Murder in the Rue Dumas : A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (9781101603185)

by Longworth, M. l.

  “I see the problem,” Marine said. “And the other problem?”

  Mme Bonnet sipped some coffee and again leaned over the table, whispering. Marine listened to her mother’s story.

  “This does sound odd. I’ll look over the accounts if you want a second opinion,” she said.

  “I have the paperwork here,” Mme Bonnet said, handing Marine a yellow folder that looked like it had been reused about a dozen times.

  Marine looked at her mother, who had jumped up and was now busy washing the coffee cups. The Bonnets had never bought a dishwasher, something that amazed Marine but shocked Mme Bonnet’s five sisters. And could it be that her mother was as afraid of Antoine as he was of her? Marine smiled at the thought of it and got up to leave. She grabbed the folder on the kitchen table labeled “Dumas” and said, “I have a busy week ahead, Maman, but maybe I could see you and Papa next weekend?”

  Mme Bonnet continued to face the sink but called out over her shoulder, “Oh, yes, we’ll see what we can arrange. Your father will be back from his medical conference by then.”

  Marine nodded, not surprised that she needed an appointment to visit her parents. She walked to the front hall and put on her jacket. She saw her father’s old green quilted coat that he wore when the Bonnets took long walks in the country, and she missed him, as she was sure he missed her. Did her mother ever miss her? She doubted it; even in retirement Florence Bonnet busied herself with committees and theology and church projects, as she always had done.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Broken Promises

  Paulik and Verlaque were discussing the possibility of the murderer being someone not at all involved with the university when Annie Leonetti came in for her interview, her arms piled high with thick hardcover books.

  “How are you two doing? Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  Verlaque looked up, surprised. “We’ve been looked after, thank you,” he said curtly.

  She set her books down, the top one sliding off of the pile and toward Paulik. He put out his thick hand and stopped the rest of the texts from following suit, and Annie Leonetti gave him her famous wide smile. Verlaque noted that she had recently touched up her deep red lipstick.

  “Hot on the trail of Sainte Dévote,” she said, still smiling. “Thought I could get some work done while waiting for the interview.”

  Paulik held out a chair for Dr. Leonetti and she sat down. Annie Leonetti was very self-assured, Paulik thought, especially given the circumstances.

  “So you left the party after helping in the kitchen,” he said. “Do you know what time exactly you left?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I looked at the kitchen clock. It was ten minutes after midnight.”

  “How long did it take you to get home?”

  “About ten minutes on foot,” she answered. “We live in a cheap apartment on the boulevard Winston Churchill, near the university. Very close to the humanities building, actually.”

  “And your husband was still up when you got home?” Verlaque asked. He silently noted the word Leonetti had used to describe her apartment—“cheap.”

  “Yes. We stayed up for a bit and talked…I told him about Bernard’s temper tantrum, and how charming I thought the boys, Yann and Thierry, were, and how Garrigue, my own assistant, said absolutely nothing the whole evening, comme d’habitude.”

  “Are you close to Garrigue?” Verlaque asked.

  She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “I think so, yes. It’s not like she confides in me or anything like that…she’s far too proud. But I respect her intellect, and modesty, tremendously. Garrigue’s going to be a bright star someday, which makes her shyness all the more frustrating.”

  “Thank you,” Verlaque said. “That will be all.”

  Annie Leonetti looked at the judge in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes, an officer will speak to your husband to confirm your alibi.”

  She quickly got up and gathered her books. She appeared to be annoyed. Verlaque wondered if she perhaps thought that she deserved more attention than three minutes? Or perhaps she had wanted to give her opinion of what happened to Dr. Moutte. She put her hand on the doorknob and said, “Her head was bashed in.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Verlaque asked.

  “Sainte Dévote. Her head was crushed by stones, in 304 AD, by Romans. Somewhat like Georges’s.” She opened the door and left.

  “I was waiting for her to point a finger at someone,” Paulik said after Leonetti had gone. “Romans equals Giuseppe Rocchia, non?”

