Murder on the Ile Sordou (12 page)

Canzano smiled as he dried and checked a wineglass for spots. “Mme Le Bon is working on starting a small library. We'll have the books here, in the Jacky Bar. She's buying some special editions; books that have to do with the Mediterranean. You know, like Camus's
L'étranger
. The books will be a nice addition to my bar. I think I'll put them over there”—Canzano gestured with his head—“on the rosewood credenza.”

Monnier smiled. He liked that the barman spoke of
his
bar; Monnier placed much importance on people who had pride in their work, no matter what their job. He was also impressed that the barman knew of such books; all was not lost in the French education system, at least for people of their generation. “Maybe I will have another,” he said. “Please.”

Ode to the Rouget and Saint-Pierre

T
he saint-pierre, with its large, flat oval body and spiky top fin, was one of the ugliest fish Émile Villey had ever seen. He didn't know why the Anglo-Saxons called it a John Dory; Mr. Dory, whoever he was, had nothing to do with Saint Peter. The fish was a bottom-feeder; its large eyes had binocular vision and excellent depth perception. When the fisherman had shown up at the dock that morning with a slew of saint-pierres, Villey was over the moon, for despite its unglamorous appearance, it was one of his favorite fish to cook, and to eat.

The chef whispered to the fish, “You're so ugly.”

“Who are you talking to?” Marie-Thérèse asked as she came into the kitchen. Villey stepped aside so that the girl could see the saint-pierres lined up on his work surface.

“
Oh mon dieu!
”
she exclaimed.

“Don't worry, it tastes nothing like it looks,” Villey said.

“They're awful looking!” Marie-Thérèse said. She leaned in to get a closer look. “But I do like their glittery-gold color. And they all have a birthmark.” She pointed to the round dark spot—about the size of a quarter—on each fish's side.

“That's its evil eye,” Villey explained. “Other fish approach it, thinking that they're looking the saint-pierre in the face, and then he swings around and opens his big mouth and, gulp!”

Marie-Thérèse stared in disgust.

“Hey,” Villey said, putting a hand on her thin shoulder. “Don't worry, it won't bite you. And besides, some people claim that that spot is where Saint Peter left his thumbprint.”

Marie-Thérèse smiled. “I like that story better.” She straightened her back and put her hands on her hips. “Did you write tonight's menu yet?”

“Yeah, I gave it to Niki a few hours ago to type up.”

Marie-Thérèse sighed, leaning against the counter.

“What's wrong?” Villey asked, taking a knife off of the counter and sharpening it. “Tired?”

“No, it's just that actor . . .”

“Alain Denis? Don't let him bother you. He's a certified idiot.”

“He's so mean.”

“I know. He's complained about the hotel from the moment he got here. Niki told me. It has nothing to do with you, okay? And Saturday night he didn't like the lamb and complained to Max.”

“No way!” Marie-Thérèse exclaimed. “That was one of the best meals I've ever eaten in my
life
! Even reheated!”

Émile Villey laughed and tapped Marie-Thérèse playfully on the head. “Now scram and let me prepare these fish, unless you want to help clean and gut.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going!”

•   •   •

“Too Ralph Lauren,” Sylvie said.

Marine looked at herself in the full-length mirror and turned from side to side. “I like white in summer,” she said.

“At least jazz up those white pants with some color.” Sylvie opened the closet and took out a silk halter top of sixties psychedelia in blues, greens, and white. “This one; it matches this hotel,” she said, holding it up. “Oh my God, is this a real Emilio Pucci?”

“I'm afraid so,” Marine replied, taking off the white linen blouse she had been wearing and throwing it on the bed. She looked out to the terrace where Antoine Verlaque was reading and smoking a cigar.

“A gift?” Sylvie asked, motioning toward the judge.

“Yes, last time Antoine was in Paris he bought it for me.”

“Nice boyfriend. Can you take off those bra straps?”

“Yes, if you'll help me,” Marine said, turning so that Sylvie could unhook the straps.

“You probably don't even need the bra.”

Marine laughed. “Am I that flat-chested?”

“No, of course not!”

“I'm a little too prudish not to wear a bra,” Marine said. “Not like you . . .”

“Whooooooa,” Sylvie said, handing Marine the Pucci halter top. “Are you referring to this afternoon?”

“No.” Marine slipped the thin top over her head and then stared at her friend. She went on, “Yes. Maybe.”

Sylvie looked down at the carefully restored terra-cotta floor.

“I'm sorry,” Marine quickly said. “It's just that . . . you don't know anything about him.”

“Have you forgotten being single?” Sylvie asked. “Did you always ask your dates their life history before having sex?”

“Sounds like you two are having an interesting conversation,” Antoine Verlaque called from the terrace.

Marine was about to close the French doors leading to the terrace and blow her lover a kiss when a shot rang out. “Oh my God!” she said, sighing.

“It doesn't sound like the recluse listened to Max,” Verlaque said, turning the page of his
Economist
. “There will be more bunny on the menu.”

