Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (14 page)

Mme d'Arras walked up the street a bit, but the new houses went as far as she could see. She was suddenly very tired, and it was still hot. She had no idea what time it was, but she knew that she should go back to the bench and wait for the bus if she was ever going to get home before dinner (it was, in fact, already 7:15 p.m.). She had turned around, deciding that she would visit her childhood home another time, when the loud music stopped and the front door of one of the little houses opened (she made clicking sounds with her tongue as she noted that its yellow trim badly needed touching up). She jumped back and, out of instinct, held her purse close to her chest.

“Hello,” a man said quickly, closing the door behind him. “What a surprise.”

“Well, it shouldn't be,” she replied. “This is my village.”

“Oh, is it?” he asked.

“I grew up here,” she went on. “And this was Philomène's house.”

“Oh, was it?” He tried to smile. “Have you been standing here long?”

Mme d'Arras sighed. “Of course I haven't. Why would I, when Philomène obviously no longer lives here?” She was angry at this man, angry that her village had changed so much (and without her knowledge or consent), angry that Philomène's house was gone and that she no longer saw her old friend (truth was, Pauline d'Arras was too much of a snob to socialize with Philomène Joubert, a woman who for forty years had proudly worked as a secretary in one of Aix's high schools, her husband a printer).

He took a step forward, and Mme d'Arras stepped back, alarmed. “I'm only opening the car door,” he said. “Did you drive here?”

“Of course not. I don't drive.”

“Let me take you back to Aix, then,” he said, motioning to the passenger seat. “We must go quickly or we'll be caught in traffic.” He noticed that she was fanning herself with the back of her hand. “The car's air-conditioned,” he added.

“All right,” she said. “I have to get back to make our dinner.”

“Of course,” he said, looking at his watch. “Let's hurry along, then.” He gave her his elbow, walked her around to the passenger side of the car, and helped her in, holding her purse as she swung her legs into the car. Now he moved swiftly around the front of the car to the driver's side, got in, started the car, and backed out—too quickly, and without even looking, thought Mme d'Arras. “We can take the scenic route, through the forest,” he said. “The
route nationale
will be too busy.”

Mme d'Arras was too tired to contradict him. Because he barely slowed down at the stop sign, she had to tilt her head to get one last look at the chapel and its rounded apse. She glanced over at him; he was no longer smiling, just looking straight ahead, both hands firmly on the steering wheel.

W
hat do you think?” Marine asked. She was standing in her living room, hands on hips, wearing a blue silk wraparound dress with green high-heeled sandals.

“You look so great, perhaps we should just stay in this evening,” Verlaque replied, setting down his book, the better to concentrate. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. He got up off the sofa and walked over to Marine to kiss her on her forehead, having almost to get on tiptoes to do so.

“Of course I do,” she answered. “I said so.”

“And you won't mind a dozen or so cigar smokers?”

Marine laughed. “A dozen cigar smokers outside, on a warm late-summer evening? No. It will be better than getting stuck with you smoking in your Porsche with the windows rolled up.”

“Hey! That's unfair,” Verlaque said. “I always open the windows.”

Marine smiled. “You're right. It was only once, and that was
because it had started to rain. Well, you've promised me good food and fine wines this evening, so let's get going before I change my mind. The other wives and girlfriends will be there, right?”

“Twice a year it's permitted,” Verlaque answered. “But only twice a year. And Pierre and Jean-Marc will be there, of course.”

“But they're a couple! Isn't that unfair?”

“No, because Pierre and Jean-Marc are both
members,
” Verlaque said, getting his jacket from the coatrack in the front hall. “Besides, I'm not sure if the other guys have figured out their relationship yet.”

Marine put on some lipstick before the front hall's mirror. She pinched her lips together and said, “I'm sure the other guys have figured it out. They're not thick.” She smiled at Verlaque, and he laughed, knowing he was being teased. When he had been told, by both men, of their love for each other, it had come as a complete surprise. “Who's hosting the cigar club's dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Jacob,” Verlaque said. “He's part Egyptian, part French. And he works in the City in London.”

“London? Why so far away?”

“You'll see.”

Fifteen minutes later, Verlaque pulled his Porsche through a set of tall black gates that had been left open for the party.

“This is beautiful,” Marine said, sticking her head out of the open window. “It seems like a silly thing to say, but I
love
this driveway!”

Verlaque smiled and rolled down his window. He loved Marine's enthusiasm, even for a driveway. Birds were singing, flying between the plane and pine trees that lined the drive. “You're right,” he said. “I've been here before, but only at night. Now I see
what you're talking about.” The driveway wasn't paved; two narrow strips of paving stones guided the car's wheels. Between the strips and on either side was bright-green grass, so that the overall effect one saw when approaching the house was not concrete, or stone, but
verdure
. Something about the cicadas' chants, the warm evening, and the hazy greens made Verlaque's eyes water. The car slowly bumped along the path until it stopped at the end of the drive, in a large graveled parking area.

Pierre's meticulously cared-for Deux Chevaux was dwarfed by much larger cars, mostly German-made, and three or four SUVs. Pierre and Jean-Marc were just getting out of the little blue car; they walked over to Verlaque and gave him the
bise
. The three men peered into the front seat of a new silver Porsche Cayenne. “Whose car is this?” Pierre asked. “I don't recognize it.”

