Murder on the Ile Sordou (28 page)

He saw Marine walking down the hall and they embraced. “I told Émile about the party,” she said.

“Thank you!” Verlaque said. “I was going to but got sidetracked.” He filled her in on his phone call with Paulik and Flamant.

“I wish we had better phone service here,” Marine said.

“That's what we said.”

“Well, Émile thinks the party is a great idea,” Marine continued. “We talked about the film
Babette's Feast.
Émile said he saw it with his parents when he was young, and it was one of the things that made him want to be a chef. We're calling tonight's party ‘Antoine's Feast.'”

“Except I won't be able to buy everyone a forty-year-old Clos de Vougeot,” Verlaque said.

“Is that the wine that Babette offers her guests?”

“It was cheaper back then,” Verlaque said, smiling.

Marine put her arm through his as they walked into the Jacky Bar. “I can't believe you remember which wine they drank in the movie,” she said.

“Like Émile, it was one of my favorite films for a long time,” he answered. “And one of my last memories of my grandfather, Charles, who, in the middle of the screening, cried out when he saw the Clos de Vougeot. When we got home from the film, guess what bottle he brought out from the cellar? And it was forty years old.”

Marine smiled. “How wonderful that old Bordeaux must have been . . .”

Verlaque stopped, and she laughed. “Oh, you're teasing me, aren't you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marine answered. “I know it's a Burgundy.”

•   •   •

Serge gently released the cork from a champagne bottle, and Max Le Bon clapped his hands together. “Excuse me, everyone,” he said, looking around the room. “Now that everyone is here, I'd like to, once again, offer my apologies that your vacation has been interrupted by an investigation.” Cat-Cat nodded; she had told Max not to say “murder,” and he had thankfully remembered. “Given this evening's storm,” Max went on, “we're all housebound—or hotel bound as it were—and Judge Verlaque has generously offered to throw us a party.”

The staff and clients politely clapped, with Clément Viale and Shirley Hobbs both hollering “hooray.”

“I'd also like to welcome our illustrious guests, Général Le Favre, and Sordou's only native, Prosper Buffa.”

Serge and Marie-Thérèse walked around the room, serving champagne, and Émile Villey appeared from the kitchen carrying a platter of canapés. Cat-Cat took the platter from the chef and began to serve, and Émile spoke. “
Salut
, everyone. I'd like to tell you about tonight's menu, which I'm calling ‘Antoine's Feast.'” Laughter broke out and to Verlaque's surprise Niki Darcette toasted, “
Merci, Juge Verlaque!
”

Émile continued, “I'd like to thank Marie-Thérèse and Niki, who pitched in with some very important last-minute help. I've made a summer menu, so let's just forget about the storm out there: we'll begin with cucumber and melon gazpacho and then red snapper ceviche shooters, followed by vegetable spring rolls. Once we're sitting we'll eat roast bass with olive oil, mussels, and cherry tomatoes, and, finally, in honor of our meat-loving host, a rack of grilled lamb with stir-fried summer vegetables, wasabi purée, and a cilantro-mint vinaigrette.”

A loud round of applause rang out. “And not to forget dessert,” Émile said, holding up his hand. “A chocolate cake served with fresh strawberries and vanilla bean ice cream, surrounded by a concoction I call ginger and lavender drizzle.”

Serge had turned up the Brazilian jazz, so even if Émile had wanted to keep speaking he couldn't have. Émile walked to the bar, took a glass of champagne, waved to Verlaque, who waved back, and went into the kitchen.

The dinner was a rousing success, with various guests, including Marine and Sylvie, taking turns in the kitchen, helping the chef prepare the food or helping to serve. As it had with the Danish puritans in
Babette's Feast
, the good food and wine cheered everyone up. The Viales looked like they were having a good time, at a table with the Le Bons. Niki and Marie-Thérèse took turns serving and sitting down to eat, and even Serge helped himself to a few glasses of the Krug champagne that Verlaque had ordered.

“The party is a success,” Marine whispered in Verlaque's ear. “The silence of the past few days has been unbearable,” she went on. “And look, our loners have found good company.”

