Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (4 page)

“Yes, I'll get you your food,” she cooed to the dog, and then, remembering her own lunch, she sat down again and put her head in her hands and began to cry. She had forgotten to buy the pork chops.

G
illes d'Arras, although he had lived less than a hundred meters from Aix's Palais de Justice for more than forty years, had never set foot inside it. He found himself sitting across from a huge, bald-headed policeman who looked at him kindly and spoke softly. M. d'Arras looked around and saw other police officers typing, or chatting, or walking to and fro, carrying documents. It could have been his office, except that some of the men and women were in uniform. He looked back at the big policeman and realized that he was meant to continue speaking. The words, however, had difficulty leaving his mouth.

“I got home today for lunch at the usual hour, just a little bit past noon. Pauline—that is, Mme d'Arras—usually has lunch ready by twelve-thirty. It's been like that since the day we were married, forty-two years ago.”

The officer wrote down the information and then looked up at
M. d'Arras and asked, “Did you argue this morning, before you went to work?”

“No,” Gilles d'Arras replied, obviously surprised by the question.

“And that was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Yes. I left for work at eight-forty-five. When she wasn't home for lunch, I began calling our friends and Pauline's older sister, Natalie, asking if she was with any of them. I think she left in a hurry, because Coco—sorry, that's our dog—was left alone in the apartment. She wouldn't do that normally.”

“And she isn't answering her cell phone, I presume?”

M. d'Arras shook his head. “She hates them. I tried to buy one for her when they first came out, but she refused.”

Commissioner Paulik paused and said, as gently as he could, “I agreed to meet with you, M. d'Arras, because you were so insistent. But I must tell you that you are acting prematurely. Your wife has only been gone the afternoon, and it's now only five-thirty. She could be anywhere.”

“That's just it. Anywhere!” insisted d'Arras. “I never would have bothered you had it not been urgent. She could be
anywhere
…hungry, hurt, cold. We've eaten lunch together for over forty years. Only once were we not able to, the 20th of March in 1983—I had a meeting in Paris that day. Never, ever, has she not told me her plans for the day. Never.”

Paulik felt a shiver on his giant forearms and said, “And you checked the hospitals, Officer Flamant tells me.” He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten lunch with his wife, Hélène: they were both too busy.
Ah, the easy life of France's wealthy elderly,
he silently mused.

“Yes. In fact, I checked the hospitals first.”

Commissioner Paulik look surprised.

“You see, my wife has been, well, not herself lately. She's become forgetful, and weepy. She has a far-off look in her eyes, like she isn't listening to those speaking to her. It seemed to me like it could be the beginnings of Alzheimer's, but she refused to be tested.”

“Ah,
bon.
Your wife is in denial, M. d'Arras?” Paulik noticed that Mme d'Arras was good at refusing things: cell phones, medical tests.

“Yes, denial perhaps. But she had a lot on her plate too. At her last general checkup, our family practitioner noticed a lump in her throat, and she had it tested for thyroid cancer…punctured, I think they called it…at the hospital, but the results were uncertain. So, last week, we had an appointment with a specialist, who said that, since the puncture couldn't tell us if the tumor was malignant or not, it would be necessary to have surgery. That was very upsetting news for Pauline. She hates hospitals. She's never trusted doctors.”

She hates
hospitals too,
noted Paulik silently. “It's too early to send out a missing-persons alert, but if she hasn't returned home by tomorrow morning, I promise you I will do so. Have you brought a recent photograph of your wife?”

M. d'Arras pulled out a manila envelope from his briefcase. Paulik was impressed—most people forgot to bring a photograph of their loved one who had gone missing, out of sheer panic and stress. Paulik looked at the photograph and noted the unsmiling but distinguished Mme d'Arras. A lover, perhaps? She was undeniably a handsome woman—of a certain age, of course, but well preserved. She'd only been gone for the day, a few hours, really. Paulik was quite certain that M. d'Arras would receive a phone call or, unfortunately, a goodbye letter from his wife soon.

Paulik put the photograph in a file and stood up, indicating
that the interview was over. M. d'Arras looked crestfallen and was slow to get up. Paulik moved around the desk, put his hand on the old man's shoulder, and asked, “You'll call as soon as you hear any news regarding your wife?”

“Of course,” M. d'Arras replied in a whisper.

“Officer Flamant will see you out.” Paulik looked over at Flamant, who was working nearby, and signaled with his eyes and a quick jerk of the head toward M. d'Arras. Flamant jumped up and was at the old man's side in seconds. He took the man by the arm and gently led him past the desks, toward the hallway.

Commissioner Paulik walked past his own desk, heading for the back of the large office, where Mme Girard had a small office. “Is he in?” he asked her, gesturing toward a larger office with a closed black door.

“Yes. I told him you wanted to speak to him,” Mme Girard replied. Paulik realized she looked like a younger version of Mme d'Arras—well coiffed, wearing discreet makeup and a designer suit with a short skirt. “Go on in,” she said, pointing to the door with her pencil.

“Thanks.”

Paulik knocked and opened the door. The judge was sitting at his desk, reading, and, seeing the commissioner, took off his reading glasses and stood up. They shook hands—although they had been working closely together for over a year, they did not exchange
la bise
. Between men, the quick peck on both cheeks was a greeting reserved for very close friends or male family members.

“How are things?” Judge Verlaque asked. “I saw you with that old man…. I recognize him, but I can't recall why.”

“Ah, he lives just up the street; I vaguely recognized him too. Aix is funny that way,
non
? He came in to file a missing-persons report. His wife has been missing since sometime this morning.”