“It's Christophe Chazeau's,” Verlaque replied. “He told me about it when I bumped into him at the Café Mazarin.”

Jean-Marc toured the car. Marine watched the men and smiled. “You're like teenagers,” she called. Pierre shrugged and said, “They're beautiful objects, what can I say?”

Verlaque kicked at some mud on the left rear hubcap. “Christophe needs to get his new beauty washed.”

“Hey, what's wrong with Marine?” Pierre asked.

Verlaque turned around and saw Marine staring up at the house.

“Marine!” Jean-Marc called. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Shhh!” Marine said, walking toward them. “They'll hear!”

“You like houses, we like cars,” Verlaque said.

“Impressive place, isn't it?” Pierre said.

“Yes, impressive, but not imposing,” she answered. “I think this is the most beautiful house I've ever seen.”

The three men turned instinctively away from Marine and
looked up at the three-hundred-year-old
mas
. The farmhouse, despite its size—Pierre mumbled that it must have twelve bedrooms—was unpretentious. It looked as if it had begun as a small
manoir,
or the farmhouse of a wealthy farmer, and been enlarged over the decades and centuries in a most harmonious way. The stone was rough, exposed, the shutters all painted a light gray. The plants were Provençal: a myriad of greens and grays, dotted by tall, skinny cypress trees. The foursome made their way around to the back of the house, where they could hear music, laughter, and voices. A dozen or so couples were gathered around a long, sleek swimming pool. The north end of the pool was protected from the wind by a five-foot-high stone wall; above the wall rose hills that were covered in vineyards. To the west was another, steeper hill, this one terraced with plants: small rounded box hedges, rosemary, thyme, lavender, and here and there Mediterranean flowers that loved the sun, weren't picky about soil and rainfall, and could withstand Aix's cold winters.

“They're all white,” Pierre said, looking at the plants with Marine. “The flowers, I mean.”

“You're right,” she said. “That's what makes the garden so pleasing, so easy on the eye.”

“And tasteful,” Pierre said, winking.

“Well, well, well,” said Fabrice, the cigar club's president and the owner of plumbing stores that stretched across Provence, as he approached Pierre and Marine. “Lovely to see you, Marine.” He switched his large drink from his right hand to his left so that he could shake Marine's hand.

Marine instead leaned over and gave him the
bise
.

“Is your wife here?” Pierre asked.

“No,” Fabrice replied. “Our eldest daughter is about to go into labor any day. My wife won't leave the house until she gets the phone call. How about you, Pierre?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come here with anyone special?” Fabrice asked. He leaned over and poked Pierre's side with his elbow. “Any nice young girl you'd like to introduce to us? Eh?”

“I came with Jean-Marc,” Pierre said calmly.

Fabrice nodded and looked perplexed, but then smiled. “I knew that.”

“Hello, Fabrice,” said Verlaque, who had just come up and slipped his arm around Marine's waist.

Fabrice leaned forward and said excitedly, “There's a guy making mojitos in the pool house. They're even better than mojitos I've had in Cuba!”

“Sounds great. Let's go and get some,” Verlaque said to Marine.

Fabrice took one last loud sip from his straw and said, “I'll join you! Looks like I need another one.”

On the way to the pool house, they met Jacob and his wife, Rebecca. Introductions were made, and Rebecca said, “Help yourself to anything—the apéritif is self-serve, but we'll sit down to dinner. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run in and get some more tapenade.”

“She makes it herself,” Jacob said, beaming.

“Really?” Marine asked, impressed. She had tried making tapenade only once; she found pitting the olives too tiresome.

“Here's this evening's first cigar,” said José, another member, as he handed Verlaque a small square wooden box. “It's a Limited Edition Upmann.”

Verlaque introduced Marine. “My wife, Carmé, wants to meet you,” said José. “She's over there, wearing beige pants and a white blouse. She teaches Spanish at the university, and I told her that you teach law.”

“That would be great,” Marine said. “Tell Carmen I'd love to gossip about the university.”

José and Verlaque laughed. “I'll tell her. By the way, it's ‘Carmé,'” José repeated. “That's Catalan for ‘Carmen.'” José left to serve more cigars. Verlaque snipped off the end of the Upmann and, patting his jacket pockets, realized he didn't have a lighter. As he turned to his right, he saw a flame approaching his cigar, held by a man he didn't know.

“Thank you,” Verlaque said, lighting his cigar. “I don't think we've met. I'm Antoine Verlaque.”

“Hello,” the man said, shaking Verlaque's hand. “Philippe Léridon.”

“This is Marine Bonnet,” Verlaque said.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Léridon said, smiling. “Do you smoke cigars too?”

“Oh no,” Marine answered. “I'm here as part of the wives-and-girlfriends club.”

Léridon laughed.

“And you?” Marine asked. She tried not to stare, but she recognized him. From where? Aix was so small, it could just be that they once stood in the same line at Monoprix.

“I was invited this evening by Christophe Chazeau,” Léridon said.