While the Music Lasts

by John Brooke

  The small place was deserted, cleaned, the makeshift bar packed up and put away till the next event. Luc Malarmé’s concert flyer was still tacked to the mairie notice board. The mairie door was open wide. Mother and daughter occupied the upper floor. Aliette stepped inside.

  Downstairs there were two offices, one for the mayor, one for the state-appointed secretary, as well as a gloomy salon for ceremonies, marriages and meetings to argue budgeting priorities with village elders (vignerons), and a kitchen. To her credit, Francine had succeeded in wangling a new addition, a larger, brighter room with additional kitchen and restroom facilities. Days, it was a busy daycare; nights, a space for activities ranging from kick-boxing to bridge to the occasional lecture, private receptions on weekends. The chief inspector stopped at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Francine?’ Quietly. To fit with Sunday.

  She appeared at the top, half-dressed — jeans, a ratty camisole — a day off to do some laundry, and, like a lot of people, looking like she’d been up late. ‘What’s on your mind, Inspector? I just spent an hour with Nicolas.’

  ‘Some history?’

  The kitchen had a view toward Luc Malarmé’s ridge. Luckily, a westerly breeze was bearing the sour odour of charred, soaked aftermath up into the distant hills. The table was still messy with the remnants of tea with Sergeant Legault. ‘What a disaster…’ She directed her guest to a chair. ‘We used almost every drop of irrigation water.’

  Aliette sat. ‘It could have been worse without your sharp eyes.’

  ‘Pure luck, if you could call it that.’ Francine Tabler sat opposite and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Bon. History, you say?’

  ‘I need to know about the donkeys. I gather not everyone was happy. And I gather you were involved?’

  ‘I was.’ Francine had fine auburn hair. It had looked great the night before, defined by a blue velvet band. Today it was loose and dirty. Aliette put her at about thirty-five. She’d had her child quite young. ‘It suited me.’ But the smile disappeared. ‘It’s like another life.’

  ‘Not for Francis. He’s dying of shame.’

  ‘Poor Francis. People hated him. He’s just a farmer and he wanted to get some value from all those years of work. Luc charmed him. Francis had no idea till it was a done deal. But really, the ones who complained were just greedy. Three less parcels of vines was not the end of the world.’

  ‘Which ones were those?’

  ‘The ones who already have most of everything.’ Francine shrugged: that was life. Advised, ‘Ask Deeds and Records. They should have it all recorded. At least the legal parts.’

  ‘Jérome Giffard says his father used to sit in my chair.’

  ‘If ever there was a piggy man, it was Jérome Giffard père. René Clermont was even worse.’

  ‘René Clermont?’

  ‘Mayor of Saint-Brin back then. Total wheeler-dealer.’ Francine sighed. ‘But the donkey farm was a good idea. Ahead of its time.’

  ‘Luc charmed you too.’

  ‘He charmed a lot of people. Another life, Inspector. But a lot of fun.’

  ‘Francis was saying.’

  Francine Tabler was the kind to sense the slightest personal challenge and respond in kind. ‘Donkeys were a perfect job for a girl like me.’ She smiled a certain kind of smile. ‘And Luc’s parties were the best.’

  ‘You were invited?’

  ‘I worked there. Never easy to separate the end of the day with the start of the fun, especially when he had his friends down from Paris. Best fun I’ve ever had.’ Francine moved to pour some tea — but it had long since gone cold and she put the cup back down. ‘I think there’s a few who’d agree. If they were honest.’

  Aliette was finding out that honesty was a tricky proposition where it applied to the charming Monsieur Malarmé. ‘But was there anything that made someone angry enough to still be angry?’

