”
“We can bring it to her tomorrow,” I said. Sandrine then insisted that we walk a little longer to work off the risotto. I was in such a good mood that I agreed. Besides, I had a cigar in my pocket and quite like smoking and strolling.
We made it all the way to the village—lifeless at that hour—and then walked home. It was only ten fifteen, and we were both suddenly exhausted. We said good night on the landing, and then the telephone rang. “llo,” I answered rather gruffly. It was late and I don’t like calls at night.
“llo, Valère,” Bruno Paulik said. “I know you guys must be having fun, but it’s time for Léa to come home. I can come up and get her.”
My heart leapt to my mouth. I couldn’t answer.
“Valère?” asked Paulik.
“She’s at your place,” I said. “We dropped her off an hour ago.”
“Don’t kid.”
“I’m serious,” I said. Sandrine heard the conversation and came out of her bedroom, her face white and her mouth open. Bruno said something to Hélène, and I could hear her shrieking. “Check her bedroom. She probably went straight to bed,” I offered, as if I knew their child better than they did.
“She isn’t in our house,” Bruno said. “I’ll be right there—”
He hung up before I could say anything. I turned to Sandrine, and she started to run down the stairs. “Maybe Léa’s in the garden,” I said, following her.
Sandrine ran through the downstairs rooms, calling Léa’s name. I went into the kitchen and stared at the four walls, utterly unable to move or do anything of use. Sandrine came in and ran to the kitchen counter. “Léa’s photograph is gone,” she said.
I said, “Do you think she came back to fetch it?”
“Obviously,” Sandrine said. “I’m sorry, M Barbier!” She got wide-eyed and began to scream. “But then where is she? This house! This ghost-filled house! I should have stayed away!”
“Sandrine, calm down!” I took her by the shoulders and thought she was going to cry, but she pulled herself together when we heard Bruno’s 4x4 pull up in front of the house. I ran outside as Bruno came up the steps.
“Is she here?” he asked, panting.
“No,” I said. “We’ve called her name throughout the house. We think she may have tried walking back here to get something she forgot in the kitchen.”
“Let’s search the garden,” Bruno said, turning around to look at the olive trees and vineyards that separated our properties. The outdoor lights suddenly came on, lighting up the garden.
Sandrine then came out. “Do the lights help?” she asked.
“Yes,” Bruno snapped. Suddenly a roar came across the vines, and a bright light shone in the vineyard. “Hélène,” he said. “She’s on the tractor.”
Sandrine handed us flashlights. “Let’s each take a row and walk toward your house.” The cagole telling the police commissioner what to do.
I ran ahead, toward the swimming pool, without waiting. I felt sick to my stomach. Could she have fallen in? But when I got close I could see, thanks to the pool lights, that it was empty, just the blue-green water lapping gently at the tiled sides. “Thank God,” I muttered, and turned on my flashlight to join the others.
There were four adults yelling Léa’s name, and the sound of the tractor going up and down the rows, its light so powerful you had to look away when it came near you. I could see why Hélène thought to bring it out.
“We were watching a movie. Léa may have even called out to us, but we didn’t hear,” Bruno said to me when we met at the end of our respective rows. He held his bald head in his hands.
“I should have taken her into your house,” I said, “and said a proper good evening to you and Hélène. It’s my fault.”
Bruno quickly said, “An old villager told me last night that the blind woman who’s been renting a house isn’t who she claims to be—”
“What?” I demanded.
Hélène climbed off the tractor. She bent down, as if looking at her vineyard; the grapes hung in huge clumps among the wide, bright-green leaves. I thought it odd that she was inspecting the vines; then I realized she was bent over because she was throwing up. Bruno ran to her and rubbed her back, and we stood there, not knowing what to do, staring and waiting for directions from Bruno. He’s the police commissioner, after all. Bruno then looked up at us, his face lit by an orange glow. I could hear a rumbling sound coming from behind us. “The house!” he yelled as he got up and bega
n to run.
Hélène followed, and Sandrine quickly caught up with her as I ran behind. It was only then that I saw that Hélène was wearing her nightgown and running shoes, and Sandrine was barefoot. She must have kicked off her high heels as we left the house. Women are stronger than us, Justin, especially in moments like this one. You need to know that and accept it. Agathe was certainly stronger than me.
