Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries)

by Longworth, M. l.

  She opened her mouth to protest and he added, “Now. And for tomorrow’s meeting, I’d like you to make a list of the faculty, staff, and graduate students’ contact information—photographs of them would be a big help—and get class schedules.”

  Mlle Zacharie banged a book on her desk, causing the young policeman in the hallway to grin from ear to ear. What a snob! she thought to herself. It was obvious to her that the judge saw her as a lowly secretary, not someone who had done graduate work in art history. She sighed as she remembered that today was Saturday and she had to make her weekly visit to her parents and watch them fawn over her older sister Lisa’s perfect baby, and worry aloud whether Lisa and her husband, both doctors, were getting enough sleep. Her parents never asked her about Michel, her boyfriend, nor did they ask her if she was getting enough sleep, or had enough to eat (no on both counts). At least today she would have something dramatic to tell them. The baby getting a new tooth was nothing compared to a murder.

  Her parents regretted that she had not continued her studies, that she knew, but to pass up full-time work in Aix would have been foolhardy. Besides, she needed the money; Michel didn’t make much as a waiter, and working at the university at least meant that she was among her peers. Michel was certainly not an intellectual, but they seemed to be destined for one another. It had been advantageous working for the doyen, and she had not been looking forward to his replacement, whomever that would be. Mlle Zacharie sat down and ran her hands over the top of the glass paperweight the doyen had given her for her birthday, and she realized that she would miss that silly old man.

  Verlaque walked out into the early evening and it began to drizzle. Mlle Zacharie could be a beautiful girl, he thought, but her sour personality ruined any softness around the edges she might have. Was she unloved, or incapable of loving? The dancerlike policewoman on the stairs? Loving. He forced himself to think of that morning in the hotel room, but he could no longer hear Marine’s voice, and he had a gut feeling that he had said something wrong. The bells of Saint-Jean-de-Malte began to ring in the distance, and he walked on, pulling the collar of his coat up around his neck.

  Chapter Seven

  An Uncomfortable Moment for Sylvie

  “This room is bigger than my apartment!”

  “Hardly!” Marine answered.

  “I’m exaggerating, of course, but the bed is huge. There’ll be lots of room for us three tonight!” Sylvie Grassi said, fluffing her pillow and lying on it with her hands behind her head.

  “With me in the middle!” cried her nine-year-old daughter, Charlotte. “I’m so lucky!” Charlotte had been raised by Sylvie alone, and for the first two years of her life had slept with Sylvie in her double bed. Marine’s parents had been aghast; when Marine had tried to explain Sylvie’s reasoning, she had remembered that the subject of babies and sleep was taboo in her family, and so had to quietly listen to both parents complain of spoiled children.

  Charlotte hugged her mother and godmother, hopped off the bed, and went into the marble bathroom to explore, and Sylvie gave Marine an earful.

  “He is so undependable. You always come last. Last. He’d better take you on a replacement weekend.”

  “Sylvie, I’m not a prima donna,” Marine replied, turning on her elbow to look at her friend. “I don’t need to be pampered. He has an important job, one of the most important jobs in the region. I understand that he has things hanging over his head all the time. Professors do too…always grading to be done, class prep, papers to publish. We choose our careers and then have to make the best of it.” Marine wanted Sylvie to lay off Antoine, so she delivered the news. “Besides, today’s call came from his commissioner. There was a murder late last night in Aix.”

  Sylvie sat up and glanced toward the bathroom, where she could hear her daughter humming. “Murder? Who? Where?” she whispered.

  “This is the thing. It was at the university.”

  “What?”

  Marine nodded. Luckily she didn’t have any details, as her friend’s love of the macabre and sensational had always irked her. She was sure that it came from the fact that Sylvie got all of her news from the television instead of a newspaper.

  “Marine! Details!”

  “I don’t know any more than that,” Marine answered.

  “Come off it, Marine! You teach at the university! Where was it?” Sylvie taught art history and photography at the École des Beaux-Arts, which was on the other side of town.

  “Okay, okay. Antoine did say that it wasn’t at the law school, fortunately, but at the theology school, in the Jules Dumas building.”