Verlaque squeezed her hand and looked around the room. Niki Darcette was sitting at the bar, chatting with Serge; Mme Poux was sitting with Marie-Thérèse and Sylvie, the three of them laughing; and Eric Monnier had ended up with Prosper and
le général
. Marine looked at their table and said, “Prosper and Général Le Favre are having the time of their lives. But Eric Monnier doesn't seem as happy.”

“He's a poet,” Verlque said. “I can't imagine poets ever being really happy.”

“And your man from northern England?” Marine asked.

“Philip Larkin?” Verlaque asked. “No, I doubt he was that happy, but I'll know more after I've read his biography; I just ordered it from that English bookshop in town,” he went on.

“Why do you think all poets are sad?” Marine asked.

He thought of Frank O'Hara's poem about Billie Holiday. “Because they're trying to sort out the human condition and put it down on paper using rhythm and the most appropriate and beautiful words they can find?”

“Say no more,” Marine said, smiling.

•   •   •

“Reminds me of Vietnam,” Shirley Hobbs said to Verlaque as she was finishing dessert, licking the ginger and lavender drizzle with her finger. The guests had once more changed places and tables, and Verlaque was now sitting with the Hobbses.

“Really?” Verlaque asked.

“Not the food. Everyone pitching in,” she said. “It reminds me of the mess halls and makeshift operating rooms. It brings out the best in people.”

Verlaque smiled and was about to ask her more about her experience in Vietnam when Clément Viale appeared, holding a deck of cards. “Poker,” he said. “Are you guys in?”

“I'll come later,” Verlaque said.

“Brice, buddy,” Clément called. “You're in.”

“The boy's too young,” Verlaque said. “That's unfair.”

“Oh, Brice is as sharp as a whip,” Bill Hobbs said in English, hiccuping.

“Whip?” Clément asked.

“
Cravache
,” Verlaque and Bill Hobbs replied in unison.

“Bill, you know the word for a whip?” Shirley said to her husband.

Hobbs laughed and then shrugged. “I do listen to those language tapes you brought along,” he answered. “Guess I'm picking it up!
Vive la France!
” he cried with an accent that made Shirley laugh and Verlaque cringe. “I think I'll play a few hands too!”

•   •   •

“Thank you for showing me those poems the other day, Eric,” Verlaque said. He had helped clear the tables, giving Marie-Thérèse and Niki a break, and Émile had given him a tour of the state-of-the-art kitchen. The storm seemed to be getting louder, but so did the music. The men at the poker table were now teaching Emmanuelle Denis how to play, and Mme Poux was sitting in an armchair, with her stocking feet resting on a footstool, a tiny glass of Serge's homemade Limoncello in her hand, listening to
le général
and Prosper tell stories. Verlaque could see that she was laughing.

Eric Monnier poured the judge another glass of whiskey. “I'm glad to have shared something with you,” he said.

“Marine and I were talking about poets over dinner,” Verlaque said. “I have the impression that poets are a sad lot. Is that true?”

Monnier tried to smile. “You may be right.”

“I'm sorry,” Verlaque said. “I don't mean to pry.” He changed the subject. “What was Sordou like in the fifties?”

“Oh, dear boy, we didn't dare step foot on the island. The hotel was for the very wealthy, a smaller version of those Mediterranean hotels on the Côte, or in Italy. Capri, say. We'd swim by, though . . .” He took a sip, smiling at the memories. “Trying to get a glimpse of someone famous.”

Verlaque smiled, imagining the skinny but tanned and healthy boys from Marseille, swimming along Sordou's rocky coast. “Did you ever? See anyone?”

“I may have seen Melina Mercouri's breast once,” Monnier said. “Falling out of her swimsuit. At least that's what I told my buddies.”

“Eric!” Bill Hobbs called, holding up his hand of cards. “We need you,” he called out in English.

“I'm needed at the poker table,” Monnier said to Verlaque.

“Yes, so it seems. Go along then.”

Monnier got up, touching his glass once more to Verlaque's. He bumped into the table as he walked away, and Verlaque laughed and relit his cigar. “
Les nageurs
,” he mumbled to himself. “Damn swimmers,” he repeated in English.

“Excuse me,” Brice Dortignac said. “May I sit with you a bit?”

