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

by Longworth, M. l.

  Marine turned to grab Verlaque’s hand, but he was already walking toward the other side of the square. He stopped to look at a menu that a restaurant had posted next to their front door. “A restaurant on the main square? Aren’t you breaking Antoine’s rule number one?” she asked as she got to his side.

  Verlaque took her hand and led her away. “You’re right. Let’s get off the square.”

  Marine rubbed her stomach. “I’m going to sit down on that bench over there, beside the old lady, while you find us a restaurant. I know you’ll be fussy about music and plastic chairs, and I’m too hungry to care about those things right now.”

  “Give me five minutes,” Verlaque said.

  They left the restaurant at 3:30 p.m. “I’m so full I can hardly walk,” Marine complained halfheartedly, laughing. Indeed, they had ordered the five-dish tasting menu, which ended up being seven dishes, the restaurant’s owner thrilled by their enthusiasm and Marine’s beauty. Once sitting down at a table that was located beside the bar—lined with local wines and a collection of restaurant guidebooks—Marine had reasoned that it was financially wiser to order the tasting menu than à la carte, while Verlaque claimed that he wanted everything on that day’s menu anyway, so ordering the set menu made things easier.

  The palazzo was a fabulous medieval palace that had been restored with the help, by the looks of it, of a contemporary architect from Milan or Rome: large glass doors filled in the archways, and the lighting was sleek and discrete. Marine spoke to a bored-looking woman at the front desk and, announcing that she was with a French judge, asked to see the museum’s director.

  “She’s really angry that we didn’t phone first,” Marine said as she joined Verlaque on a leather bench.

  Verlaque looked around at the long hallway in front of them and the exhibition room at the end of it, both empty of people. “Yeah, this place is really busy. She might have to get up off her ass and do something.”

  Marine sighed, not wanting one of his anti–civil servant rampages. What she really wanted to do was to lie flat on the bench and close her eyes. She leaned her head against Verlaque’s shoulder and was just falling asleep when she heard voices and felt a nudge. A tall, thin man with gray hair that was a tad too long stood before them with his hand outstretched. “Good afternoon,” he said in perfect French. “I am Dottore Camorro. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Please come with me.” Verlaque glanced at Marine and wondered if she was thinking the same thing: that considering they had come to the Dottore unannounced, he was more than polite. He led them into his upstairs office, every bit as minimalist as the downstairs had been. He gestured to two black leather chairs. “Please, sit down.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Dottore,” Verlaque said. “I am the examining magistrate of Aix-en-Provence, and this is Dr. Marine Bonnet of the University of Aix. We are here, on very short notice I’m afraid, to investigate some potential leads we have concerning the murder of one of Dr. Bonnet’s colleagues, a Dr. Moutte.”

  The museum director frowned and nodded up and down. “You’ll have to go on, Judge. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of this man.”

  “We’re here, essentially, because Dr. Moutte collected art glass, and we know that he visited Foligno, possibly more than once.”

  “Ah, I see,” replied Camorro, rubbing his long hands together, which Marine noticed were trembling slightly.

  “We found in the deceased’s apartment, among some rare and expensive French blown glass, some obvious fakes that were perhaps made here. Do you know of such a place in or near Foligno?”

  Dottore Camorro shrugged. “No, not in Foligno. Surely Venice would be the place for glass studios, Judge.”

  “That’s what we thought, but we know that Dr. Moutte was here, in Foligno.”

  Camorro looked from Verlaque to Marine and again shrugged. “I’m sorry I cannot help you. And now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting in ten minutes that I must prepare for.” The director stood up and shook hands with Marine and Verlaque.

  “Thank you,” Marine said as she shook his hand. “This is a beautiful building,” she added. “Have you been the director here for very long?”

  “Ah, for ten years, Dr. Bonnet. I’m glad you like the renovations. They took four long years to complete.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  Verlaque held the door open for Marine as they left the museum and walked out onto the square, which was slowly getting dark. “I don’t understand,” Verlaque said. “You’d think that he would know of the glass studio. Maître Fabre’s information must have been wrong, poor old guy.”