  Angry enough to set a fire.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Property fights were not my problem. Not then. Mama had the house and Papa’s pension, and I was…’ a shrug, ‘a granola girl, a hippie, a few years behind the wave, but there you go. I’d quit school and I hated money, I loved pot and music and boys and I couldn’t see past my nose. I loved that place. But the donkey farm didn’t work — I mean as a business — and he knew it was never going to. It was just a dirty little business trick to get a building on the ridge. Once the barn was there, and the studio and the apartment on top of it, getting a permit to build a house was easy. Or at least not impossible, like when there were only vines. When they shipped the poor donkeys away, the job was over. I left. Went to the city. Got pregnant… Voilà.’ Francine got up to toss the cold tea and put the kettle on. ‘But the donkey farm was just the end of act one. When the house was done, it got far bigger. I mean the parties. Still going strong when I got back from Montpellier.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Rachelle was six…or seven? My mother needed me. I’d grown up a bit, you kind of have to with a kid. Or maybe I didn’t trust myself. Whatever — I never went near that house again…’ She offered tea. Aliette accepted. ‘But they were still having tons of fun whenever he came down. It went on till he killed her. After that… Well, he wasn’t coming back. Parties ended. Place just sat there. Vines did too, after Francis packed it in.’

  ‘You had any contact since he’s come back?’ Aliette sensed a gap in the story.

  ‘I say hello. I signed the permit for his show, but…’ The mayor of Prades shrugged away a former time; ‘no, not really. My life’s different now. Everyone’s is.’

  ‘Including his.’

  ‘I wonder about that. He never seems to grow old. To change at all. When he walked into my office last autumn looking for a copy of the growers’ bulletin, I almost fell over. It was spooky. For a moment I was back then with… with all of them. But he doesn’t insist on old times’ sake or anything like that. In fact, it’s like it never happened. Strange man. No past at all.’

  Aliette tasted her tea. Francine was working extra hard to separate herself from Luc.

  A voice behind her said, ‘It’s because he has no fucking soul.’

  A girl of about sixteen or seventeen stood there in jogging togs, runners in her hand. She was thin, bony in the way of an adolescent who ate next to nothing. Her face echoed her mother’s but her hair was darker, richer, flowing in easy curls. A pretty girl — if she’d eat more.

  Francine Tabler calmly introduced her. ‘And this is the ever gracious Rachelle.’

  Aliette held out a hand in greeting. ‘That was you boycotting last night.’

  Rachelle would not shake hands with the enemy. ‘He’s evil and we hate him!’

  Francine shook her head in a weary mother fashion. ‘Taking a break, chère?’

  ‘I know it. I’m ready!’ came the defiant reply.

  The mayor informed the visitor, ‘Bac exams. Philo tomorrow. She knows it. She’s ready.’

  Rachelle shrugged at her mother’s sarcasm. ‘He bought his way out of jail for sure.’

  Her mother shrugged back. ‘He paid for the booze and he’s giving all profits to the daycare.’

  The girl retorted, ‘You only care about the money.’

  Francine mused, ‘Maybe there’ll be a question about evil tomorrow.’

  The girl threw up her nose to that. She sat to put on her joggers.

  Aliette, who used to jog and kept meaning to get back into it, asked, ‘Where do you run?’

  ‘Through the vines.’

  ‘Ever meet a dog named Lennon?’

  ‘What?’ Of course she knew. Everyone knows everything in a village.

  ‘Like John Lennon…just a young thing.’

  Rachelle Tabler did not like this line of questioning. She demanded, ‘Who is this person?’

  Francine was suddenly wary. ‘This is
Chief Inspector Nouvelle. Police Judiciaire.’

  Rachelle was more disgusted than surprised. ‘I don’t kill dogs!’

  The chief inspector smiled. ‘Good. Do you destroy concert announcements?’

  ‘No!’ Shoes tied, she headed for the stairs.

  ‘Do you go online?’

  ‘Of course I go online. What are you trying to —’

  ‘The Thread? Do you chat on the thread, Rachelle?’

  That stopped her. She gaped. ‘You mean the town website?’ Aliette indicated yes. ‘Of course I don’t go on that thread. No way. Bunch of old bags… nuls.’

  A point with which the chief inspector mainly agreed.

  Francine intervened, baring her teeth, just slightly. ‘She had nothing to do with his dog.’

  Aliette kept her eyes hard on Rachelle. ‘And the dog is not my problem. It’s just that I don’t quite get it. All this…backlash?’

