Murder on the Ile Sordou (16 page)

“You're ruthless,” Monnier replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “I'm going to get one of Serge's Bloody Marys. I think the vitamins will do me good. I need some brain power. Would you like one?”

“Yes, thank you,” Marine said, shuffling the cards for the next hand. Monnier slowly got up, and Marine turned and watched him walk slowly to the bar; Eric Monnier didn't seem the kind of man who ever rushed. He walked slowly, spoke carefully and slowly, played cards slowly. Monnier and the barman were now laughing as the drinks were being made, and Marine felt lucky to be on Sordou, despite Alain Denis's murder.

Monnier came back carrying the tall Bloody Marys and gave one to Marine with a little bow. “I had no idea I'd be outwitted at cribbage,” he said, sitting down.

Marine smiled. “My mother taught me to peg like that,” she said. “You can get ahead that way.”

“You don't peg
well
,” Monnier said. “You peg ruthlessly. You're a killer. Oops, sorry.”

“Are you afraid?” Marine asked, trying to sound casual, and cutting the deck so that Monnier could flip over the starter card. He turned over a queen and set it on the cribbage board.

“You mean being here? After Alain Denis's death?”

“Yes,” she said, watching Monnier deal. “Somehow I'm not,” she continued, “and I get the feeling not many of us are.” She looked at Monnier for an expression, but couldn't see one. “Have we seen too much of this kind of thing on film and are now anesthetized?”

“Perhaps,” Monnier said, frowning as he looked at his cards. “Do keep in mind the nice cards I gave you for
your
crib.”

Marine smiled and quickly understood that he didn't want to talk about the murder. No one did. Her thoughts were confirmed when Monnier asked, “Were you an only child?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I was too,” Monnier replied. “So I can usually tell. I picture you sitting at the kitchen table, playing cribbage with your mother, waiting for your father to get home from the university, or law office . . .”

“Hospital.” She thought she saw Monnier flinch. “Papa is a doctor.”

“I won't pry anymore,” Monnier said, staring at his cards. “I'm determined to out-peg you this time.”

Paulik, and Scores of Journalists, Arrive

A
ntoine Verlaque looked out onto the shimmering blue sea, thankful that almost every birthday his brother gave him an expensive pair of sunglasses. “I'm told that a fisherman named Isnard will be coming later with provisions,” he said to a young policeman who was standing on the dock, looking at the sea with binoculars.

“Yes, sir,” the policeman replied, letting the binoculars fall loosely by their strap around his neck, then looking at the judge.

“Given the celebrity status of the deceased, it won't be long before journalists try to get here,” Verlaque said.

The policeman nodded. “We have the dock covered as per your instructions; no one on or off unless they can show their law badges.”

“Except the fisherman,” Verlaque said, rubbing his stomach. “We need food.”

The policeman grinned. “Understood,” he said. Looking across at the sea, and then up at the hotel, perched on its cliff, its pink surface turning almost red in the afternoon sun, he added, “Beautiful place.”

“It certainly is.”

A boat with a flashing light sped toward Sordou's harbor then slowed down and stopped beside the blue coast guard's boat that was poised at the mouth of the harbor. After a minute or two's discussion between the captains of the two boats it started up again. The closer it got, the more Verlaque could make out its blue police markings. “Here's the commissioner, right on time,” the policeman said. When the boat was within twenty feet the judge could see the top of the commissioner's bald head. Bruno Paulik's sunglasses reflected the afternoon sun and his hands tightly gripped the boat's dashboard.

The boat came so quickly it appeared as if it wouldn't be able to stop in time, but slowed down just feet before the dock. The driver—a rookie policeman who had grown up on the sea—expertly pulled it into place. Paulik quickly hopped off and shook hands with Verlaque.

“How's your tummy?” Verlaque asked.

Paulik peered at the judge over his sunglasses. “Are you teasing me?”

“No, not at all,” Verlaque replied with a smirk on his face. “I just know that you get carsick.”

“I'm fine,” Paulik replied as they began walking up to the hotel. “Now that my feet are on dry land.”

Verlaque laughed. “I'm sorry that I interrupted Léa's concert. Thanks for getting here so fast.”

“She had just finished.”

“How did she do? Fauré's ‘Prayer,' right?”

“Yeah, that's it. She did wonderfully, passed with flying colors,” Paulik replied. “How did you know what she sang?”

“She sang some of it for me,” Verlaque replied, smiling. “Last time I was at your place. We were walking in the vineyard checking things out. Speaking of that, how are the grapes? Do we need rain?”