  “Oh, there’s a glass studio here, all right,” Marine answered, stopping in the middle of the square. “And I also think that if we were to slowly turn around we would see Dottore Camorro watching us from the plate glass windows of his sleek office. Who has better eyesight?”

  “You do. I’ll sweep you in my arms and kiss you, and you look over my shoulder at his office.” Verlaque took Marine in his arms and kissed the side of her head. She whispered into his ear. “Bingo. He was there, clear as day. He’s gone now.”

  Verlaque took her arm and they walked away. “How did you know all this?” he asked.

  “That old woman on the bench.”

  “What?”

  “I asked her if there was a glass studio in Foligno, and said that I was tired of majolica pottery and that I wanted to buy glass. She said that there’s a glass studio outside of town on the way to Bevagna, and that her great-nephew even worked there for a short time, but he left because it was sporco.”

  Verlaque looked at her with his eyebrows raised.

  “Dirty,” Marine answered. “In the sense of dishonest, judging from her expression.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before we met Camorro?”

  “Because I didn’t want it to influence your questions.”

  Verlaque put his arm around her shoulder. “Well done, Dr. Bonnet! Is that why you asked him how long he’s been the museum’s director?”

  “Yes. Ten years is a long time and this is a small town. Surely he’d know of a glass factory just outside of town. Let’s get to the car and drive by the place.”

  Verlaque stopped. “They’ll see our French license plates. He’s probably called them to warn them that we’ll be driving around Foligno snooping. What a great guy to have on your side, right? A museum director would be able to instruct them on how to design perfect-looking antique glass.”

  It was Marine’s turn to pull Verlaque toward her as another cyclist, an old man with his front basket full of cabbages, whizzed past them. “I’ve never seen so many cyclists in an Italian town,” she said. “It must be because it’s so flat.” She then ruffled Verlaque’s hair and added, “And I know just how we’re going to get around. Come on!”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Hot Chocolate

  Bruno Paulik walked up the cours Mirabeau to meet his wife and daughter for a coffee. It was already getting dark, and it was still a half-hour drive before they would be home in Pertuis. Each winter they questioned their decision to have enrolled Léa in a school in Aix. But in Pertuis there wasn’t a music conservatory that had a public school next door, where gifted students could float between their academic subjects and music classes, all paid for by the state. It was rare that the three of them could meet in Aix—even though it was a holiday, Hélène had attended a local winemakers’ meeting downtown and Léa had had a voice lesson—and he quickened his step, happy to be with his girls. Tomorrow was Saturday and they had no commute and could sleep in.

  The double rows of plane trees that lined the cours had lost their leaves, leaving white knobby-kneed skeletons, and the streetlights had come on, illuminating the golden-stoned mansions. As Paulik crossed the rue 4 du Septembre, he looked down toward Georges Moutte’s apartment and thought about the break and enter. Of his suspects, he thought Rocchia and Leonetti unable to swing themselves into the apartment from the roof; but each one of
the students could have, including Garrigue…and what did they know of her, anyway? Who were her parents? And the other students, for that matter? And Bernard Rodier, who was in good shape…he had told them during questioning that he played squash regularly. Paulik resolved to check into their backgrounds more thoroughly tomorrow.

  “Papa!” Léa squealed when she saw Paulik come across Le Mazarin’s heated terrace. “I’m having an enormous hot chocolate!”

  He kissed his daughter and wife and ordered a coffee.

  “Mama’s in a bad mood!” Léa added, blowing on her hot chocolate.

  Paulik looked toward his wife. “It’s true,” Hélène answered, sighing. “The meeting was a total waste of time, everyone arguing and talking in circles, and now this!” she said, motioning with her hand at a double-parked souped-up VW Golf.

  Léa rolled her eyes and began spooning off the whipped cream and putting it into her mouth. “What’s so unusual about that?” Paulik asked, looking toward the car. “Those guys always double-park in front of the cafés. They see it as their right.”

