Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) (32 page)

“It’s magnificent,” Marine said, looking at the color photograph on Tramenti’s screen.

“Did Georges Moutte know about this statue?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes,” Donadio answered. “In fact, we told him about it late last Friday night, the night you now tell me he died. He said that he would look for it, but obviously didn’t get the chance.”

The group looked at the photograph and Tramenti spoke up. “There’s a wonderful quiet elegance to this statue that we later see on the cathedral doors. And the amplitude of his forms points to the influence of his contemporary, the painter Giotto.” Verlaque looked up at the young policeman, who was looking at his computer screen, now lost in thought. Verlaque was sorry he didn’t have more time to spend in the company of these men. Tramenti briefly closed his eyes and Verlaque thought of the painter Paul
Gauguin’s quote on the creation of art, one that Emmeline had painted on the south wall of her studio in Normandy: “I shut my eyes in order to see.”

“Look at how she leans back,” Marine said. “How she adores her baby.”

“Yes,” Tramenti said. “It’s a proud mama’s pose, not a queen’s.”

“We think that the statue was made in Florence before Pisano began the doors to the cathedral, so before 1330,” Donadio said, breaking the silence. “That would make it roughly seven hundred years old.”

B
runo Paulik wished he had been able to return to the Bar Zola with photographs of the students on Friday night, but Léa had started throwing up as soon as she and Hélène got back to Pertuis. When he and Hélène had changed Léa’s sheets for a second time and he was getting undressed for bed, Verlaque, who sounded like he was in a restaurant, called his cell phone, explaining the connection Georges Moutte had with both Giuseppe Rocchia and the Guardia di Finanza. They agreed that fingers pointed at Rocchia, and Paulik told Verlaque that he would go into Aix on Saturday and go over the files again. Perhaps Rocchia was working with someone in Aix? They needed to find out whom, and quickly. “I have more to tell you,” Verlaque had said. “But as it’s late and you have a sick child, I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

Hélène needed to rush to the vineyard in the morning, so it was agreed that Bruno would stay and nurse Léa until Hélène got back. He kept his cell phone by his side as they watched
The
Sound of Music
, Léa complaining that she didn’t like the songs and, despite her weakness, was alert enough to grab the remote control and fast forward every time a Von Trapp family member began singing. “Léa, this is a musical!” Bruno complained. “The songs are a big part of the movie; and besides, they’re great songs!”

Léa shifted on the couch to get more comfortable. “I hate the songs. They’re stupid. I only like the story part.”

“But you’re a singer!”

“Not like that I’m not.”

Paulik sighed, worried that they had created an eight-year-old snob. Léa fell asleep just before the wedding scene, and Paulik was able to finish watching the movie, humming along, before Hélène walked in just around 1:00 p.m.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, sitting down to take off her running shoes. “I thought I’d be back hours ago. It always takes longer to move soil around and spread manure. I left my rubber boots at the winery, don’t worry.”

Bruno Paulik smiled and watched his wife kiss the sleeping Léa on the forehead. He sometimes forgot how physically demanding Hélène’s occupation was. She rarely complained about the corporeal strain of her job; only the cold. Compared to him she was tiny—just over five-three—and her wiry, muscular build looked great both in the overalls she wore when in the cellars or fields and in the glimmering evening dresses and high heels she wore for promotional events and dinners.

He sighed, sorry he had to go into Aix but anxious to go over the files again and to show Patrick the photos.

Verlaque and Marine were on the road back to Aix by 9:00 a.m. on Saturday, later than planned. They had spent an enjoyable
evening dining with Donadio and Tramenti, who were staying in the wine bar’s two other guest rooms. A fair amount of wine had been drunk, Donadio wanting to show off the whites of his native Friuli and Tramenti the rich dark reds of his sun-drenched Calabria. The conversation, a smattering of English, Italian, and French, had ranged from art to World Cup soccer to jazz and, of course, food. At the end of the meal the wine bar’s owner, a fellow cigar aficionado, joined the group and brought out his uncle’s rosolio, a digestive made from rose petals.

At their first rest stop, just south of Florence, they drank strong espressos and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Verlaque stepped outside onto the terrace, littered with cigarette butts and abandoned coffee cups, to call Paulik. “
Salut
, Bruno,” Verlaque said, watching Marine through the glass windows, who was buying an outrageously enormous glass jar of Nutella for Charlotte and a block of Parmesan for Sylvie. He filled Paulik in on their conversation with the Italian police in the chapel and asked him to visit Rodier in his office as soon as possible.

“I’ll call him straightaway and arrange to meet him at the university,” Paulik said. “I’m running late because of Léa.”

Verlaque described that statue to his commissioner, who would, they agreed, discreetly look around Rodier’s office for signs of the rare Pisano instead of asking him about it. Even if Verlaque and Marine had good traffic around Genoa, there was no way they could arrive in Aix before 5:00 p.m. “At 4:00 p.m. I have an appointment with the Zola’s barman, Patrick,” Paulik told Verlaque. “He told me that Audrey Zacharie went in a few times with someone he referred to as a nerd, but it was the barman’s impression that he scared her. I’m taking photos of the theology students to see if Patrick recognizes anyone, but it’s possible that the mystery nerd wasn’t even a student. I would have tried to see
Patrick this morning, but he’s in court; last month his oldest son was caught stealing a moped.”

“How did you get all of this information out of the barman?” Verlaque asked. “I was under the impression that he didn’t like us.”

