Murder on the Ile Sordou (18 page)

“What, Antoine?” Marine asked.

“I just saw Isnard and his goofy cousin,” he answered, quickly getting up.

“What?” Paulik asked, setting down his spoon. “The fisherman is still here?”

The two men quickly left, followed by the eyes of all of Sordou's diners.

“Isnard!” Verlaque called out just as the fisherman reached the front door. “What is going on? Why are you still here?”

Isnard shrugged and put up his hand. “I didn't want to bother you,” he said. “But Fred here has never seen such a fancy hotel, and I thought I could give him just a little tour . . . since you were all busy having your meeting.”

Fred mimicked his cousin with the same shrug, and then looked down at his running shoes. “Fancy kitchen,” he finally said, looking up. “I'm a good home cook myself.”

“For Pete's sake, Isnard,” Verlaque said, sighing. “Get the hell off the island now, before I lose my temper.”

“And tomorrow,” Paulik added, “you are to come unaccompanied.”

“
Oui, monsieur le commissaire!
” Isnard said, bowing. “Let's go, Fred; a fish stew at my place awaits us. And mine doesn't have fancy foreign noodles and weird spices.”

The Rest of Us Are Strangers

“E
ven the coffee is good here,” Paulik said as he set down his empty espresso cup.

“Illy,” answered Verlaque, who had already had three cups for breakfast. That morning Paulik and Verlaque had been set up in the future conference room, which had uninspiring views of the walls surrounding Émile's
potager
. “We purposely planned the conference room here,” Max Le Bon had explained that morning as Verlaque and Paulik helped him bring in two small dining room tables and four chairs to create an office. “We figured that if you're hard at work a view would only be distracting.”

“It's perfect,” said Verlaque.

“The guests are outside or in the hotel, milling around until their names are called,” Le Bon said. “It was good of you to give them some kind of estimated appointment time.”

“We figured twenty minutes each,” Verlaque said. “Although, just like at the doctor's office, by the end of the day we'll no doubt be running late.”

“Better that than finishing early, eh?” Le Bon replied. “Let's hope that at least one of our clients can shed some light on the subject.”

“Thank you, M. Le Bon,” Paulik said.

Max Le Bon took his cue and nodded, leaving the room.

“There are only three places on the island for a boat to pull up: the natural harbor, the cove where Denis was found—and then, a boat can't get in very far—and over by Prosper's lighthouse,” Verlaque said.

Paulik asked, “How reliable is Prosper?”

“Despite his eccentric appearance, and affected voice,” Verlaque said, “I'm told that Prosper pays a maniacal attention to his lighthouse—even though it's now automated—and to his small dock.”

“I still think that a good swimmer could get here from a boat anchored not far from Sordou,” Paulik offered.

“Yes, it's still possible; I've seen stranger things before.”

Paulik didn't reply but instead looked at the paper laid before him that Verlaque had quickly written up early that morning. “Marine Bonnet,” Paulik said, smiling. “Suspect, and interviewee, number one.”

As if hearing her name, Marine knocked gently on the door and let herself in. “Hello, you two,” she said.

“Please have a seat, Mlle Bonnet,” Paulik said trying to keep a straight face.

Marine sat down and said, “I don't want to take up too much of your time in here. For the life of me I'm stumped. I can't imagine anyone killing Alain Denis, so I'm inclined to think that the killer came in from the sea.” She stopped and then added, “How romantic that sounds.”

Verlaque repeated the conversation he had just had with Paulik.

“I see,” Marine said. “An obsessive lighthouse keeper and rough sea lessen the chances that the killer came from off the island. I think it best I go back outside and keep my eyes and ears close to the ground.”

“Or sea,” Paulik added.

“That would be great,” Verlaque said. “But if there is a killer among us—and I agree, it is hard to believe—please be careful. They're unlikely to give anything away and may be dangerous.”

“I'll make sure to have Sylvie close to me,” Marine said.

Verlaque raised his left eyebrow and Paulik laughed.

“I'll send the next person in,” Marine said, getting up.

“Serge Canzano?” Paulik read.

“The bartender,” Marine said. “I'll see you both at lunch.”