  Sylvie jumped off the bed and rushed to the dresser, where she fumbled in her purse for her cigarettes, only to remember that they were in a no-smoking room, and that Charlotte was there too. Sylvie had strict rules about not smoking in front of her daughter.

  “Sylvie?” Marine asked. “What’s up? Do you know anyone at the theology school?”

  Sylvie shook her head back and forth. “No, no. No one,” she mumbled. “Hey! What about your mom?”

  “She’s fine. I called her right after I spoke with Antoine. She doesn’t know any more than we do at this point.” Marine thought it odd that Sylvie had a sudden concern for Mme Bonnet. The two disliked each other, Marine’s mother seeing Sylvie as promiscuous and selfish. Sylvie regarded Mme, or Dr., Bonnet as a cold and unjoyous mother, busying herself with causes so that she could ignore—Sylvie guessed—unresolved, painful issues.

  “So you see why Antoine had to leave this afternoon,” Marine said. “Besides, he loves his job.”

  “Has he ever said that he loves you?” Sylvie asked, still playing with her cigarettes and considering the possibility of stepping outside for a quick smoke. If there was ever a time she needed nicotine, this was it…

  “Nineteen out of twenty!” Charlotte hollered as she ran into the room and jumped back up onto the bed. The women laughed at her generous rating of the bathroom and were in hysterics when they saw that her sweater’s pockets were stuffed full of miniature shampoos and hand lotions. Charlotte turned to her godmother and, taking Marine’s slender face in her chubby hands, asked, “Marine, do you think they’ll have pasta in the restaurant tonight?”

  Marine stroked Charlotte’s head. She tried to force a smile, happy as she was that Sylvie had insisted on driving up to Crillon-le-Brave as soon as she had heard about Verlaque’s canceling, but she couldn’t get Antoine’s voice out of her head. It was true, and she didn’t tell Sylvie this, that he had spoken to her quickly and curtly, as if he was desperate to get off the phone.

  “I’m betting that they’ll have some kind of pasta,” she answered. “But if they don’t, this is such a good restaurant that the chef will prepare for you your very own pasta.” Charlotte sighed and let her head fall back on the pillow, her eyes staring up at the ceiling.

  Sylvie wandered over to the minibar and took out a half bottle of white wine. She pulled a small corkscrew out of her purse (it was permanently attached to her key chain) and opened the bottle, motioning to Marine that she would pour her some too. “I’ll pay for it, don’t worry!” Sylvie said. She found an apple juice for Charlotte, who was on the floor now, separating her toiletry finds into categories of “Beautiful,” “Pretty,” and “Ugly.” Sylvie took a long drink of wine and looked at herself in the mirror, hoping that neither her daughter nor her best friend could read her mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Comfort Food

  In the restaurant of a nondescript 1960s hotel near downtown Perugia Giuseppe Rocchia leaned over his bowl of linguine with wild boar sauce and took a long sniff before he sprinkled it with Parmesan. He came here for dinner once or twice a week, comforted by the mellow wood decor and by the fact that there was parking behind the restaurant big enough for his Mercedes. He had taken more time than usual reading the surprisingly extensive wine list, finally choosing a Cabernet from the Alto Adige mountains, the vintner’s name sounding more Austrian than Italian.
The wine would also go well with the wood-fired carp—freshly caught from nearby Lago Trasimeno, he had been assured—that he had ordered as a secondo. An impatient man, he decided to phone Bernard Rodier, having finished the linguine, and while he waited for his carp to arrive. He liked having something to do while dining alone, and by being occupied on the phone, he would ensure that fans and well-wishers would leave him alone.

  Rodier answered the phone on its first ring, his normally deep, actorlike voice cracking with excitement. “Giuseppe?”

  “Yes, Bernard,” Rocchia replied, annoyed that Bernard asked that every time he saw the Italian phone number.

  “Have you heard? Georges has been murdered! Late last night or early this morning.”

