“Yes, a few questions were raised, but her professor didn’t take them seriously. Since she was trying to buy the historian’s collection, she might have been trying to use the accusations as a bargaining point.”
J-J grunted in reply and then sighed again before speaking. “I’d better arrange to go and see Bourdeille. I agree it’s a long shot, but what other suspects have we got? I could get to see him this afternoon. If he’s in a wheelchair, I don’t suppose he’s moving around much.”
“Maybe we should check out that guy she would go dancing with in Paris. That friend of hers at the Louvre told me about him. I put a note in the case file, but I only have his first name, Marcel.”
“That’s not much help.”
“It gets worse,” Bruno said. “I was in Limeuil today, checking on the wall. I could climb up fairly easily from the village and into the gardens. That means anybody could have got in, not just the people at the lecture. You saw my note on the case file about identifying all of them, including the canoe guy, Dominic, the one who went to piss in the bushes. I still have to check his alibi.”
“What is it?”
“Watching a film on TV, France Two.”
“On Sunday night? I was doing that. I fell asleep during a comedy about some guy whose wife threatened to leave him unless he took the kids on a ski trip.”
“That’s the one he was watching.”
“You’d better find me another suspect. And get a move on. The new prefect is calling me every day about this case and complains that Paris is calling her. And who the hell is this Madame de Breille who claims you said I should see her?”
“She’s the private eye that Hodge warned us about, hired by Claudia’s father. She’s a former customs inspector who now runs the French office of the Hexagon Trust, which mainly conducts financial investigations on Wall Street and in tax havens. Hodge says it’s also staffed by former spooks. She seems to have a lot of heavyweight contacts in Paris.”
“And why should I see her?”
“Two reasons. The first is because the procureur won’t release the body to the family until he gets your report. So you’re responsible. And second because of Hodge’s warning that if Madame de Breille doesn’t get what she wants, she’ll make sure the blame falls on us country bumpkins in the local police.”
“I can’t finish the report until I’ve interviewed Bourdeille and you’ve tracked down that dancing man in Paris. Merde, she’s sitting outside my office right now. Maybe I can off-load her onto Prunier.”
“He won’t thank you for that. And he’ll almost certainly want you to sit in on the meeting.”
“Putain, I’m tempted to declare this an accidental death fueled by an overdose of drugs.”
“You’re too good a cop to do that, J-J,” Bruno said firmly. “And that will upset Claudia’s family, along with the American ambassador and the White House, and then Madame de Breille would probably declare war on you personally. What’s more, this new report from Fabiola gives her all the ammunition she needs.”
Chapter 22
Bruno went back to his office and called the Louvre to track down Claudia’s friend, Chantal. When he finally reached her, he said he was trying to find some of Claudia’s other friends in Paris and in particular the dancing partner, Marcel. Chantal gave him a number for Judy, the photographer, but knew nothing of Marcel beyond Claudia’s occasional reference to going dancing.
“You said they might have met at a Sunday night dinner given by an American called Jim. Might he know Marcel?”
“Yes, Jim Haynes. I think he takes phone numbers when people book, but you might have to give him the date. Here’s his number.”
An American voice answered in heavily accented French, and Bruno switched to English, introduced himself and explained why he was calling.
“Claudia, the art student, she’s dead?” the American replied. “Yes, I remember her. Oh, that’s awful. What happened? Was it a car crash?”
“We think it was probably an accident, monsieur, but we have to check, and I’m trying to find a Frenchman named Marcel. They met at one of your dinners, and she used to go dancing with him. Do you have a number for him?”
“Hold on. It may take a while, she was here three or four times. I’ll miss her—she was really nice, friendly to everyone, always offering to stay and help clear up.”
Bruno heard papers rustling over the background noise of what sounded like CNN and then the American came back.
“There’s a Marcel Deguin. He came one evening with his daughter, but I’d say he’s a bit old to take a girl dancing. And then there’s Marcel Morlac, a young guy, a Breton. Here’s the number he gave when he booked.”
Bruno thanked him, ended the call and tried the number for Morlac. It began with 06, so it was a mobile rather than a fixed line.
“Ouay,” came a brisk answer.
“Bonjour, m’sieur. Is this the Marcel Morlac who would go dancing with an American girl, Claudia Muller?”
“Who the hell are you?”
Bruno explained, and a stunned voice replied, “Claudia’s dead? How did it happen?”
Bruno explained again and asked when Marcel had last seen her. It had been more than a month ago. Bruno asked if he’d been romantically involved with her.
“No, I’m gay, we just loved dancing together. She was a wonderful dancer. This is terrible news.”
“May I ask where you were Sunday evening?”
“Here in Paris, at La Mano in Montmartre, an old Mexican restaurant that’s pretty hot for dancing these days.”
“Do you know anybody who could vouch for your being there?”
“A few hundred people. I was working behind the bar. That’s what I do. Why the questions? Do you think Claudia was murdered or something? I thought you said it was an accident.”
“We think so, but since she was a foreigner you’ll understand why we need to double-check everything. Thank you for your help.”
