Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (35 page)

“Yes,” Verlaque said, walking around the long, sleek convertible. “They really are strange-looking cars,” he said. “Beautifully sleek.”

“I thought they were space-age when I was a kid,” Paulik said. He turned around and tried to see beyond the parking lot. “Let's
just follow the crowds. There must be a main pavilion here, where we can look up the list of stands.”

“And we can get a bite to eat,” Verlaque said, looking at his watch. “It's almost three p.m.” He could hear his stomach rumbling and smelled a barbecue.

Once out of the parking lot, they walked along a dirt road lined with Citroëns on display. They walked slowly, falling in step with the crowd, mostly male and over fifty, who stopped at almost every car to speak to its owner, take pictures, or peer under the hood or inside. “Let's try not to ogle the cars too much,” Verlaque said, craning his neck to see a 1940s Citroën that, judging by the plates, had just been driven down from Belgium.

They moved, stopping and starting again with the flow of the crowd, for almost twenty minutes, and still could not see the main pavilion. “This is like being in a bad dream,” Paulik said, “as if we're never going to get there.”

“Or eat.” Verlaque looked over at the commissioner, who said nothing. “I guess we can eat later,” he continued. “We should find André Prodos first.”

“If he's here.”

Five minutes later, they were at the main pavilion, a long, flat-ceilinged hangar. Inside were older-model Citroëns, and rarer ones: tin-sided vans, racing cars, a camping van, even a red double-decker bus from pre–World War II London. The hall's acoustics weren't made to handle a thousand car fans, or an accordion player, and Verlaque resisted the temptation to cover his ears. A loudspeaker announced events; the grand opening ceremony would begin at 6:00 p.m., with speeches followed by an apéritif. “Let's get out of here before that begins,” Verlaque said to Paulik. The commissioner agreed; speeches at this kind of event could go on for hours.

They followed red signs to an information booth, where fortunately there was just one man in line ahead of them. “I can only suggest that you try farther afield for a hotel room,” the information host said. “Millau, perhaps. The hotels and bed-and-breakfasts in Laguiole have been booked for months by the rally participants.” Verlaque looked at Paulik and raised his eyebrows. “I guess we'll be driving back in the dark,” Paulik said.

The hotel-less man walked away in disgust, and Verlaque moved up to the desk. “Do you have a map of the stands?” he asked. “We're looking for André Prodos's stand; he has a garage in Provence.”

The host looked at Verlaque bleary-eyed. “Never heard of him,” he said, passing a sheet of paper across the desk at Verlaque. “Here's the plan. There are more than one hundred stands. Good luck.”

Verlaque looked at the map. “They're not labeled,” he said.

“That's correct,” the host said. “We didn't get the list of stand renters to the printers in time.
C'est la vie!
”

“
Vive la France,
” Verlaque mumbled as he went back to where Paulik was looking at a Citroën ambulance that had been used in World War II. “I have an unlabeled map. We have to do the whole tour of every stand. Some are in here,” he said, looking at the map, “and some are outside.”

“Let's split up,” Paulik suggested. “And call each other by cell phone if we find him. His garage is called Citroën Prodos, and he looks like a schoolteacher—tall and lanky, with little round glasses and a receding hairline.”

“I'll start outside,” Verlaque said. “See you soon, I hope.”

They separated, and Verlaque headed straight for the barbecue stand. There was a crowd in front of him, and he could smell spicy merguez sausages being grilled. When he had advanced to second in line, his cell phone rang. “
Oui, Bruno?
” he asked, just as he got to the head of the line.

“I found him,” Paulik replied.

Verlaque looked at the man barbecuing. “Be right back,” he said.

“These are the last ones I'm grilling this afternoon,” the cook said.

“Oh well,” Verlaque said. “My loss.”

He walked quickly back into the hangar, and Paulik sent a text message: “Third stand north of the information booth.” He saw Paulik standing at the back of a crowd gathered around the Citroën Prodos stand. “We were practically on top of his stand when we were at the information booth,” Paulik whispered. “He's putting on a real show.” Both men watched and listened as Prodos showed off the two-toned black-and-white DS that had been on hoists in his garage. The shy introvert that Paulik had spoken to was a natural showman before a crowd.

“Let's face it,” Prodos told the crowd, “we're all here because Citroën has produced a lot of groundbreaking cars over its almost ninety-year history. And yet, before a model like this one, we're spellbound. At least I am.” Prodos approached the crowd. “Sir,” he asked an elderly fan, “if you could use just one word to sum up Citroëns, what would it be?”

“Innovative,” the man answered.

“And you, sir?” he asked another fan.

“Um…fun, I would say.”

Prodos pointed to another man, who quickly answered, “Comfort.”

A woman offered, “Individual.”

Verlaque sighed, rubbing his stomach. “Let's cut this off.”

Paulik stepped forward and said, “Hello, M. Prodos.”

“Hey, Commissioner!” Prodos said, as if Paulik had come to the rally as a fan. “Remember this one?” he asked, grinning and pointing to the car.

Paulik stepped up and whispered, “We need to talk.”

“Well, folks, that's it for now,” Prodos announced, glancing at Paulik. “I'll see you all at the ceremony this evening!” He turned off his microphone and set it carefully on a small table. “What's going on?” he asked. “You look angry.”

“This is the examining magistrate of Aix,” Paulik said, introducing Verlaque.

“I told you everything,” Prodos said, his voice rising.