“Perfect,” Paulik replied. He looked up at the hotel and whistled, then said, “We had record amounts of rainfall this spring, so even though it hasn't rained in almost two months, the grapes are fine. They're grooving the hot sun and their rocky soil.”

Verlaque shook his head back and forth. “Amazing.”

“How is Marine?”

“She's just finished playing cards with a retired schoolteacher from Aix,” Verlaque answered. “She no doubt worked her magic on him.”

“Marine could sell ice to an Eskimo,” Paulik said. “Has she been making the rounds?”

“I think she's befriended almost everyone here. She's chatted up the deceased's stepson and knows what he's reading.”

“What, then?”

“
Death in Venice
.”

Paulik whistled.

“Marine quickly told me an interesting theory,” Verlaque continued. “That the stepson, Brice, may be protecting his mother.”

Paulik nodded, looking at the flowers that lined the path. “You told me on the phone that Brice was at the murder scene earlier that day.”

“Yes,” Verlaque replied. “Marine and I found his hat. But she thinks that he could have planted it there, for us to find.”

“Thus leading our suspicions toward him and away from his mother.”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds heroic,” Paulik said.

“That's what Marine said. ‘Romantic' was her term.”

“Let's carefully compare the mother's and son's statements, then,” Paulik said. He stopped and stretched his arms out. “It feels like it's about ten degrees cooler here than in Aix.”

“It is,” Verlaque replied. “It's paradise.” He was getting tired of telling people how beautiful Sordou was.

“Except when film stars are murdered.”

“Except when film stars are murdered,” Verlaque repeated. “I'm glad you're here,” he added, looking at his commissioner.

Paulik paused, as if he didn't know how to reply to his boss's compliment. “Figures that Marseille's two commissioners would be on vacation at the same time.”

Verlaque laughed.

Paulik went on, “One of my brothers—the dentist in Carpentras—just moved into a new house with a swimming pool. He called a local pool maintenance company to get someone out to show him the ropes, but they couldn't come for a week and a half. They were understaffed; the boss was away on summer holidays.”

Verlaque stopped in his tracks. “The owner of a pool company takes a vacation during their only peak season?”

“Yep.”

“God help this country.”

“Well, I for one wouldn't want to live anywhere else.”

A rumbling of motors, getting louder and louder, stopped the commissioner's defense of his homeland, and both men turned around at the top of the hotel's stairs and looked at the sea. Three boats had appeared at the mouth of the harbor, and seeing the coast guard's boat each one stopped and dropped anchor. More were coming toward Sordou. The young policeman on the dock was speaking to his colleagues via a VHF walkie-talkie with one hand and watching the new arrivals with his binoculars in the other. He then ran up the stairs to join Verlaque and Paulik. “Journalists taking photographs,” he said.

“Already?” Verlaque asked no one in particular.

“They got here almost as quickly as I did,” Paulik added.

“A leak?” the young officer suggested.

Verlaque suddenly remembered interrupting Marie-Thérèse in the Le Bons' office; she had been whispering on the telephone, quickly hanging up when he had walked into the room.

He looked at Paulik and rolled his eyes. “
Merde
.”

“Don't worry,” the policeman said. “They won't get on the island.” He quickly added, winking, “Except for Isnard.”

“Thank you.”

“Who's Isnard?” Paulik asked.

“Our dinner.”

•   •   •

“Good thing we can still drink,” Sylvie said, holding her mojito in her hands. “So which one of us do you think did Alain Denis in?” she asked.

“Sylvie!” Marine said.

“Hugo told me that the murderer couldn't have come to the cove by boat,” Sylvie said. “Or even swum here, as the sea was too rough.”

“I was afraid of that,” Marine said. “There's another thing,” she went on. “It would have been difficult for an outsider to contact Denis to get him down to that cove at a specific time.”

Sylvie looked over at her friend with a puzzled expression.

“No cell phones or Internet,” Marine said.

“Now you're freaking me out!” Sylvie said, looking over her shoulder.

Marine made a mental note to ask the Le Bons and Niki if there had been any phone calls for Alain Denis on the hotel's landline, or if he had received any letters.

Sylvie made a loud slurping noise and played with the mint sprig in her drink. “My money is on his wifey.”

“I bet on the unhappy stepson.”

“Marine! I'm shocked!”

“Hey, two can play at that game,” Marine said. She didn't want to tell Sylvie about her new theory. She looked down at her glass of white wine, which was now empty. “Another one?”