Verlaque looked surprised. “This morning? She could be anywhere. She's probably at Monoprix. Or getting her hair done.”

“I know, but monsieur was so distraught. He's afraid that she might have Alzheimer's. I agree, she could be with a friend or a lover, but she may have wandered off somewhere and now can't find her way back. My great-uncle Jean had that.”

“What a waste of time,” mumbled Verlaque. “Is this what you wanted to see me about?” Only when these words had left the judge's mouth did he realize he had perhaps been insensitive regarding the Uncle Jean in question.

Paulik coughed. “No…” He hesitated before continuing. “You will, no doubt, think that this is just as much a waste of time, but right before M. d'Arras came in, I had a phone call from an untypically hysterical Hélène.”

“Your wife? Is she all right? Your daughter, Léa?” Verlaque adored Hélène Paulik, a winemaker at a privately owned château north of Aix. Paulik's ten-year-old daughter, Léa, sang at Aix's music conservatory and was, from all reports, a whiz.

“Yes, yes, they're fine, thank you. It's Domaine Beauclaire, where Hélène works. They've been robbed. I know that theft doesn't fall under our jurisdiction, but I need to think out loud.”

“Of course. What was stolen? Money?”

“Worse. Wines. But old ones, way back to 1929.”

Verlaque whistled and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach. “What a shame. Do they know how much was stolen?”

Paulik shook his head. “They're doing an inventory right now, Hélène and her boss, Olivier Bonnard. Hélène could barely speak, she was so upset, but she said that Olivier hinted that he suspects his teenage son. Apparently, the kid has been hanging out with some local rich kids…. Well, that makes sense, because the Bonnards are rich too…. Anyway, these teens are into excessive parties with drugs, Champagne…
la jeunesse dorée
. There's a
nightclub where these golden kids go that costs forty euros just to get in.”

“La Fantaisie,” Verlaque replied.

“Yes, that's it. Anyway, the poor guy is pained to think that his son may have sold the family wines off just to have money to go to these parties.”

“Tell Bonnard not to jump to conclusions. It's no secret that his domaine is the most prestigious winery in Aix. Some thieves do specialize in stealing wines. In fact”—Verlaque paused, putting his reading glasses back on and looking at his BlackBerry—“there's an ex–wine thief who has turned over a new leaf and is now on the police payroll in Paris. I doubt that the theft team here in Aix knows about this guy. He works with Christie's and Sotheby's as well. Quite a character, I understand.” He looked at the screen on his phone, scrolling down until he came to what he was looking for. “
Voilà
. Here's the name of the examining magistrate at Saint-Germain. Call him—he may be able to help Olivier Bonnard and get him in touch with the wine-theft expert.” Verlaque wrote down the name and a telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Paulik.

“Thanks,” Paulik replied. “I'm going to call him right now—I hope he's still in the office.”

“Come to think of it, I have to go up to Paris tomorrow for family business,” Verlaque said. “Get me the name and address of the wine expert and I'll try to pay him a visit. I've been intrigued by this guy for a long time.”

“Will do,” Paulik said. “Thanks a million.”

Verlaque took off his glasses and looked up at Paulik. “So what's your opinion of this Mme d'Arras?”

“Judging by her photo, I'd say she could very well be at the hairdresser's. Hélène once had her hair tinted, on a whim, and it
took four bloody hours. She was livid. Mme d'Arras could still be under one of those dome things,” Paulik said, gesturing a semicircle with his hands above his head.

“I hope so,” Verlaque replied. He resisted the temptation to smile, for when his rugby-playing commissioner had put his hands over his head and made the sweeping circular motion, he had looked vaguely like a ballet dancer.

V
erlaque had mixed feelings about the neighborhood. He had grown up in the first
arrondissement,
at number 6 Place des Petits Pères, and liked it there: all of Paris was on foot, or at least the areas that he wanted to see. But it was a neighborhood for tourists, and lovers of beauty and grand monuments, and not a residential one. Good butchers and grocers were few and far between in
la première
. People who lived there ate out; or had the servants run around town buying groceries, as his parents had done. He stopped in the Place Vendôme, looked across the cobbled square at the Ritz, and smiled, thinking of a fellow cigar lover—Papa Hemingway—liberating the hotel's bar in 1944.

He continued up the Rue de la Paix, crossing into the second
arrondissement,
and rang at number 15. After some time there came a sharp “
Qui?
” on the intercom, and Verlaque stated his name. When the door buzzed open, he entered the frescoed lobby. The judge began walking up the wide stone staircase, pausing at each floor to read the brass plaques beside the sets of carved
wooden double doors. On the third floor he found it—
M. Hippolyte Thébaud, Expert des Vins
. He tapped lightly on the door, and it opened almost immediately. The sight that met his eyes made Verlaque incapable of speaking; the wine expert stepped aside so that the judge could enter. Hippolyte Thébaud was not the middle-aged wine-thief-cum-expert that Verlaque had been expecting. There were no tattoos, no signs of any time spent in prison. In his early thirties, Thébaud was impeccably dressed in a blue velvet jacket and white linen pants with bright-blue leather shoes. His shirt and tie both had blue and white stripes—thick horizontal stripes on the tie and thin vertical ones on the shirt. His hair was blond and wavy and piled artfully on top of his head; his nose was long and thin; his lips were full. Tall and slim, with the wide shoulders of someone who visited the gym regularly, Hippolyte Thébaud was, in a word, beautiful.