  Giuseppe Rocchia set his linen napkin down and leaned forward. “Speak slowly and clearly, Bernard. You do get so excited. I thought I heard you say that Georges Moutte has been murdered.”

  “That’s exactly what I said! Murdered in his office! That’s all I know for now, I don’t even know how he was killed!”

  “In his office? But where is the…”

  “Don’t worry! I have it,” Bernard answered.

  Rocchia breathed a sigh of relief. “You are to say nothing, Bernard. Understand?”

  “Of course; of course. But there’s a murderer about! What if he…or she…is looking for the…”

  “Shhh! Bernard, where are you? Can anyone hear you?”

  “No, I’m at home.”

  “We’ll leave this to the police, non? Poor Georges was probably just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was most likely thieves looking for money and Georges tried to put up a fight.”

  “But we’re murder suspects!” Rodier said.

  Giuseppe Rocchia chuckled. “Correction. You’re a murder suspect. I’m in Perugia.”

  Rocchia’s carp arrived and he tried to put the whining Bernard Rodier out of his head. With Moutte dead, Rocchia would soon have possession of that lovely apartment on the place des Quatre Dauphins, so convenient for the Aix opera festival. He already had in mind whom he would invite, if she could sneak away from her husband long enough. He took a first bite of fish and leaned back, happy.

  • • •

  Bernard Rodier still couldn’t get used to eating alone, especially in the evening. He switched on the television only to see a multipaneled game show featuring actresses and actors he didn’t know. He turned off the television, not even bothering to try the other stations. He walked over to his tiny kitchen radio—his ex-wife had let him take it out of their house—and turned on France Musique. Some classical music would be soothing.

  It had been a grueling day, finding out that Moutte was dead, and being told, by that prosecutor with the high-pitched voice, to appear at the university early the next morning, as if he were a suspect. And why didn’t the police call Giuseppe? He then realized that Giuseppe did not easily give out his cell phone number; the Aix police probably only had his home number, and Bernard was quite sure that Dr. Rocchia spent little time at home. Rodier decided that it was best to distance himself from this whole affair. He would aid the police, just as Rocchia had advised, but only that, no extra information. And he would keep his appointment at the Bibliothèque nationale for later in the week.

  He opened his freezer, knowing that he had little in the way of fresh food in his refrigerator. After being married for twenty-six years, he hardly knew how to do the grocery shopping and was still very much unorganized. He always seemed to think of buying food after the shops had closed, and so a week ago had driven his car to Picard and bought over one hundred euros’ worth of that chain’s specialty—frozen gourmet food. The choice was rather extraordinary, and he had been careful to buy a good selection of fish, meat, and vegetable dishes. Meat would be too heavy this evening, it was already late. He didn’t have any white wine to go with fish, and besides, he felt like something a little more substantial. He turned over one of the many single-serving-size boxes and saw that it was pasta carbonara: an excellent choice for this evening, and he had a half bottle of cheap Bordeaux sitting on the cupboard. Bernard Rodier had no taste for wine and bought Bordeaux because of the name and because he had read that a glass of red wine a day was good for your health. Or was it two glasses?

  The microwave rang its now familiar ding and he pulled the plastic container out, slipping the contents into a pasta bowl. The radio was playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations, and he sat down, feeling a little more comforted. He had nothing to worry about, and with Moutte dead, the post of doyen was once again up for grabs—the logical choice being that hardworking professor who had published multiple volumes on the Cistercian religious order. He smiled as he pictured himself in Moutte’s office, calling Picard and ordering his weekly groceries over the phone to have them delivered to that prestigious address on the place des Quatre Dauphins.

  Chapter Nine

  Naming Names

  “I’m starving.”

  “Tell me something new.”

  Yann looked at Thierry in surprise. “Aren’t you hungry? It’s nearly 9:00 p.m.”

  “I feel sick to my stomach!”

  Yann opened their tiny refrigerator and bent down to look inside.

  “You feel sick because you haven’t eaten.”

  “No, dude,” Thierry answered, sighing. “I feel sick because we’re murder suspects.”