  “It’s so rude! Do they think that they’re the only people on the planet? They sit here and sip their Coca-Colas and survey their hot cars. I took twenty minutes trying to find a parking spot!”

  “You really hate Coca-Cola, don’t you?” Paulik said, teasing his wife.

  Hélène Paulik laughed out loud. “You know it!”

  “You once gave it to me when I had an upset tummy,” Léa said.

  “Yes, once, dear!” Hélène answered, hugging Léa.

  “But I don’t feel so well,” Léa said, staring at her unfinished hot chocolate.

  “I think you started drinking that too quickly,” Hélène said. She turned to ask Bruno about his day but he was walking toward the VW. She watched him as he leaned down and looked in the window of the car. A young man wearing a gold jogging suit with a Louis Vuitton shoulder bag jumped up from a table at the edge of the terrace and ran to the car. Hélène watched, amazed, as her husband flashed the young man his police badge. The owner of the poorly parked car ran back to his table, threw down some coins, and went back to his car and drove away.

  Léa clapped for her father when he got back to the table. “I can’t believe you did that!” Hélène whispered. “Just like you did in the passport office.”

  “I was just thinking of that yesterday. But your indignation over that double-parked car gave me an idea about the case we’re working on.” Paulik put a ten-euro bill on the table and hugged Léa. “I’ll be home late; eat dinner without me.” Before they could protest, he was gone, up the rue Clémenceau toward the Palais de Justice. He stopped in front of a lingerie store and, looking at the lacy pink matching bras and underwear, dialed Verlaque’s cell phone number.

  “Oui?” answered Verlaque, sounding out of breath.

  “Sorry to bother you in Italy, sir, but I just had a revelation on the cours,” said Paulik. He continued quickly, worried that he might be interrupting something between Marine and Verlaque. “You know how those punks always double-park on the cours at night, in front of the cafés?”

  “Yes, it irritates me to no end,” Verlaque said, puffing.

  “Think about it for a second,” Paulik said. “Where do they leave their keys when they do that?”

  Verlaque replied immediately. “In the ignition.”

  “Right.”

  “So the punk who stole the BMW in Marseille could have driven it up to Aix and parked it in front of a café, leaving the keys in the ignition while he had a celebratory drink,” Verlaque said, thinking out loud.

  “Exactly. That’s what they’d do, isn’t it? Drive up to Aix to show off the car. And Mlle Zacharie’s killer could have been in the right place at the right time, seen the car parked there with the keys in it, and driven off.”

  Verlaque huffed into the phone. “And even if the thief saw the guy…or woman…drive away, there was nothing he could do about it.”

  “Right. It was a stolen car. I’m on my way back to the Palais de Justice to try and calm down Roussel a bit. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Verlaque coughed and told Paulik what he and Marine were doing.

  “You’re doing what?” Paulik exclaimed into the phone.

  Verlaque repeated what he had said, annoyed. “That’s why I’m out of breath,” he explained.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, sir,” Paulik said, smiling.

  Paulik hung up and walked up into the small place Saint-Honoré, deserted at this time of night, the only noise the bubbling fountain. He zigzagged his way through a few more narrow streets until he came to the Palais de Justice and hurried in, hoping to catch Roussel before he went home, Paulik imagined, to watch television with his wife and their yappy little dog. November eleventh was an important date in French history, and he remembered that Roussel had planned to spend the day with the mayor visiting World War I monuments. With luck he would be in his office.

  “Yves!” he said as he caught sight of the prosecutor making his way up the stairs.

  Roussel turned around. “I’m on my way out, but I forgot something in my office. Have you heard from Judge Verlaque?”

  “No,” Paulik lied. “But do you have a second to talk about the Moutte case?”

  “In my office then,” Roussel answered, ushering Paulik into his office and closing the door. “What is it? I told you Rocchia would have an alibi.”

  “You were right,” Paulik answered. He then went on to explain what he had just seen on the cours.