  Rachelle sniffed. ‘People hate him for what he did to Miri. He’s a sexist pig and he killed her and he doesn’t even care. He’s evil. The system is totally corrupt!’

  ‘I think he agrees with you on that, Rachelle. I mean, if you go by his songs.’

  The girl scowled. ‘Bullshit. Such complete and utter —’

  Francine flared. ‘Language!’

  Aliette pushed her point. ‘If it was more than that, if he really was an evil man, he would not be anywhere near here. Think about it. Yes?’

  Rachelle Tabler shook her head — this cop was another adult fool. To her mother: ‘Can I go?’

  Francine got a shrug from the inspector before allowing it. But cautioned, ‘Thierry’s here for supper — you get back in time for two more good hours of philosophy before he gets here!’

  Aliette said, ‘Good luck on your exam.’

  But Rachelle was out the door and down the stairs.

  Francine said, ‘You can’t change her mind. All you can do is wait.’

  ‘But it happened when she was a child. Miri.’ Ten years ago now. Rachelle Tabler would have been a gawky seven or eight.

  ‘But her films are still there. The one about Pauline Réage? It changed my daughter’s life. She actually started reading books. She talks about writing. What’s that thing about the newly converted?’

  Francine was proud of Rachelle and Aliette smiled. But wondered, newly converted to what?

  Pauline Réage was the nom-de-plume of Anne Desclos, the straitlaced literary translator who, on a dare from her publisher husband, penned the sado-maso classic Story of O. Miri Monette’s take on Pauline-slash-Anne had been an overwrought flop, if Aliette remembered rightly.

  Francine assured her, ‘We’ll work it out, don’t worry. We’re actually a pretty good little unit. She’s very smart. She’ll get her Bac and next year she’ll be a totally different girl…Trust me, she would never harm a dog.’

  ‘I do, Francine.’

  ‘Father in the picture?’

  ‘Nope. Long gone. Don’t need him.’

  And that seemed true. ‘Thierry?’ Another name she didn’t know.

  ‘Thierry Belanger. Over at Le Mauraury? Fixes up old Brit sportcars. He’s close by. He’s trying hard. He cares and he wants it to work. It’s all you can ask, mm?’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re saying.’ Aliette sipped tea. ‘But this dirty little business trick to get a building on the ridge. I gather you’ve since learned a thing or two about property scams?’

  The mayor had. And she shared what she knew.

  10:05 pm

  Leina: Did we make this happen? I can’t shake the notion. Help!

  IssaE: Maybe we did.

  Leina: Our bad energy?

  IssaE: Power of suggestion?

  Leina: I believe in it.

  IssaE: Belief is what makes it happen.

  Leina: I need to work this out.

  IssaE: We all do.

  Leina: I’m glad you’ve joined the group.

  IssaE: I had to. Whoever did his dog is heartless.

  Leina: What do you mean, did his dog?

  IssaE: They killed it. Poison.

  Leina: Oh Lord!

  …NEW!

  Guerrière: We are not talking about dogs.

  IssaE: He loved his dog.

  Guerrière: Dogs do not have souls!

  IssaE: Are you so sure?

  Guerrière: Ask Father Paul-André!

  TruthTeller: I resent this guilt.

  Leina: Oh Lord.

  • 16 •

  A SENSE OF GUILT

  The chief inspector considered this latest fragment. She no longer needed Miri or the chatting ladies to secure a preliminary investigation. What’s more, Substitute Procureur Danielle Delibelo had ruled the Miri thread off limits. A cop had to be chary of compromising her investigation or a subsequent court case, to say nothing of her professional credibility. But Leina was bending under a burden of guilt. Real or imagined, guilt is a useful tool: who knew what or whom these women knew? Aliette stared at the screen for a lost half-hour and finally decided not to include the Miri thread in her report regarding the arson in the vines. Nor would she say anything by way of a directive, one way or the other, to Junior Inspector Isabelle Escande. It was a calculated risk. For the moment, IssaE’s identity was as protected as the rest of them. IssaE’s engagement with these ladies might prove useful in penetrating the crimes against Luc Malarmé.