The sky was lit up, the same orange-red that had lit up Bruno’s face. The bastide was ablaze, flames curling from every window.
Chapter Thirty
Aix-en-Provence,
Tuesday, July 13, and Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Antoine Verlaque saw the orange glow from the village. At first he thought it might be from fireworks in a neighboring village, and he looked at his phone to double-check the date. No, Bastille Day was tomorrow. Besides, the glow was coming from the north, below mont Sainte-Victoire, where there were only a few houses, like Bruno Paulik’s and La Bastide Blanche. He joined Marine, who was waiting, standing beside the car, looking up at the sky.
“Our blind woman isn’t at home,” he said. “Will you look at that sky.”
Marine said, “I almost ran up to the house to get you, but a bunch of people came out of the bar, looking at the sky and yelling. The barman rang the fire station on his cell phone. I’m worried, Antoine.”
“Let’s go to Valère’s.” They were about to get into the car when Verlaque’s cell phone rang. “Merde,” he said, looking at the caller ID. “It’s Rudder.”
“Answer it,” Marine said, running around to the driver’s side of the car. “It may be important. I’ll drive.”
“Daniel,” Verlaque said, holding the phone under his chin while he buckled up in the passenger seat.
“My daughter-in-law is outside,” Rudder said. “So we don’t have much time. Did you think about—”
“Yes,” Verlaque replied. “Your theory that Agathe may still be alive is fascinating.”
Rudder began to laugh, which turned into a cough. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Your last words to me—”
“We got cut off by Nurse Ratched,” Rudder said.
“But the theory fits, whether it’s yours or not,” Verlaque continued. “Claude Petitjean. Don’t you see?”
“Claude Petitjean?”
“The writer.” Verlaque looked at Marine and winked, but she had her eyes on the curving road.
Rudder yelled into the phone, “I know who you’re talking about! Petitjean is a woman, but she’s in her late forties, not late sixties. An ex-biology professor from Limoges. Lives in the countryside with her husband and twin kids, girl and boy, ten years of age. They’ve done one of those barn conversions.”
Verlaque sighed. “How do you know?”
“Ratched loves her books,” Rudder explained, his breathing raspy. “So I promised to find out a little bit about our mystery writer. My sources are infallible.”
“I’m sure,” Verlaque said. “But the last time we spoke, you pointed out the fact that Agathe’s body never washed up.”
“I was just thinking out loud,” Rudder said. “What I was going to suggest is that you look more at Les Loges—” He began to cough, and Verlaque could hear a shuffling noise and a woman’s voice. “My time’s up,” Rudder said, laughing and coughing at the same time. “Bad joke. Sorry.”
* * *
As they got closer to the bastide the sky became brighter, but the field of vision immediately in front of the car became impaired by smoke. Verlaque quickly filled Marine in on his conversation with Rudder, but she had understood most of it by listening to them. “Even if Agathe didn’t write the Petitjean books, she might still be alive,” she said. “There’s another woman to add to the list of suspects, also in her sixties or seventies.”
Verlaque looked at Marine. “Michèle Baudouin.”
“Yes. I’ve seen them together, and their relationship is beyond weird. A sort of love-hate thing, just like in the Petitjean book.”
“What’s in front of us now is more like Rebecca,” Verlaque said as he leaned toward the windshield, trying to see the road.
“Is this how the book ends?” Marine asked, quickly looking at him. “A fire?”
“Yes, Danvers goes up in flames.” They turned up the lane at the Pauliks’ farmhouse, stopping the car on the edge of the road about halfway to the bastide. “This is as close as I want to get,” Marine said, turning off the ignition.
“We can go on foot from here,” Verlaque said, already half out of the car. They got to the front terrace just as Bruno Paulik arrived, frantic.
“Léa’s in there!” Paulik shouted over the noise of sparks, the roaring fire, and distant sirens. His face was streaked with tears and sweat.
Verlaque took him by the elbows. “We can’t go in, Bruno!”
“Bruno, the firefighters are on their way!” Marine shouted. “Let them do their job.”
