As she had hoped, Annie Leonetti’s name was one of the three contenders. Although she was younger than her colleagues, and known as a modernist in the department, her PhD from Yale and frequent publications were realities that could not be disputed. Working against her, more than her being a minor radical, was the fact that she came from Corsica. Where she had spent the first eighteen years of her life had a greater impact on her career than she could ever have imagined, and at times she regretted not staying in the United States—where, as a Corsican, she wouldn’t have been labeled as either a “peasant” or “terrorist.” The irony was that both she and her husband adored the island, and they had moved back to France after Annie was awarded her doctorate so that they could return to Corsica every holiday.
The second name was Bernard Rodier’s, a solid if dull Cistercian scholar, and the third, when announced, was met with cackles and hollers: Giuseppe Rocchia—“everyman’s theologian,” as he liked to call himself—who taught in the Theology Department at the university in their sister city, Perugia, and earned tenfold his university salary by writing books and theology-based articles in fashion magazines and appearing on Italian television, explaining his version of world religions to the masses. For this reason Annie defended him—Rocchia put in plain words what many people believed to be a complicated, overwrought subject—and for his contribution to Italian television, which desperately needed improving. She had read his books—best sellers across the world—and found some value in many of the things he said. On a recent trip to Perugia she had asked one of her colleagues why Rocchia continued to teach, given how much money he made from his books and talk-show appearances. “It gives him respectability,” Dario had told her, sipping his Campari in one of Perugia’s many stunning squares. “Plus, we Italians love to be called Dottore.”
Bernard Rodier set his empty glass down on an Empire-era console made from exotic woods extracted from one of France’s former colonies and left the room. Stormed out of the room, Annie would tell her husband later that evening. She smiled slightly at the gaffe that Bernard had just made, damaging his chances at the directorship. Annie looked at Yann and Thierry and thought of her own student days—the weeklong celebrations her family had hosted in their Corsican village when she had been accepted into a grande école in Paris; the effort and time she had put in to learn English; and her doctoral years in Connecticut—paying part of her tuition by waitressing at a French restaurant in New Haven. And the late hours continued—when she should have been reading to her two young children, or in bed with her husband, she had stayed up late in her study, researching. But the reward would soon be worth it. She could—should—be the next doyen of the Theology Department, able to move her family from their charmless 1970s boxlike apartment into one of the most sought-after buildings in Aix. She felt no pity for Bernard, who hadn’t published as much as she had, nor studied at a prestigious foreign university. “Pauvre Bernard,” she whispered, grinning.
*The oldest member of a group; in this case, the dean.
Chapter Two
The Real Scholars
Annie Leonetti set down her wineglass and looked around the now silent room. Georges Moutte raised his hand to his mouth and coughed, breaking the awkward silence. Could Moutte be announcing his replacement this evening? She tried not to smile at the idea, and suddenly regretted not inviting her husband.
“You may as well all know now,” the elderly man said in a loud, clear voice. “I have decided, after all, to postpone my retirement.” A low murmur broke out around the room and once again the doyen had to loudly cough in order to speak. “Indefinitely,” he added in answer to the silent question most of his guests had been mulling over in their heads. “I’m still good for a little bit,” he continued, trying to laugh. “And the Dumas’s winner,” he said as he looked over in the direction of Yann and Thierry, “will be announced at this time next week. And now, please eat and make yourselves comfortable.”
Yann put down his slice of pizza and looked at Thierry. “All of a sudden I’m not hungry.”
“I know what you mean,” Thierry replied. “I wish that we could share the fellowship.”
“No, no,” his friend insisted with a seriousness Thierry seldom heard coming from Yann. “You’re the real scholar. I only went into theology because there were more spots available and I hoped that it would royally piss off my parents.”
Thierry picked up the bottle and poured them both more wine. “Here, we may as well drink. Did it work?”
“Did what work?” Yann asked, taking a sip of wine and helping himself to a petit four. Having made his confession, he was suddenly hungry.
“Pissing off your parents?”
Yann laughed and made a toasting gesture with his wineglass. “Funny, that. My father was in the middle of filming a documentary on the Shroud of Turin and was all of a sudden a reformed, mystical Catholic. He thought me studying theology was great. And much to my surprise, so did my mom. We have a wealthy great-uncle who is a missionary in South America whom she was hoping to impress.”
“Well, whatever you say,” Thierry said, “I still think that you are a good scholar.”
Yann laughed. “I did surprise myself by enjoying studying theology. Dr. Leonetti has been a big reason for that. But fellowship or no fellowship, it’s off to MBA land I go.”
Thierry poured his friend another glass of wine, but not for himself. Yann noticed Thierry’s furrowed brow and said, “What’s wrong? Don’t worry, even if I do go to the States, we’ll still keep in touch, right?”
Thierry shook his head and, leaning in closer to Yann, said, “No, no, it’s not that. It’s Moutte not retiring. Think of how Professor Leonetti must be feeling right now. I thought she would replace him, didn’t you?”