  “Perhaps,” Verlaque answered. “But perhaps it wasn’t meant to be a reference to Dr. Rocchia.”

  The door opened and a young man with a short, thick build quickly and quietly sat down. Paulik and Verlaque’s eyes turned to the young man, who had already begun perspiring.

  “And you’re…” Paulik said. Officer Cazal seemed to have disappeared.

  “Thierry. I mean Thierry Marchive, sir.”

  Verlaque looked at Marchive with curiosity. He wore a green woolen sweater over a T-shirt, and clean, pressed jeans. He wasn’t fat, but had the rounded cheeks and stomach of a gourmand. His thick black hair and blemish-free olive skin reflected his Provençal origins…Italian, thought Verlaque, or pure Massalia, the city established by the Greeks in 600 BC on a Phoenician settlement. Verlaque imagined a mother and grandmother somewhere, doting on Marchive.

  “So, Thierry,” he said gently. “Could you take us through Friday night’s events?”

  Marchive coughed and began. “Well, we got to Dr. Moutte’s party just after 8:00 p.m. I remember that it was after eight because Yann was worried about being late, and it ended up not mattering at all as lots of guests arrived after us.”

  Paulik stared at the young man and stifled a yawn. The university’s coffee was terrible. “Anything unusual happen at the party?”

  “Well, just that argument between the doyen and Dr. Rodier. I couldn’t hear what they argued about. We were all surprised by the doyen’s announcement.”

  “Really?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yeah, because, well, he was old, and seemed tired. Tired even that night. So you’d think that he would have wanted to retire. Plus he told me so.” Paulik and Verlaque leaned forward and looked at Marchive.

  “When? What did he say to you, Thierry?”

  “Well, it was the day before. I was in his office…did you see his office? Nice, eh?”

  Verlaque said, “Yes, we saw it. Please continue.”

  “Well, I was in there getting him to sign some paperwork for my housing loan, and he just started talking to me, sighing, and asking me questions about what I wanted out of life. And I told him that after I finished my doctorate I hoped to teach theology and maybe someday be head of the department, just like him. I wasn’t making it up to schmooze…I really do hope to become an academic. A small department somewhere, maybe not even in France. And he said that sounded like a fine idea and that he was really looking forward to retiring himself, and maybe traveling a bit. I felt sorry for him. I mean, he seemed like a real person, not just the doyen.” Thierry now realized that he hadn’t told Yann about this meeting with Dr. Moutte. Perhaps this was why, when they found the doyen on the floor of his office, Thierry had been more shaken than Yann. Or maybe he was just more sensitive? He then chastised himself for thinking ill of his best friend. Yann was a good scholar and deserved the Dumas just as much as anyone else. But would the fellowship, or a graduate degree in theology, be of any use in banking?

  “And what time would this have been?” Paulik asked.

  “Um, well, let’s see,” Marchive answered, scratching his thick hair. “After lunch, because I went to the snack shop across the street with Yann for a croque-monsieur and was worried I’d be late or that Dr. Moutte would still be out at lunch when I got back…so I’d say between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m. Does that help?”

  Verlaque nodded. They spoke for a few more minutes on the details of the break-in, which matched almo
st word for word Yann Falquerho’s report, except that Marchive began each sentence with “well.” Marchive didn’t remember the American girls’ names, but did remember their faces.

  Marchive rose to leave and Verlaque said, “I hope you get that wish, Thierry, to become an academic.”

  Marchive managed a slight nervous smile. “Thank you, Judge. If I can stay out of trouble.”

  “Yes, just stop breaking into buildings. All right?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  When Marchive had closed the door behind him Paulik turned to the judge and said, “You’re compassionate today, sir.” Paulik thought that Verlaque had been even too kind; they were interviewing suspects over a murder, not job candidates. But he found it hard to believe that Thierry or Yann could hurt anyone, and in his career as commissioner he had never been wrong. But there was always a first time, and this was a crime of passion.