“Can't wait,” Verlaque said.

While they were waiting for Canzano, Verlaque quickly filled in Paulik on the guests and staff, with brief descriptions of their work and/or personalities. For Canzano he added, “quiet efficiency,” for Cat-Cat Le Bon “tigress,” for Eric Monnier, “the absentminded poet.”

“The hotel manager?” Paulik asked.

“Seductress, with a troubled past.”

“The housekeeper?”

“Just plain weird,” Verlaque replied. “Plus she may have known Denis when they were young. She told everyone down at the cove that he had been a champion swimmer in his youth.”

“Alain Denis was from Marseille, wasn't he?”

“Yes.”

“And the boy, Brice?” Paulik asked. “What's he like?”

“Sad, and angry,” Verlaque said. “Remember when you were like that, at that age?”

“Like what, sir?”

Verlaque silently noted that Bruno Paulik had gone back to calling him “sir.” “You know,” he went on, “weren't you a troubled, angry teenage boy?”

“Um, no.”

Verlaque smiled. “And why not, do you think?”

“The pure unconditional love from my parents,” Paulik replied, and then frowned. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean . . .”

Verlaque waved his hand. “No worries,” he said. “I got that in spades form my grandparents. But they were in Normandy most of the time.”

Canzano knocked on the door and Paulik, relieved, called, “Come in!”

“Sit down, M. Canzano,” Verlaque said, motioning to a chair.

“Thank you. I'll have your Lagavulin ready for you just before lunch, Judge Verlaque,” Canzano said. “As usual.”

Paulik coughed. “I'm afraid we have to begin with the most basic of questions,” he said.

“Like where was I late Monday afternoon?” Canzano asked, his face poker-straight.

“Yes.”

“Where I always am,” he said. “I was in the bar during and right after lunch, and then for
apéro
.”

“The bar is closed for a bit in the afternoon,” Verlaque offered.

“That's right,” Canzano replied calmly. “I, as do most of the staff, take a siesta, usually between three and six p.m.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Verlaque said. “As you all wake up long before the guests, and go to bed long after. Did you hear the shot?” Verlaque asked. “It was just before six p.m.”

“No, I didn't,” Serge said. “I was back in the bar, but we were playing music, and I had the blender on, so there's no way I could hear it.”

“Blender?”

“Yes, I made a margarita for M. Viale. He was my first customer.”

“What was your opinion of M. Denis?” Paulik asked. “Bartenders are known to be good observers of people.”

“He was a difficult man,” Canzano said. “And unloved.”

“By whom?”

“His wife and stepson, for one. Only they could love, or not love, him. The rest of us are strangers.”

Paulik wrote down the words “the rest of us are strangers” and added a question mark.

“Did you notice anything unusual in the Denis family's behavior?” Verlaque asked.

Canzano paused before speaking. “I think that Mme Denis may have . . . no, let me rephrase that. One night Mme Denis left the bar, quite late, and drunk, with M. Viale.” He looked at Verlaque and added, “Your old school chum.”

“Well done,” Verlaque said. “We went to university together.”

“What night?” Paulik asked, picking up a pencil.

“Saturday,” replied Canzano without hesitating. If the bartender thought it odd, or sordid, he did not let on.

“We've asked Mlle Darcette and M. Le Bon to give us your CVs and contact addresses when you are back on the mainland,” Verlaque said. “Is there any other information we should know about you?”

Canzano shook his head. “Not what you can't glean from my résumé. I've been a bartender almost all of my life, for thirty years. I've lived in a studio near the Cours Julien for most of them, but gave it up to take this job. No use paying rent for an empty apartment. I've never been married and never had children. My parents are dead.”

“And you love French history,” Verlaque offered.

“That I do. You're observant as well,” Canzano said, flashing a rare smile.

“We'll see you later, before lunch,” Verlaque said, returning the smile.

“Very well,” Canzano said, and getting up he gave a slight bow, reminding Paulik of a servant in the nineteenth-century English dramas Léa and Hélène like to watch on DVD.

“This should be interesting,” Verlaque said, reading Niki Darcette's name after Canzano had firmly closed the door.