Yann looked across the room at Annie Leonetti, who was sitting on a hard-back dining chair with her hands on her knees, looking up at the ceiling. “I thought so too, but what do we know? It’s not like they tell us anything here. Perhaps there are other profs in line for the job. Like Rodier, or that guy from Toulouse who’s obsessed with the Norman church. Anyway, Moutte will retire soon—he’s ancient.”
“How soon is soon? You know how when you’re sure to get something, and then it doesn’t happen, how hard that is. It could be six months or three years, it doesn’t really matter. You still feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach.”
Yann drank some wine and tried to think of the times that this had happened to him, but couldn’t think of one. When Laura had told him at the last minute that she couldn’t go to Brittany in July with him, and then he found out through a friend that she had gone to Saint-Tropez with some guy who was already working at a law firm? No, he had gotten over that fairly quickly when Suzanne had come back into his life this past summer.
“Look at that,” Thierry said, nodding in the direction of the opposite corner of the room. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Mlle Zacharie has the hots for Moutte.” Yann snuck a glance in the same direction and shuddered.
“Disgusting! What is she doing? It looks like she’s trying to kiss him! I thought she hated everyone in the department, especially me ever since I pestered her to tell me when they were going to decide on the Dumas.”
“No,” Thierry said, grabbing a cracker. “I think she hated you long before that.”
Yann frowned, choosing to ignore his friend’s comment. “Well, you’re right, she obviously doesn’t hate the doyen right now.” Audrey Zacharie, age twenty-seven, had been a graduate in art history and had started working in the Theology Department the occasional afternoon when she was in her last year of university. She graduated, the Theology secretary left, and Audrey’s part-time job became full-time. She was eternally dissatisfied and reminded the professors and students daily that she had not meant to take this course in life, that it was the economic crisis that had forced her to type letters and file. At the same time, she was fiercely protective of her new role in the department and proud o
f her secure job with its excellent retirement fund and vacation time.
“Is she trying to kiss Moutte’s ear?” Yann asked while chewing a piece of bread.
“No, she’s whispering something. Probably about how much she hates you.”
Yann grabbed a piece of cheese, frowning as he put it into his mouth. He made a sour face.
“God, this cheese is crap. I really need to make just enough money to buy good food and wine.”
“Here, here!” Dr. Leonetti echoed, now standing beside the two students. “I’m glad you like the wine. Funny that a hilly place so near the sea would produce such hearty, strong reds.” Her stomach was in knots since Bernard’s angry departure, for she had desperately wanted to succeed Dr. Moutte—but she was also well aware how easily, carelessly in Bernard’s case, one could fall from the elderly doyen’s graces. What did “indefinitely” mean? Perhaps just another school year? It would go by quickly, but more than that would be hard to bear. Wasn’t Moutte nearing seventy? She realized that she had no idea how old the doyen was. Perhaps he was still in his late fifties. Was that possible? Who would know? She was wondering how she could befriend Moutte’s secretary, whom she despised, when one of the boys made a comment that brought her back into the now-stuffy room.
“And so strange that Cassis, just down the road, would produce only bright, sparkling whites!”
Annie Leonetti stared at Yann, surprised at her student’s knowledge of wine. She was suddenly happy to be with Thierry and Yann and to have the chance to talk about wine, or soccer, or whatever boys their age talked about. “Yes! I’ve always thought the same thing! Let’s open another bottle, shall we?” she asked, bending down and reaching under the white linen tablecloth to grab a bottle she had hidden there before the party began.
Chapter Three
A Really Stupid Idea
Yann stared at Thierry in disbelief, his hand on the cheap metal doorknob and the door open a few inches.
“I don’t…believe it,” Thierry said, hiccuping. “I knew that these buildings…were falling apart, but this is just…insane that we would be able to get in here so easily.”
“Shhh,” Yann said, holding up his hand. “Could you try to hiccup a little more quietly? Go on, I’m right behind you.”
The two students squeezed through the doorway, neither of them thinking to open the door any wider. The door was at the side of the arts faculty building on the rue Jules Dumas, down a narrow alleyway that was used for garbage bins. Yann had some experience in breaking and entering—his father’s apartment building in Paris had a back door that was just of this vintage, and the lock was easy to force open. It helped on those nights when Yann forgot his keys and didn’t want his father to catch him coming home at 3:00 a.m. And then there was that other incident, and the cold police cell, and the look of disappointment on his father’s face when he arrived the next morning. Yann pulled the door shut without making any noise and motioned at the stairway on their left, shining his miniature flashlight up the stairs. “His office is on the fourth floor. Let’s go.”
“This is a really stupid idea.”
“I already explained to you,” Yann said, pushing Thierry up the stairs. “Moutte is obviously off his rocker…he proved that to everyone this evening. He’s been teasing us all along, changing the deadline, throwing out hints here and there as to who has won. What if he decides to cancel the fellowship? Or change the winner.”
“We could get into so much trouble if we’re caught,” Thierry said, stopping again on the stairs.