  Yann laughed, turning over a jar of raspberry jam in his hand, frowning when he saw the thick layer of green fuzz on the jam. “That little hyper guy is nuts. But the big rugby player, the commissioner, doesn’t suspect us one bit. You can tell by his face. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “How can you stay so calm?” Thierry asked, looking over at his friend, who was now back on the sofa, the biography of a rock star in his hands.

  Yann answered, “All we did was break in…that’s nothing, compared to murder. Our little mishap will be forgotten about, you’ll see.”

  “So who do you think did it?”

  Yann put down his book and got up, walking around their small living room. “Interesting question. I would dismiss theft, since there’s nothing to steal in that ugly office. Unless…”

  “What? The painting of Saint Francis? They were after that, then ran out without it?”

  Yann laughed. “No, you jughead. The Gallé vase I saw. No, scrap that theory since the vase was still there, and I don’t think you’d murder for a piece of art and then not take it with you. Especially, my friend, some schlock late-nineteenth-century religious painting.” Yann walked to the bookshelf, picked up a book and opened it at random, and pretended to smoke a pipe.

  Thierry laughed. “Okay. So name me the suspects.”

  Yann put his forefinger in the air. “Bernard Rodier, my dear Watson; and then our own beloved big-bosomed Annie Leonetti.”

  Thierry looked at his friend, shocked.

  “Look at what they had to gain,” Yann said. “An apartment to die for on the best square in overpriced Aix-en-Provence and a lifetime, secure job. One that probably pays really well too, given the Dumas endowment.”

  “Yeah, I see your point. It’s the equivalent of the Dumas Fellowship for us,” Thierry suggested.

  “Well,” Yann replied. “Not quite. And then there’s Giuseppe Rocchia…”

  “Hardly,” Thierry said. “He lives in Perugia.”

  “Look at a map. Perugia is a day’s drive from here. We found Moutte at 2:00 a.m. That means that Rocchia could have murdered the doyen sometime after the party and then driven all night back to Perugia. I can see him now, sitting in his favorite café on his favorite square, at 9:00 a.m. sharp, just as if it was any other day.”

  Thierry shrugged and scratched his head. “Hey, what about Audrey Zacharie?” he asked. He wanted to make his own contribution to the list of suspects.

  “What could she have to gain?” Yann asked.

  “Um. Maybe it was a lover’s quarrel? You saw her getting cosy with him at the party.”

  “Th
at’s disgusting. She’s a third his age.”

  “Oh, you’re an expert, I see.” Thierry leaned back on his desk chair and rubbed his stomach. He was in fact very hungry, but nervous too. “Listen, Yann. I really think you should tell the judge that you weren’t in the pub with me the whole time.”

  Yann stared at his friend and then let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks, Thierry!”

  “I just think we should be honest!”

  “I am being honest. I felt light-headed from all the wine and beer and wandered outside. I walked down the rue d’Italie and threw up into a potted tree, then fell asleep on a bench in front of Saint-Jean-de-Malte. I was gone, what, forty minutes?”

  Thierry picked at threads on the old blanket that covered his desk chair. “And you left me all that time alone with those American girls.”

  “You’re too shy with girls. I did you a favor. And when I came back, I was in fine form, right?”

  Thierry nodded, rubbing his stomach. “I think there’s some dried pasta in the cupboard.”

  Yann stood up and looked at his friend. “Please tell me it’s De Cecco.”

  “It’s De Cecco.”

  Yann clapped his hands and opened the door, grabbing the familiar blue bag of his favorite pasta. “You do listen to me!”

  “It really is superior,” Thierry replied, running his hand through his hair in mock pretension.

  “Sauce? Do we have sauce?”

  “There you’re in luck too. No sauce, but there’s a bottle of my uncle’s olive oil. It’s under my bed. I’ve been saving it.”

  Yann ran to Thierry’s bedroom and fell down on his knees and rummaged under the unmade bed. “Your uncle with the olive orchard in Allauch?” he called.

  “Yes! Full of the flavor of Marcel Pagnol’s stories, or so my uncle always claims.”

  After finding slippers and one tennis shoe, Yann found the olive oil and hugged the bottle.