Niki Darcette walked quickly in and sat down before she could have a chance to be offered a seat. She pulled at her tight skirt, wishing she had worn her elegant Max Mara shorts that she had bought on sale when she got the job. M. Masurel had told her, after her desperate phone call from Cannes, never to make herself uncomfortable before the police or lawyers; clothes were important: keep them loose, cleaned, and ironed. In moments of stress she would think of his face. She did so now.

“You began working here in April, correct?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes,” Niki replied. “You can see that on my CV. I began early to help Cat-Cat with the bookings, before the hotel officially opened.”

Verlaque leaned forward. “I looked at your CV already,” he said. “This morning.”

Mme Darcette shifted in her chair.

“Would you care to fill in the missing years?”

“The Le Bons didn't tell you?”

“No.”

“I've hidden nothing,” Niki said. “They know all about it.”

“So where were you, after high school in the Var, and before your first job at the Hilton in Bordeaux?”

“In jail,” Niki replied flatly.

Paulik stopped writing and looked up.

“But not for murder,” Niki said. “Theft. Among other things.”

“Why don't you start at the beginning?” Verlaque said.

“Or you can call your colleagues in Cannes and get a more detailed version,” Niki said. Before Verlaque could reprimand her, she said, “I finished high school with a fifteen out of twenty on the
bac
.”

“That's a very good score,” Verlaque replied, where grades above twelve get a special mention. “Why didn't you go to university?”

“I got fifteen without even trying,” she answered. “I had good study habits—not thanks to my parents, but thanks to some friends—but then they moved back to Paris when I was in middle school. I fell in with the wrong crowd and moved to the Côte as soon as I graduated, with my then boyfriend, a real louse named Kévin. Kévin worked in a café for a few months . . . maybe it was even weeks . . . and then quit. The work was too hard. Stealing was easier. I saw how he did it and followed suit.”

“What did you steal?”

“Kévin would be stupid about it; he'd grab purses and then not know what to do with them except take the money. So I dropped him and started hanging out with some friends of his who were into breaking and entering . . . mostly high-end stores. The ringleader was a real creep named Robert, a million times rougher than Kévin. Funny how I end up with creeps. Anyway, we got caught after robbing a jewelry store. . . . I had one phone call to make, and I knew my parents wouldn't care nor be of any help.”

“So you called the family friends,” Verlaque suggested. “The ones who taught you to study, before they moved to Paris . . .”

Niki tried to choke back the lump in her throat. “Yeah. M. Masurel was a lawyer—a big shot—in Paris. They moved from our village when I was in sixth grade; their daughter and I were best friends.”

“Yves Masurel?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes, that's him.”

“I've worked with Maître Masurel,” Verlaque said. “Brilliant. And entirely honest.”

“And he set you up with a lawyer in Cannes?” Paulik asked.

“No,” Niki replied, straightening. “He came down to Cannes that day. He represented me.”

Verlaque nodded, impressed. “How much time did you get?”

“Six years, three with good behavior.”

“Six?” Paulik asked, surprised. It was more than usual, for robbery. He made a note to call the Cannes police.

“And you learned the hotel business while in jail?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes,” Niki replied. “They were trying an experiment; training what they called ‘exceptional' prisoners in restaurant and hotel work. There are more than enough jobs on the Côte. I flourished.”

“I can believe it,” Verlaque said, smiling.

“What do you know of Alain Denis?” Paulik asked.

“Absolutely nothing,” Niki replied. “I've never even seen one of his films.”

“And as a client?” Verlaque asked.

“A pain in the ass,” she said. “But that's not telling you anything you don't already know.”

“Where were you Monday at six p.m.?” Verlaque asked.

“I heard the shot,” Niki said. “I thought it was Prosper. I was in the office, making phone calls.”

“Could you give us a list of those, so that we can verify the calls?” Verlaque asked.

Niki shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “I kept a list.”

“And you didn't see anything unusual on Monday?” Verlaque asked.

“No,” Niki answered. “Except at breakfast, I did see a slight smile, and a weak, barely audible ‘thank you' come from Alain Denis's mouth.”