“Sod that!” Paulik hollered, throwing off Verlaque’s grip and making for the front door, where black smoke was billowing out. Tearing off his T-shirt and holding it up to his face as a mask, he disappeared inside.
“Bruno!” Hélène yelled as she arrived alongside Sandrine. “No!”
“The back door,” Sandrine said. “Let’s go and open it. The fire may not be at the back of the house yet.”
“The doorknob may be too hot to touch,” Verlaque yelled.
“The barbecue gloves,” Sandrine called back. “I’ll get them and meet you back there!”
Valère Barbier arrived, out of breath, his hands on his knees to steady himself. “M Barbier,” Marine said, going to him. “You need to sit down.”
“I could never sit down,” he replied, looking up at the house with tears in his eyes. “If Léa’s in there—”
“She may not be,” Marine replied.
“But Léa came back to the house to get a photograph she had forgotten,” Valère said. “She obviously caught this woman in the act, working out her fright antics.”
“Who do you mean, Valère?” Marine whispered.
“The blind lady—”
“You know about her?”
“Bruno just told me that the blind woman,” Valère began, his voice shaking, “who’s been living in the village . . . is behind all of this . . .”
The sirens got unbearably loud, then abruptly stopped, as two fire engines pulled up. “She must have chased Léa,” he went on, seeming not to notice the trucks and the firefighters who were unrolling their hoses.
“Léa may have gotten away,” Marine offered, her arm around the writer’s shoulders.
Valère shrugged off Marine’s arm. “Agathe!” he cried, looking up at the house. “Agathe!”
“Are there people inside?” the fire captain asked Verlaque as he got to the terrace.
“Possibly three,” Verlaque replied, looking over at his wife. Was Agathe Barbier in the house? “Bruno Paulik, the police commissioner, has just gone in. His eleven-year-old daughter may be inside. And a woman . . . in her sixties.”
The firefighters began to spray water into the windows, and two, in full gear, walked into the house wearing oxygen masks. “They’ll find them,” Marine said, consoling Valère.
Sandrine came back, panting. “The back door was wide open,” she said. “I can’t stand here and watch. I’m leaving. Good thing I have my keys in my pocket!”
“What?” Valère yelled. “Now?” She ran toward the carport, and seconds later they could hear Clochette whizzing down the driveway. “She’s so unstable,” Valère said, shaking his head.
“We all react to situations differently,” Marine said, looking up at the blazing house and saying the Lord’s Prayer in her head.
Verlaque yelled as the two firefighters came out of the house, supporting Bruno Paulik in their arms, an oxygen mask cov
ering his face. “Is he okay?” Verlaque asked.
They laid Bruno on the ground. The younger one replied, “We found him at the top of the stairs, passed out.”
“He was trying to get to the attic,” Verlaque explained. “His daughter likes to play up there.”
“Let’s go,” his partner said, and they went back into the house.
“Five minutes,” their captain shouted. “The roof may collapse any minute.”
Hélène came back and fell beside her husband. “He’ll be all right,” Verlaque said, kneeling beside her. “They’ve gone back in to find Léa.”
Two minutes later the firefighters emerged, empty-handed, tearing off their masks. “We couldn’t make it to the attic,” one of them said.
Hélène sobbed, bent over, grabbing at the pebbles with her hands and dragging them across the terrace. Her body heaved. “My baby!” she screamed, her body writhing. She got up to run into the house, and Verlaque grabbed her.
“Hélène, she might not be in there,” he said, holding her in his arms.
“We need to get farther back,” the captain explained. “The roof is dangerously close to collapsing.” As if it heard him, a rumbling noise roared through the house, accompanied by sparks and the sound of falling timbers. “There she goes,” he said. “The wood beams are collapsing.”
“It’s all my fault,” Valère said. “Who’s behind all this? She must have known all along—”
“Known what?” Marine asked.
Valère mumbled, “I swear if Léa comes out of this all right, I’ll confess—I swear to God . . .”
“Confess?” Marine asked. From far away a car horn sounded, getting louder and louder. “It’s Sandrine.”
A firefighter ran up to Sandrine’s car, admonishing her for driving so close to the house. “Whatever!” Sandrine yelled as she jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger side, opening the door. “Come on, sweetie pie,” she gently said.
“Maman!”
The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche Page 25