“His youngest son is in the
conservatoire
with Léa,” Paulik answered with a partial truth. “I went back for a beer the other night and we recognized each other. There’s something else too. Patrick told me that Audrey Zacharie went to the bar a few times with a man in a wheelchair.”

Verlaque almost dropped his phone. “Lémoine?”

“I don’t know. I’m taking a picture of him as well. I’ll call you after I meet with Rodier and Patrick.”

They drove on, Verlaque complaining about the other motorists. He signaled to pass an ancient Fiat 500 that was going along at about eighty kilometers per hour and as they passed, the elderly couple in the Fiat looked up at Marine and smiled, and she smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. It was one of the things Verlaque loved about her. She was unaffected by her beauty, and so very kind. “Marine,” he began, and pulled back over into the slow lane as a Ferrari raced up behind them, flashing its lights. To Marine’s surprise Verlaque didn’t give the Ferrari driver a hand gesture but instead continued speaking, “you’re wonderful.”

Four hours later Marine and Verlaque were eating sandwiches of arugula and ham at a gas station rest stop just past Imperia. Verlaque was thrilled to find his favorite coffee, Illy, available for sale cold, in a can, as an iced coffee. He bought a bagful to put in his refrigerator back home, and Marine was taking a photograph of him with her cell phone, clutching his purchase, when Bruno Paulik called back. “I’m standing outside the humanities building right now,” Paulik said. “Rodier met me, no questions asked, and I made him go over his whereabouts the night of Audrey Zacharie’s
murder while I looked around the office. The office is filled with bookshelves, two of the shelves have been cleared. There wasn’t a sculpture in sight. He seemed more nervous than before, but that could have been because he was troubled by my visit. I had been there for about twenty minutes when guess who walked in?”

Verlaque ventured a guess. “Giuseppe Rocchia?”

“Yep. I stayed on when it was obvious to me that Rocchia didn’t have any more of a reason to be there than I did. He made up some weak excuse about wanting to discuss the Cistercians with Rodier that even Rodier seemed confused about. It became a farce, with me sitting in a corner and Rocchia walking around the office glancing at the bookshelves and tables, both of us pretending to be listening to Dr. Rodier. Rocchia seemed panicked that I wouldn’t leave and he finally left, mumbling something about being late for a meeting, and I left about three minutes after. I’m going to hang out at the snack shop across the street and have a coffee and see if Rocchia comes back to ask Bernard Rodier about the sculpture, but it’s already 3:30 and my appointment at the Bar Zola is at 4:00 p.m.”

Verlaque smiled at the thought of Bruno Paulik sitting in one of Dr. Rodier’s armchairs, not budging, watching the panicked Italian take fleeting glances around the room. “Well done,” he said. “Call me after your barman friend sees the photographs. We should be in Aix by 5:00 p.m.”

Verlaque hung up and his cell phone rang again; this time it was Officer Flamant. “Sorry, Judge. Can you talk?”

“Yes, Alain. I have a driver,” Verlaque replied, smiling at Marine. “Did you meet with the accountant?”

“Yes. Those first five-thousand-euro deposits all came from the university, sir.”

“What?”

“Mlle Zacharie was embezzling; the funds came from a fellowship, the…”

“Dumas,” Verlaque answered. Marine shot a look sideways at Verlaque, her mouth open.

“Affirmative, sir. This is a new accountant, and he’s just caught up with all the books. The previous accountant has just retired, and didn’t do much when on the job, apparently.”

“And the bigger deposit, made on the day she died?”

“We don’t know,” Flamant answered. “But it wasn’t from the Dumas, and it was cash.”

Marine drove the rest of the way, nervous at first, but by the time they reached the French border she was passing cars and trucks in the tunnels as if she had driven this route hundreds of times. Verlaque had fallen asleep for about a half hour, and she envied his ability to sleep anywhere at any time. When he awoke he asked her about her family, which surprised her. He had never asked her about the Bonnets, and she thought that this may be a sign that he was ready to be asked about his own family, and the mysterious Monique of his dreams. Marine enjoyed the precision needed to drive on the coastal highway, and once they got past Nice and Cannes the highway evened out and became an easy drive past the rolling green vineyards of the Var, she relaxed, and during the last hour of the drive she told Verlaque all that she knew about baby Thomas. When she had finished Verlaque was silent, and she joked, “Do you have dark family secrets?”

“Yes,” Verlaque answered. “I’ll tell you about them sometime, maybe even tonight.” They came to the last toll and slowed down. “Fifteen minutes and we’ll be back in Aix,” Verlaque said. The toll, Verlaque thought to himself, had mercifully cut off their conversation about families.

A
t the Palais de Justice, Bruno Paulik found the case file, immediately dropped it on the floor, then shoved the photographs back in and ran out of the office and out the front doors, heading to the Bar Zola. The streets were crowded with people of all ages, doing what Aixois do best on a Saturday—shop. He weaved his way in and out through the crowds, angered when more than one person stopped smack in the middle of the pedestrian streets to check a message on their cell phones.

The barman nodded when he saw the commissioner, said something to his coworker, and walked toward the cellar door, Paulik following. “Since when have we let cell phones rule our lives?” Paulik asked as they walked down the stone stairs.

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. I still don’t have one. Let’s have a look at those photographs,” he said.

They stood under the bare lightbulb, placing the file on top of a pile of wine cartons. Paulik intentionally showed the barman
photographs of Thierry Marchive and Yann Falquerho, the barman carefully looking at each and then shaking his head back and forth. “No, sorry.”