“Let me treat you, ladies,” said Clément Viale, who was now standing beside their terrace chairs.

“Thank you!” Sylvie exclaimed. “I'll have a mojito.”

“And let me guess,” he said, looking down at Marine, smiling. “You're drinking a white Burgundy.”

“That's right,” she answered, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. “It's a Mâcon Villages.”

“Oh dear,” Viale said. “Let me get a splashier Burgundy for you. We need to have some fun around here,” Viale said. “My wife won't come out of our room, and Emmanuelle . . . Mme Denis . . . has been given sleeping pills.”

“How did Brice take it?” Marine asked, since Clément Viale seemed to be the news keeper.

“Harder than one would have thought,” he answered, shrugging.

Sylvie said, “Marine was just saying—”

“Thanks for the drinks offer,” Marine quickly cut in.

“One mojito, and one fine Meursault, coming up,” Viale said. “Mind if I join you? It looks like Antoine is going to be busy over the next few days.” He looked down at Marine's thin tanned legs and smiled.

Marine and Sylvie exchanged quick looks. “No . . . not at all,” Marine slowly answered. “That would be fine.”

“I'll be right back, then, ladies.”

As soon as Viale was out of earshot, Sylvie whispered, “You should tell him that Antoine is a trained killer.”

Marine laughed. “I don't think I need to do that,” she said. “They knew each other when they were young, and I think that Antoine was, and still is, someone you don't want to cross. Besides, I'd like to spend as much time as I can talking with the hotel guests. Clément Viale has invested money here, and I don't trust him.”

•   •   •

The Le Bons were in the lobby to greet Verlaque and Paulik. After introductions were made, Max Le Bon said, “Commissioner Paulik, you're welcome to stay overnight at Sordou; we have one spare room.”

“Thank you,” Paulik replied. “I'll take you up on that . . .” He stopped, realizing that the phone had been ringing since they came into the lobby.

Niki Darcette came quickly out of the office and stood beside Cat-Cat Le Bon, who took her cue. “Excuse me,” Cat-Cat said. “I think I need to help Niki answer the phones.”

Cat-Cat quickly left, but before Niki Darcette left Verlaque said, “In case you hadn't noticed, there are about ten boats anchored off of Sordou. The news of Alain Denis's death has been leaked, and the police officers guarding the harbor have been given strict instructions that no one is to be admitted off or on the island, the exception being Isnard.”

“But the reservations are coming in . . .” Niki answered.

Cat-Cat returned in an instant. “Commissioner Paulik, this call is for you.”

Paulik excused himself.

“When will we be able to start accepting new guests?” Max Le Bon asked.

“When I say so,” Verlaque said.

“That's insane,” Niki argued. “We need to be able to tell our callers when they can book.”

“When the case has been closed,” Verlaque replied. “I'm sorry; I don't know when that will be.”

“But his body isn't even here anymore!” Niki protested.

“Niki . . .” Max Le Bon said, taking her arm.

“That was Dr. Cohen,” Paulik said, returning from the office where he had taken his call. “Alain Denis was shot at close range yesterday, sometime in the late afternoon, early evening. There are no signs of violence or a struggle.”

“We all heard a shot ring out at six p.m.,” Verlaque said, looking at Paulik.

“Does that mean M. Denis knew his assassin?” Cat-Cat asked.

“Most likely,” Paulik answered. “Who is that?” he continued, looking out the hotel's glass front doors toward the front steps. Two men approached, carrying baskets.

Verlaque said, “It's Isnard, with our provisions.”

“But who is he with?” Paulik asked. He thought they had given strict instructions who was to come and go on Sordou.

The door opened and the fisherman entered. “
Bonsoir, Messieurs, Mesdames . . .”

“Hello, Isnard,” Cat-Cat said. “You can take the food straight into the kitchen.”

“We haven't met your friend,” Verlaque said. “You were to come alone.”

“
Oh la la!
” Isnard moaned. “I was out on the sea all day with my cousin Fred. What was I supposed to do, take him all the way back to Marseille, and then come back here? Right, Fred?”

“Yeah,” Fred said, finally looking up at the group. “Plus you needed help carrying this stuff.” Fred was a good twenty years younger than Isnard, and his nose was bright red, burnt by the sun.

“Go on then,” Verlaque said. “And thank you for the food.”

“So do we know how Alain Denis died?” Isnard asked, tilting his head as he spoke. “The journalists out in those boats are all buzzing to know.” Fred nodded with enthusiasm.