“Who’s going to find out, eh? We’ll slip in and out, as quiet as church mice,” Yann whispered.
“What if Moutte is in his office?”
“I already told you, he’ll be at home, fast asleep! Old people need lots of sleep.”
“I think it’s the opposite,” Thierry said. “I think they need less sleep than we do.”
Yann sighed. “Whatever. He won’t be here this late; it’s almost 2:00 a.m. You’re all red, by the way.”
Thierry felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “You know that I break out into a sweat when I’m nervous. It’s a sign of how bad an idea this is!”
“Listen: If we find the documents showing who the winning candidate is, I can take a picture of it with my new cell phone, and we can show it to Dr. Leonetti. That way we’ll be prepared if he pulls another stunt like he did this evening.”
Thierry looked down the dark hallway and tried to imagine that it was daytime, the hall full of students, staff, and professors. But try as he may, the darkness and stillness of the place—after the loud bars they had just been in—seemed sinister.
Yann saw the concern on Thierry’s face and quietly said, “We’ll stay for ten minutes tops, okay? Besides, aren’t you curious?”
“Yes, all right. That fact that I’m drunk helps too.”
“Shhh. His door is the fourth one down on the left. Do you see it?” Yann shone his light down the row of doors, each one made in a light wood and paneled with carved rectangles popular in the 1930s. “Here it is.” Yann handed Thierry the flashlight and took his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling his bank card out.
“You should use your university ID card!”
“Shhh! Get serious. Watch this…it will open just like in the movies,” Yann said, positioning the card to the right of the door knob, in the gap between the door and the frame. “Shine the light in the crack for me. I need to see where the lock is.”
Thierry bent down and did what he was told, but he couldn’t see any black mass where the bolt should have been.
Yann looked over at his friend and shrugged. He put his hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it, the door opening. He hissed. “I told you! Moutte has lost it! He didn’t even lock up this afternoon.”
“Should we turn on a light?” Thierry asked.
“Why not? This office isn’t on the street side, so who’s gonna see? Let’s.”
The light illuminated the doyen’s office in all of its ridiculous splendor. Yann shook his head back and forth in disgust. “I hate this office!” He looked to his friend for an accord, but Thierry was staring at an immense nineteenth-century oil painting of Saint Francis of Assisi. Yann put his hands on his hips and continued, “Why didn’t he furnish this office in cool art deco stuff that would have suited the clean lines of the building? This is so tacky!” Yann had spent a large part of his childhood being dragged around antique auction houses and design showrooms with his mother—in the beginning because, as she was recently divorced, she felt guilty spending time away from him—but it quickly became apparent to Mme Falquerho that her youngest child not only loved but had an eye for great art and good design.
Thierry looked around at the office, and while he knew what Yann meant by “clean lines” and “art deco,” he quite liked the heavy red-velvet curtains covering the windows, the rows of dark wooden bookshelves lining the walls, even the striped gold-and-cream wallpaper. It was a place where one could, he imagined, work happily all day long. An oasis among the cheaply built, uninteresting buildings that made up the rest of the university campus.
“Where should we look?” he asked, turning away from Saint Francis, ashamed that he was committing a sin and breaking the law. He was cold and wanted to quickly find the papers and leave.
“Well, the best place would be in a filing cabinet, in a file labeled…um…let me see…the Dumas Fellowship? Umm…what do you think?”
“Okay, okay!” Thierry walked over to the bookshelves, where rows of cabinets had been built in below where the shelves started. He pulled open the doors of the first one, only to see shelves lined with more books. Yann came beside him and opened the next set of doors where paper and office supplies were stacked neatly. They moved along together to the third set and opened the door, Yann whistling. “Bingo,” he whispered, as if now that they had found some filing drawers they had been reminded of their purpose there and the fact that they were breaking the law. He pulled out the top
drawer and saw that the files were organized alphabetically. Quickly flipping through them, he found the Dumas file and stood up, holding the file and opening it for both of them to see. As Yann held the file, Thierry flipped through the pages.
“These are our submissions. There’s mine, and yours after it,” Thierry said. “Garrigue?”
“Don’t worry! She doesn’t have a chance! Have you ever heard her speak up in class?”
Thierry let his shoulders fall, relieved.
“No, you’re right. She’s really smart though. And pretty, don’t you think? You know, if you did one of those makeovers on her, changing her glasses and clothes.”
Yann looked at his friend, bewildered. “What are you reading these days? Elle magazine?” He picked up the next application himself, frustrated by Thierry’s ramblings. “Ah, Claude. No chance. His grades aren’t as good as ours, and he’s a recluse. Damn! There isn’t anything here about who won!”
“Well, that’s that. Let’s go,” Thierry said, grabbing the files and putting them back in the drawer. “I’m getting freaked out.” He turned around to see the saint from Umbria, surrounded by animals and birds, smiling at him.
“No! Let’s just look on his desk. He may have made a note of the winner, even on a piece of scrap paper.” Yann walked over to the desk while Thierry sighed, following his friend.
Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) Page 2