Bruno googled the bar, found a number, called and spoke to the deputy manager, who confirmed that Marcel had been working there Sunday evening. Bruno hung up and added another note to Claudia’s case file on the Périgueux police computer. Then he called Bourdeille.
“Thank you for your advice, Bruno,” the old man replied. “I’m having a wonderful time here with Laurent at the falconry.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but will you be there all day? I ask because Commissaire Jalipeau wants to come and interview you about Claudia, either this afternoon or tomorrow morning.”
“I’m going to be here until the special taxi picks me up at five. I believe I told you all I know, Bruno.”
“Yes, but Claudia’s family is insisting that we leave no avenue unexplored. And it was you who told me very firmly you didn’t think Claudia died by accident.”
“Very well. Tomorrow morning, anytime after nine. Will you be joining us, or is the commissaire coming alone?”
“I don’t know. That will be up to him.”
Bruno texted J-J and checked his watch. Amélie would be arriving soon. Pamela had an empty gîte where she would stay, but she’d be here for the weekend, so he ought to give her a dinner party. Amélie and Pamela had become friendly, so she would come. The baron loved Amélie’s singing and he liked Hodge, so he could invite those two and Claudia’s mother. Madame Muller liked Jacqueline, so she should come with the mayor. That made eight, but maybe he should invite Laurent, who could tell Madame Muller about his excursions with Claudia, and Florence who had also been friendly with her. That made ten, about the maximum he could fit around his table.
Bruno loved having friends to dinner, and the prospect cheered him up almost as much as planning the meal. It was springtime, so a navarin of spring lamb would be a good choice. He had new potatoes, peas, shallots and baby carrots in the garden, which would go splendidly w
ith it. He could make a tarte Tatin aux oignons rouges for a starter, and he’d need something light for dessert, perhaps that fruity, sweet lemon syllabub that Pamela made so well. He’d always wanted to try making that.
He had a magnum of Château de Tiregand, the grand millésime from 2005. The wine would be at its best, and the Pécharmant had the depth and finesse to accompany the lamb and the body to go with the cheese that would follow. He had a fine bottle of Monbazillac from Clos l’Envège as a dessert wine. He’d have to think which wine to offer with the first course.
Jack Crimson was spending his retirement helping his daughter, Miranda, by doing much of the office work involved in the riding school and gîtes she ran with Pamela. Bruno sometimes joined him on the one day a week he reserved for his visits to the vineyards of the Bergerac, which he now knew as well as Bruno, if not better. Bruno recalled their visit to an English winemaker in his sixties who had been one of the pioneers of organic wines in the Saussignac region. He was now president of Vins Bios in France and had campaigned for years against the fertilizers and chemicals that were still pumped into so many of the wines of France and elsewhere. His modest vineyard was named Château Richard, after himself, and Bruno and Jack had been very impressed by a Cuvée Osée he had produced without any of the usual sulfur dioxide that was used to clarify wine.
Bruno smiled as he recalled Richard saying that he’d called it osée, which means “daring” in French, because so many experts had assured him he’d never be able to make a wine without sulfites. Richard had dared to prove them wrong. Bruno had bought half-a-dozen bottles and still had four in his cellar. That would go perfectly with the onion tart, and he’d enjoy telling the story of the organic English winemaker.
He called each of his friends to invite them to dinner the following evening. A Friday, it was supposed to be his day off so that he could be on duty for the Saturday morning market in St. Denis. Somehow he expected that his day off would fall victim to the inquiry into Claudia’s death and J-J would probably insist that Bruno join him in seeing Bourdeille. He picked up his cap and with Balzac at his heels trotted down the old stone spiral staircase of the mairie and out to his van to head for the station and pick up Amélie.
The station was about a kilometer from the old town of St. Denis. The sprawl toward it now included a medical laboratory, a postal sorting office, a bus garage, a large builders’ yard, a vet’s office with kennels and a rash of new and nearly new housing. Built cheaply for the retirees from northern France who were steadily increasing the population—and the average age—of the region, the houses were built in modern, almost-prefabricated form rather than the traditional Périgord style of stone walls and red roofs. Still, they were well insulated, the shutters usually painted in gay colors, and each had its terrace with plastic chairs and tables and a barbecue. The new inhabitants were determined to celebrate their life in sunnier climes, and a growing number even had swimming pools. Bruno preferred to swim in the local rivers.
On the platform he found the local priest, Father Sentout, in his black soutane, a small wheeled suitcase at his side, heading for a church meeting in Agen. Old friends, although Bruno only attended church for weddings, baptisms and funerals, they touched cheeks as they embraced, and then the portly little cleric bent down to greet Balzac.
“A sad business about the American girl,” the priest said. “From the photo of her in the paper she was obviously a lovely young woman. Are they planning a funeral here, do you know? And was she a Catholic?”
Bruno said he expected the family would want her remains returned to America, and he didn’t know Claudia’s religion, but he’d find out from her mother. Then he saw the barrier of the crossing coming down to block the country lane that crossed the track and heard the train approach.
“Waiting for a friend?” the priest asked.