  Verlaque managed a smile but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I hate to see lost youth. It would be such a shame…”

  “Yes, it would…”

  Verlaque broke in. “He seems so innocent, doesn’t he? He hasn’t been tainted yet.”

  Paulik didn’t know what to say and was relieved of his response by Officer Cazal, who opened the door and announced the next visitor.

  “Claude Ossart, sirs.”

  Where Marchive, Falquerho, and Garrigue Druon still looked young, Claude Ossart looked tired, aged. He had a receding hairline; his eyes were a pale gray framed by dark circles. Verlaque thought that could come from worries or from spending too much time in the library. Ossart was of medium height but thin. He wore an oversize polyester sweater and baggy jeans, so it was impossible to tell if his time spent at the gym gave any results. Ossart sat down, neither smiling nor frowning. His was, as Verlaque stared at it, a face that gave nothing away.

  Verlaque asked, “You weren’t at this party at Dr. Moutte’s. Why not? You were invited, non?”

  “I was invited, yes, but why go to an event where you know no one will speak to you,” Ossart answered with a half question.

  “Is that your usual experience at the university?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes.”

  Paulik looked at Verlaque and then at Ossart. “Surely you speak to Professor Rodier, your adviser?”

  “Our conversations are limited to our mutual studies—Saint Bernard and the Cistercians.”

  “When did you find out about Dr. Rodier’s argument with the doyen?”

  Claude Ossart paused for the briefest of seconds before replying. “The next day, Dr. Rodier phoned me. He told me about their argument and the doyen’s decision to postpone his retirement.”

  “Even though your conversations are usually limited to Saint Bernard,” Paulik said.

  Ossart smiled despite the severity of the commissioner’s tone. “I guess not all the time. Dr. Rodier is recently divorced, and I think he just wanted someone to talk to. I think he felt guilty too.”

  “Guilty?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes. Guilty for secretly hoping that with Dr. Moutte dead, he might get the post of doyen.”

  Verlaque noted the very mature way in which Claude Ossart spoke, so different from the shy mumbling of Garrigue and the nervous chatter of Thierry and Yann. “Are you hopeful as well?” he asked.

  “Of course. I’ve worked hard to get where I am in my studies. I’ve recently coauthored a paper with Dr. Rodier. Dr. Rodier is by far the most qualified scholar to be the next doyen, and he deserves that post.”

  “It would help your career too,” Paulik said.

  “I can assure you that I had only Dr. Rodier in mind,” Ossart replied with a seriousness that both men noted. “But you’re right, it would help my career, and the continuation of the study and promotion of the Cistercian order.”

  “Thierry Marchive told us that he and Yann ran across you late Friday evening.”

  “Yes, I was coming home from the gym. I was just about to cross the cours Mirabeau and they were on their way to some pub. They were drunk, of course. They wanted me to go to a pub with them to pick up girls, but they weren’t being sincere. They know I don’t go in for that kind of thing, I don’t drink nor do I ‘pick up girls,’ as they call it. And I know they don’t even like me, so the invitation was hardly genuine.”

  “Do you think that anyone saw you go home? A neighbor, perhaps?” Paulik asked.

  Ossart shook his head back and forth. “No. I took the small back roads home and I live on the ground floor, so I rarely pass anyone in my building, unless we’re coming or leaving at the same time. There are a few restaurants on my street, but they were already closed for the evening.”

  “I need to know more, Claude. Why exactly didn’t you go to Dr. Moutte’s party?” Verlaque asked. “And what did you do instead?”

  Claude Ossart paused. “I was invited, as were the other grad students, but I don’t like those social events.” Again there was a brief silence, and then he continued. “I’m working on a paper with Dr. Rodier on the Cistercian order in Provence, and in the afternoon we had made an interesting discovery, and I was anxious to get to the library and look it up. That seemed a more pleasant way for me to spend a Friday evening, than to pretend to like my fellow students.”

  “What about the professors?” Verlaque asked.

  “What about them?”

  “Do you like them?”

  “No. I’m afraid I’m biased…I’ve worked for two years now alongside Dr. Rodier, and I see that his scholarship, his dedication to his subject, greatly excels that of the other professors.”