Marine laughed and closed the door, looking through the glass at her boyfriend of three years, and tried to remember what she knew of him the first few weeks they had started dating. She knew of his spectacular rise through the French judicial system partly through another lawyer friend, Jean-Marc Sauvat, who worked at the Palais de Justice with Verlaque. The first time she had visited Verlaque's apartment she had guessed at family wealth—examining magistrates were civil servants and could not afford sixteenth-century Venetian paintings. They had made love, in his apartment, after their third official date, long before Marine had ever met Antoine's beloved grandmother, Emmeline, or his Realtor brother, Sébastien, and she still had yet to meet his parents. And so was Sylvie's afternoon any different? Still,
it was
, but Marine couldn't put her finger on it . . . was it the boat, and the sea? The fact that they were far from the hotel that afternoon? Perhaps it was just Marine's own fear; a fear of the sea and a general malaise at being on an island. “You're right,” Marine finally said to Sylvie. “I'm not sure how much I even knew about Antoine before we started sleeping together. Not a whole lot.”

“Thank you,” Sylvie said, bowing her head slightly. “Now turn around so that I can tie the halter behind your impossibly graceful neck, and we'll go down to the Jacky Bar for a few drinks before dinner.”

Marine looked at her watch.

Sylvie said. “It's six p.m. That's a perfectly reasonable time to have a drink.”

•   •   •

Emmanuelle Denis was waiting at the doors to the terrace, pacing, when Marine, Antoine, and Sylvie arrived for dinner at 8 p.m.

“No Brice?” Verlaque asked, approaching Mme Denis and carefully taking her by the arm.

“Nothing,” she replied. She began to cry and put her head on Verlaque's shoulder. “It will be dark soon,” she said to no one in particular, lifting her head up. “Thank you for looking for Brice this afternoon,” she went on. “Max Le Bon told me. And he gave me Brice's hat.”

“We looked for Brice around where we found the hat,” Verlaque said. “But we didn't have much time; Hugo Sammut had to get the boat back.”

“I've sent Hugo out again,” Max Le Bon said, entering the room. “He's doing a tour of the island, by boat, hoping that he'll see the boy close to the shore.” Max looked at Sylvie and then added, “Hugo had the boat out earlier today, but didn't see the boy.”

“Thank you, M. Le Bon,” Emmanuelle Denis said.

“If he doesn't come back tonight,” Verlaque said, “I'm going to call some colleagues in Marseille and demand a search of the island.” He thought to himself that he should have done it earlier in the day, but he had been sure that the boy would have been back for dinner, his tail between his legs.

Mme Denis smiled weakly and put her hand on her stomach.

Marine said, “Would you be able to eat a little something? Some fruit, perhaps . . .”

“Thank you,” she answered. “I'll try. My husband is eating in his room—or I assume he is—he left me a note not to disturb him. He's . . . stressed . . . about this whole thing.”

Sylvie resisted from rolling her eyes and put out her elbow for Mme Denis to take, while Marine and Antoine followed.

Eric Monnier got up from his table, as did the Hobbses, when Mme Denis walked by. Only the Viales seemed not to care about the missing boy, but it looked to Verlaque like they were in the middle of an argument.

Marie-Thérèse appeared with sheets of paper—this evening's menu—and handed one to each of the party.

“Hello there, Marie-Thérèse!” Verlaque said.

“
Bonsoir, monsieur le juge
,” the young woman answered, smiling, but then putting her hand to her mouth. She had forgotten that the judge was on vacation.

“You're a judge?” Mme Denis asked Verlaque, putting a hand on his forearm.

“Examining magistrate,” he answered.

“Where?”

“Aix-en-Provence.”

“Oh, not Paris . . .” Mme Denis said, sounding disappointed.

Verlaque didn't want to go any further with the conversation; he was on vacation and didn't feel like giving Mme Denis advice on divorce, which he guessed her questions were leading to.

Menu

• MONDAY, JULY 8 •

To begin: Freshly caught local
rouget
fish (thank you, Mr. Hobbs) prepared cold, in a ceviche style, with mango, tomato, onion, lime, ginger, and coriander salsa

To follow: Steamed
saint-pierre
(also freshly caught, delivered to Sordou this morning) with fennel, black olives, olive oil, and orange slivers

Or

Lapin à Liguria:
Rabbit baked with white wine and green olives in the Italian style

Dessert:

Lavender ice cream made by our chef

Or

Peaches with
chantilly

“Great-looking menu tonight,” Verlaque said, turning the paper over in his hands. “Although a little on the light side. Do you think there will be potatoes?”

Marine stared at the menu and tried not to laugh. She knew that Antoine was trying to lighten up the evening, and she knew that her boyfriend could eat potatoes at each of his three daily meals.

“What do you think you'll have?” Marine asked, leaning toward Mme Denis.

“Just the first course; the
rougets
,” Mme Denis answered, setting the menu down and folding her hands.

Marie-Thérèse returned to the dining room to take orders, and Verlaque turned around in his chair to face the Hobbses. “Mr. Hobbs,” he said in English. “Thank you for the
rougets
this evening.”

“My pleasure!” Bill Hobbs replied, beaming.

“We used to have more
rougets
in the Med,” Eric Monnier added from the next table. “But with global warming and overfishing, there are now more in the North Sea.” Verlaque translated for Mr. Hobbs, and Bill Hobbs raised his arms up in mock helplessness, his right hand shaking. Shirley Hobbs quickly and gracefully moved his wineglass from the edge of the table.