“Yes, that singer from Guadeloupe with the lovely voice who sang at Clothilde’s wedding. She’s coming back this summer to perform at one of our concerts and doing a special Josephine Baker concert at Château des Milandes. It’s going to be televised.”
The priest nodded and lifted his suitcase as the train drew to a halt and the doors slid open. Wearing a white turban, jeans, a red shirt under a leather jacket and a brilliant smile, Amélie leaped down from the train into Bruno’s arms. Expecting this, he had braced himself, since even her best friends would never have described her as slim. He gave her a warm hug and then she knelt to receive Balzac’s fervent greeting.
“God bless you, Bruno, and you, too, my child,” the priest said as the train door closed behind him. Four other passengers descended from the second carriage, one elderly couple and one much younger, and looked around in vain for whoever was supposed to meet them. Then a large SUV screeched around the bend and into the station forecourt. It braked hard, and Philippe Delaron stepped out.
“Him again,” said Amélie dryly. On her last visit, she had not taken to the young reporter and photographer for Sud Ouest. Philippe had long seen himself as God’s gift to the female sex and used his camera and press card to worm his way into conversation, and whatever else he could manage, with every young woman of the region.
“He’s changed a bit,” said Bruno in a low voice. “A love affair that ended badly for him has helped him grow up. I think for the first time in his life he had his heart broken. Be polite, because I want him to give us lots of publicity for your concerts.”
“Hi, Bruno,” said Philippe, hand outstretched. “And welcome back to you, Amélie. I remember you singing at Horst and Clothilde’s wedding. You were terrific.”
“The mayor and I agree with you,” said Bruno, smiling. “So she’ll be singing at our summer concert.”
“That’s great. I’d love to take a picture when it’s convenient. But right now, we have a family weekend, and I’m here to pick up some cousins.” He waved at the four people on the platform, who picked up their bags and began to head their way. “How long are you here this time, Amélie?”
“The whole weekend,” she said, politely if not warmly. “Call Bruno and we’ll fix a time for a photo. And we may have some news for you after tomorrow about a special concert.”
“Great, thanks. Anything you can add to my story this morning, Bruno? You probably heard that the radio followed up, and now the Paris papers are calling.”
“Not a word, Philippe. It will all have to come from the official spokesman in Périgueux.”
“Understood.” Philippe gave a cocky wave and went to embrace his cousins. Bruno installed Amélie and Balzac in his van and set off for Ivan’s bistro.
“Philippe’s less bouncy than I remember,” she said. “It’s an improvement.”
“When are you seeing the people at Château des Milandes?” he asked.
“Later this afternoon, but I’ll need to rent a car.”
“Use my old Land Rover,” he said. “You can take it from my place after lunch. And you’ll be the star guest at the dinner I’ve planned for tomorrow evening. Pamela, the baron, the mayor and Jacqueline, Florence, Laurent and two American fans of Josephine Baker.” He explained the presence of Hodge and Claudia’s mother. “I thought it might cheer her up, or at least take her mind off her daughter’s death.”
“Have you solved that yet?”
He shook his head, parked and led the way into Ivan’s bistro.
Chapter 23
Although it was getting late for lunch in France, Ivan’s was still half full, mostly of people who recalled Amélie from singing at Clothilde’s wedding. They included Horst and Clothilde, who were the first to come up and embrace her.
“What a welcome,” Amélie said with a happy smile when she and Bruno could finally sit down. Ivan brought a tureen of thick vegetable soup and then came back with bread and a small glass dish filled with a thick green sauce flecked with red. Amélie laughed out loud when she saw it, a rich and generous soun
d that Bruno remembered with affection. It made everyone in earshot want to laugh too.
“So you’re still stealing my mother’s recipe for Haitian épice, you naughty man.” She rose and gave Ivan a hug. “I’m so flattered you’re still making it.”
“Bruno wouldn’t have my cooking any other way,” said Ivan. “Today’s menu is venison terrine, then Wiener schnitzel with potato salad and apple cake with ice cream to follow. Red wine or white?”
“Just mineral water for me, I’m driving,” she told him. Bruno asked for just a single glass of white.
“How’s life as a magistrate?” he asked. When the socialists had lost power, Amélie’s job in the justice ministry had ended, and she was now a very junior magistrate in Paris.
“Depressing,” she said. “I’m working in the juvenile system, based in Belleville, trying to keep kids out of detention centers.”
“I thought Belleville was the trendy new district,” said Bruno.
“Parts of it are, around the parks and Ménilmontant. But a lot of it is still working class, immigrants, unemployed, grim schools with drugs on the playground, the seamy side of big-city life. What about you? Enjoying your promotion?”
“I’ll tell you as and when my paycheck comes.” He grinned. “It’s a lot more travel, up and down the valley, a lot more paperwork. I’ve one very promising young colleague, Juliette, in Les Eyzies, and one stubborn old-timer in Montignac who thinks he should have had the promotion instead of me. Still, Louis knows his area, and that’s very useful. What about your other life? Are you still singing in Paris?”
The Body in the Castle Well Page 19