“Sure, Brice,” Verlaque said, pulling out a chair and trying not to sound too eager. A chance to have Brice alone was one of the things he had hoped would happen at the party, if anyone would be able to remember, or make sense of it, tomorrow.

“Thank you, judge,” the boy said, sitting down with a flop. Verlaque smiled: Brice was as well spoken as a university-educated adult, but his body was that of a teenager, all lanky awkwardness. “You said ‘damn swimmers,'” Brice said.

Verlaque puffed on his cigar. “Yes,” he answered.

“Given the weather,” Brice said, nodding toward the banging shutters, “I assume you're not going for a swim.”

“No. I was thinking that the mystery surrounding your stepfathers's death may very well have to do with swimming.” He stared at the boy, looking for a reaction.

“Not a bad theory,” Brice said.

“You're not curious?”

“Nope.” Brice set his glass carefully before him, holding on to it with both hands. Verlaque leaned over it, feigning curiosity.

“Apple juice,” Brice said. He looked at the half-empty bottle of Lagavulin and added, “In a clear glass it looks very much like your single malt.”

“You know about single malts?”

“Sure I do,” Brice said. “It's the favored drink of the moment among spoiled rich kids from Neuilly.”

“Times have changed,” Verlaque said. “I was a spoiled rich kid from the first
arrondissement
, but our fancy drinks were those awful sweet things like Frangelico and Drambuie.”

Brice laughed, sticking a finger in his mouth. “Drinks aside,” Brice said. “I wanted to admit something to you. I don't want to get M. Hobbs in trouble.”

“He wouldn't tell me what you spoke about when you were fishing,” Verlaque said.

“I knew he wouldn't,” Brice said. “He's a good guy. That's why I really opened up to him; it was as if here was this man, a stranger but a very kind one, who was listening to me. Who understood me and wouldn't judge. Because he didn't know me. Do you understand?”

Verlaque nodded.

“And so I told Bill that I hated Alain. I told him how awful Alain was, in graphic detail. The big fights mom and Alain would get into, usually about me. The nights he wouldn't come home and mom would cry. Their financial worries. I was blubbering by the end of it, especially when I got to the part when Alain struck my mother.”

Verlaque leaned forward and then stopped himself. But it was too late; the boy realized that he had possibly incriminated himself, and his mother, and stopped speaking. They sat in silence, listening to Clément Viale trying to get Delphine to dance; Prosper trying to help himself to another drink and getting whisked away by Serge; and Shirley Hobbs trying to get Bill to stop playing poker. Marine and
le général
danced by, arm in arm, to the sounds of a waltz.

“Is that Strauss?” Verlaque asked.

Brice smiled weakly and shrugged. “Not up on my Viennese music,” he said. “I'm going to hit the sack. Good night.”

“Good night, Brice,” Verlaque said. He resisted adding “sleep tight” as Emmeline would have. Brice was far too old for that.

Brice hadn't been gone for more than thirty seconds when Sylvie sat down, carrying a mojito. “Mind?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Verlaque said. “Marine is busy being Maria Von Trapp.”

Sylvie laughed. “You can be funny sometimes, Antoine.”

Verlaque looked at her and smoked a bit of his cigar. “We didn't exactly get off on the right foot when we first met,” he began. “But I know you were looking out for Marine's best interest.”

“I thought you were a conceited prick.”

“Thanks,” Verlaque said. “I probably was. You see, a conceited prick makes a good judge. A good detective.”

“What's the matter, then?” Sylvie asked. “Shit, I wish they'd change the music.”

Verlaque leaned forward. “I'm getting all soft.” He shrugged and took a drink.

“Maybe that's a good thing.”

Verlaque looked at Sylvie, suddenly feeling his fatigue. “It's not good for an examining magistrate.”

“Right.” The music changed into a Caribbean song,
le général
cried out in protest, and Sylvie smiled.

“The thing is, I don't see any of these people as killers,” he said, looking around the room, his eyes resting on Clément Viale, who was now dancing the limbo with Marie-Thérèse, under a broom being held up by Niki and Max. “Clément should watch out for his back,” he muttered.

“Well, I'm going to go down to Hugo's cabin, despite the rain,” Sylvie said, finishing her mojito. “Niki told me that the Le Bons are going to offer him his job back, but because of the storm he doesn't know that yet.”