  “Interesting theory, Bruno. I can see it happening like that. So who doesn’t have an alibi for Monday night?” Roussel walked over to a whiteboard and began writing down names with a red Magic Marker. “Bernard Rodier, Claude Ossart, Garrigue Druon…and this is assuming that the two murders are related.”

  “Let’s stick with that assumption. Annie Leonetti was at home with her husband; Thierry and Yann were together; and Rocchia was in San Remo,” Paulik said. “Mlle Zacharie’s boyfriend says he was at home, asleep in front of the television.”

  “Crimes of passion,” Roussel added.

  Paulik grabbed his coat and made for the door. “Have a good night, Yves. See you tomorrow.” He walked quickly down the hallway and then down the stairs and out into the night. He mused to himself that the closest bar to the Palais de Justice was in fact the rough-and-tumble Bar Zola, and he was there in under two minutes. He pushed his way into the smoky bar—the patrons had long since forgotten the Somme and Ypres—and looked around for an empty table. There weren’t any, so he squeezed himself into a spot at the bar next to a kid who looked like an art student—spiked hair and a nose ring, uncertain gender—and was relieved to see the same barman with the poet Rimbaud’s verse tattooed on his forearm. The barman nodded when he saw Paulik, and Paulik ordered a pint of Guinness.

  “This isn’t my preferred genre of music,” Paulik said as he waited for his beer to be poured, “but I like it. Good old seventies rock.”

  The barman looked at Paulik and asked, “So what is your preferred genre of music?”

  Paulik took his beer, said “Cheers” in English, and had a sip. “Opera.”

  “Good town for it then,” the barman answered. He looked again at Paulik and then leaned in closer, resting his forearms on the wooden bar. “That’s where I’ve seen you before.”

  “You had that feeling too?” Paulik asked. “At the opera festival?”

  “Non, le conservatoire.”

  “Ah! That’s it!” Paulik replied, shaking his pointer finger at the barman. “You’re one of the other parents, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sure as hell not a student,” the barman said, smiling. “My kid plays the piano.”

  “He’s not Matthieu, is he?” Léa Paulik talked nonstop of a thirteen-year-old pianist who had not only raced through his music exams but was also an ace skateboarder.

  “That’s him.” The barman reached out his hand. “I’m Patrick. Matthieu is the star of the f
amily. My other two kids are total delinquents.”

  “Bruno, Léa Paulik’s father. She sings.” They shook hands and the barman asked, frowning, “You’re here alone tonight?”

  “He’s okay once you get to know him,” Paulik answered, defending Verlaque.

  “If you say so.”

  “So, did you tell us everything that night?” Paulik asked.

  “No. I don’t really like cops. No offense. But I was also in shock at the news of Audrey’s death, and that you were treating it as a homicide. I was actually going to call you tomorrow; my wife insisted. Should we go downstairs? It’s too cold to stand outside.”

  Paulik took his Guinness with him as they walked to the end of the bar and Patrick opened a small door that led to a flight of stone stairs. “Don’t worry,” the barman said, smiling. “Nothing down here but cases of booze and perhaps a few odd ghosts.” The cellar was damp, with a slight coating of water covering the floor.

  “Is it true that all the cellars in Aix used to be connected?” Paulik asked.

  “We’ve never found an opening, but it could have been blocked up decades ago.” Patrick took out a cigarette and offered one to Paulik, who refused. “What I didn’t tell you is that Audrey came in here a few times before she died with some kid I didn’t know,” Patrick said.

  “Kid?” Paulik asked, trying to hide his concern. Perhaps they had all been snowed by Yann and Thierry.

  “Yeah, early twenties, a real nerd. The weird thing was, she seemed freaked out by him—I mean, kind of scared.”

  Paulik nodded. “Can you describe him to me? Did she introduce you?”

  “No, she didn’t introduce us, she hid with him in a corner, which rang warning bells too. She always talked to me when she came in, but not when she was with him. Can I describe him, you ask? That’s a good question, because I kind of figured you’d be back here, with the posh judge, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of what this kid looked like, but all I can remember is, nerd.”