  Verlaque said nothing, but he doubted that Dr. Leonetti was not a fine scholar.

  “Dr. Moutte included?” Paulik asked.

  “Especially him.”

  Verlaque looked at Paulik and then at Claude Ossart.

  “Go on, Claude. What do you mean?”

  “Dr. Moutte’s research was unoriginal. He was more interested in the Cluny order’s love of art than any theological issues.”

  “When was the last time you saw Dr. Moutte?” Verlaque asked, intigued that someone so young would be confident, or bold enough, to find fault in his elders.

  Ossart looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to remember. “Last week, he called me into his office. It was before I was about to lead a seminar class for first-year students on the Old Testament, so Wednesday, just after lunch.”

  “Why did he want to see you?” Paulik asked.

  “To wave the Dumas prize in front of my face,” Ossart replied with no trace of hostility. “He liked doing that, making hints about the fellowship and then changing the subject. He was also supposed to sign off on a research grant I was applying for, but then when I got there he had forgotten the paperwork at home. It was a total waste of time, and it made me late for my seminar class.” Ossart had raised his voice for the first time during the interview. “I hate being late,” he finally added.

  “I understand,” Verlaque said. “That will be all for now. Could you please leave us your key to the building?” Ossart reached down into his front jeans pocket and pulled out a large silver key and laid it gently on the desk.

  “I of course could have made a copy,” he said.

  “We will have to trust that you didn’t,” Paulik answered, taking the key. “You may leave now.”

  Ossart stood up and carefully placed his chair back under the desk before leaving.

  “Thank you,” Verlaque said.

  “You’re welcome,” Ossart answered. “If you need me, I’ll be in the library. Second floor, last desk at the end, facing the window.”

  Officer Cazal came in with lunch for Verlaque and Paulik, said, “Bon appétit!” and closed the door behind her.

  “It’s funny, I mean odd, that we should interview Claude Ossart and Bernard Rodier back-to-back, given that Ossart is Rodier’s assistant,” Paulik said, checking the list, finishing his tea and tossing the plastic cup in the wastepaper basket. Their lunch had consisted of tuna sandwiches, grated
carrot salad with an industrial-tasting dressing, and then surprisingly good and oily brownies that a caterer had delivered to the university. The university coffee was so bad that Paulik had resorted to drinking tea, which suited the unusually gray weather. Verlaque skipped both and drank sparkling water.

  “Yes, we’ll be able to compare mentor and student,” Verlaque answered. He was about to ask Paulik what he thought of the interviewees so far when the door was opened and Dr. Bernard Rodier quickly walked in and sat down.

  “Terrible, terrible news,” he said, looking from the judge to the commissioner.

  “Yes,” Verlaque answered. He looked at the professor, handsome enough that he could have been a leading actor on one of the American television shows that Sylvie Grassi watched on DVD. He was about six feet tall, broad shouldered, lightly tanned even in November, and had thick white hair. His face was perfectly chiseled, a large square jaw and large mouth, perfect teeth, and dark eyes.

  “You’ve no doubt heard of the argument I had with Georges on the night of the party,” Rodier quickly said. Before Paulik or Verlaque could reply, he went on, “Georges had made an announcement last week that he would be retiring within the year, either at the end of this term, at Christmas, or in May. On Friday night, at the party, I simply asked him if he had decided yet if he was leaving after Christmas or in May.” Rodier looked from commissioner to judge as if to double-check that they were still listening and then continued.

  “I begin a year’s sabbatical in January, and I simply wanted to know when Georges would be announcing his replacement. If I was fortunate enough to be offered the post, and if the job began in January, that would mean I would have to change my travel plans, as you can imagine.”

  Verlaque nodded and quickly said, “Yes, I see that. And that was when Dr. Moutte raised his voice?”

  “He shouted, yes! He told me that he was, in fact, not retiring just yet, or anytime soon. I was most affronted! To be treated like that, in front of my colleagues and the students. I left immediately.”