  She summoned Mathilde Lahi, who still knew most of the right people at Deeds and Records. Aliette needed more information on those first years when Luc Malarmé had first come to town. Could Mathilde beg, borrow, steal, whatever, the files concerning Luc Malarmé’s purchase of five parcels of vines from Francis Fernandez, ‘probably twenty years ago?’

  ‘Not quite twenty,’ corrected Mathilde. She waited for a piece of paper that would facilitate her request.

  ‘Mandate’s as good as on its way.’

  ‘You can’t wait?’

  ‘No.’ She could not override a pressing need to move forward without delay.

  Full time with the police now, Mathilde supposed she understood. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Merci.’

  Awaiting reports from Identité Judiciaire and the gendarmes’ investigations, Aliette busied herself with other Monday things.

  Sergeant Nicolas Legault’s report arrived mid-morning. It did not add anything very useful beyond sketching a window of opportunity for the perpetrator. Luc Malarmé had left to set up his stage at 6:00 pm and had not returned to his house. Francine Tabler had seen the plume of smoke at around 8:30. Therefore the arsonist had approximately two and half hours to come onto the property, lay the accelerant, set it alight, and leave. The forensics people said the stalks, the source of the real heat and the dark, easily spotted smoke, would have taken some minutes to reach full burn. They estimated fifteen, at which point the perpetrator would have had to leave the scene. They surmised that a single arsonist would have needed about thirty minutes to cover four identified flash points around the house. That left about two hours’ travel time. He could have come from the farthest corners of the inspector’s territory, or from the city.

  Or he could have walked from Prades.

  Vehicle or not, they assumed he approached the property on foot, through the forest that surrounded the rear of the house.

  Daniel Drouin’s forensics assessment arrived via courier during lunch. As promised, there were two dozen scratch-and-sniff sample sheets with a list of common applications, more than enough for her team, the gendarmes and for the Procureur and the investigating judge the Proc would appoint to the case. Aliette tried one. Yes, like nail polish remover.

  She added a paragraph and sent her electronic pages to Mathilde for formatting and printing.

  She printed out a different document, tucked it in her bag and went out.<
br />
  ‘Bonjour. Yes, of course I have a few minutes.’ Across the street at the bank, Madame Nouvelle was greeted as just another client. And Chloé Dafy, back in navy-blue banker mode, hair tied up in a workaday chignon, was a far cry from the soot-smudged weekend girl bringing water to an exhausted Luc Malarmé. She ushered the chief inspector into her office and gestured to the chair where clients sat while she helped them understand unfathomable financial things. But from the way she folded her hands, expectant, it was clear she suspected that this visit was not about the chief inspector’s accounts.

  Aliette placed a printed fragment from the Miri thread in front of her. ‘Do you recognize any of these names?’

  Chloé perused the page, mystified. ‘But these aren’t real names.’

  ‘Of course not. But you grew up here. You know people…and lots of people sit down here in front of you. Do any of those names hearken back?’

  ‘Hearken back to what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m asking.’

  Aliette was being disingenuous. She did know. Chloé Dafy was Luc Malarmé’s lover. Or so it appeared. If Chloé Dafy sensed this, she kept it hidden behind her flat banker eyes. She looked again, double checking, a prudent banker. But, no, ‘None of them ring a bell.’

  Aliette dropped pretenses. ‘Is there anyone who’s jealous?’

  Chloé’s mask likewise fell. ‘Is this appropriate, Inspector?’

  Not completely. An order to appear would make it so. But an order from the court could be an abuse of a citizen’s faith in the police. She nodded vaguely. ‘It’s a question that needs an answer.’ Presented gently, like a dentist with a needle. Adding, ‘It’s not personal.’

  ‘You think this is about Luc and me?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘Why?’ Chloé Dafy was suddenly frightened — that was easy to read as she protested, ‘We’ve kept it very quiet. We play music together. Is that wrong?’