“What's the big idea, skipping town?” Paulik asked.

“Skipping town? I always come to these rallies. It's how I pay the bills; I always sell a car here.”

“You didn't think to tell me about the rally?”

“I didn't think I was going to come,” Prodos said, “until after your visit. I phoned my friend Laure—she was Gisèle's boss—and she told me it would be good for my head to come this weekend. Gisèle's memorial service is on Monday afternoon, so I'll be back in time. I had to clear out the garage in a jiffy.”

Paulik looked over and saw the bust of Charles de Gaulle. “You brought him?” he asked.

Prodos beamed. “He's part of my shtick! I was about to tell the story of the shooting when you showed up.”

“And your shop is cleared out of tools,” Paulik said.

Prodos nodded. “I bring tools with me to these rallies,” he said. “We all do. You have to be ready to help out a fellow DS owner. The cars can be…delicate.”

Paulik sighed and looked at Verlaque. “Do you have an alibi for Wednesday, September 7?” he asked, thinking of Suzanne Montmory.

“What time?”

“Between four and seven-thirty p.m.”

“Wednesday evenings are my therapy sessions,” Prodos said. “Between six-thirty and seven-thirty p.m.”

“And before that?”

“I would have been in my garage.”

“Talking to me,” a voice said. Verlaque and Paulik swung around. Before them was François Gros, the examining magistrate of Aix before Verlaque took over. Gros had retired at sixty-two with full benefits to spend on his great love, the Citroën DS 19.

“François!” Verlaque said, shaking the man's hand.

“Sir!” Paulik said, standing straighter.

“I called you that Wednesday afternoon, André,” Gros said, “and talked your ear off. I remember it was Wednesday because Wednesdays my wife goes to our daughter's and babysits the grandkids, so I had the afternoon all to myself.”

Prodos slapped his head. “I remember now. We talked about—”

“What in heaven's name is going on here, Verlaque?” Gros asked.

“We're investigating three murders, François, in case you haven't been watching the local news.”

“You can fill me in later,” Gros said. “But, for the record, I would trust this young man with my life. Got it?”

T
he cars in Michel Bras's parking lot were decidedly different from those they had just seen: no Citroëns, vintage or otherwise. Most of the cars were German made, with the exception of a bright-yellow Ferrari with Parisian plates. Verlaque walked quickly up a flagstone path into the restaurant while Paulik stayed outside, looking at the view of the scrubby Aubrac plains from the restaurant's hilltop. “Would you have a table for two for this evening?” Verlaque asked a well-groomed young man. “And a room or two?”

The young man grimaced. “The restaurant is fully booked, sir.”

Verlaque sighed and reached into his jacket for his badge. He showed it to the man, leaning over the desk, and said, “We're here on official business, last-minute.”

“I'll see what I can do,” the young man said.

“I'd appreciate that.”

The man made a phone call and then put the receiver down. “We'll set up a small table for you in the dining room,” he said. “And we have one room left, with a double bed.”

Verlaque grimaced. “Fantastic. No twin beds, by any chance?”

“No, sir.”

“We'll take it. Dinner at seven-thirty?” Verlaque knew it was a horribly unchic early dinner hour, but he wouldn't last any later than that without eating.

“Fine, sir,” the receptionist answered. “If you'd like to relax in the lounge before dinner, we'll bring you your menus there.”

“Lovely,” Verlaque said. “Thank you.”

“I'll call someone to show you to your room and take your bags.”

“We don't have any bags,” Verlaque said. He then whispered, “Remember, official last-minute business.” He walked quickly out of the restaurant and found Paulik where he had left him, looking at the view. “We have dinner booked, and a room. Slight problem with the bed, but I think we can work it out.”

“That's fantastic,” Paulik said. “But, honestly, sir, judging by these cars and this space-age building, I think we're beyond our budget even as commissioner and judge.”

“Don't worry about it,” Verlaque said, knowing that he wouldn't bill the taxpayers of Aix for their dinner but would pay for it himself. “And if we're going to share a bed tonight, you have to start calling me Antoine.”

Paulik laughed uproariously. “I think they'll bring us a folding bed if we're really sweet.”

“Do you snore?”

“Yep. Do you?”

“Yes, so I'm told.” Verlaque looked out at the sweeping valley before them, at once bright from the fading sunlight and yet dark from racing black clouds overhead. “The Massif Central is a special part of France, isn't it?” Verlaque asked his commissioner.

“Yes,” Paulik said. “But there really isn't a corner of France that I don't love, except for certain neighborhoods in Paris.”

Verlaque laughed, not sure if Paulik was referring to the snooty sixth and seventh
arrondissements,
or the crowded and dirty nineteenth and twentieth. “My grandmother once told me that this whole region was entirely left out of her English guidebook on France,” he said. “My favorite painter is from this area. I have one of his paintings in my bedroom.”

“Not Pierre Soulages?”

“Yes,” Verlaque answered. “Do you know his art? Very black—I mean the color, not the mood.”

“Hélène is a big fan,” Paulik replied. “She told me Soulages was from the Massif Central. In fact, I saw a village with his name on the map when we were getting close to Laguiole.” He didn't add that Hélène had once taken the TGV to Paris to see a Soulages retrospective at the Centre Pompidou. He could only imagine what one of those paintings cost. Perhaps Verlaque's was tiny.

Verlaque put a hand on Paulik's massive shoulder. “What do you say we go and have showers and pretend to put on clean shirts for dinner?”