Murder on the Ile Sordou (5 page)

Dinner for Ten

M
arine sat on their room's private terrace, her bare feet resting on the wrought iron balcony. She wore a short, pink fitted cotton dress, and a large floppy beige sun hat trimmed in light blue. A cool wind was beginning to blow, and the sun would soon set, but she relished these few moments—outside, away from her computer and research. She looked out at the sparkling sea and wriggled her toes, which had just been subject to a poor pedicure. She inspected the spots where she had missed, and the red nail polish had leaked out onto her toes. She told herself that no one would notice, and if they did, they surely must be bored.

“Did you put sunscreen on your legs?” Antoine Verlaque asked as he came out on the terrace to join her.

Marine looked at her legs and then up at her boyfriend. “Not yet, but I will tomorrow, I promise,” she answered. “It's just been so long since these white, freckled legs have seen any sun.” She turned her legs from right to left and frowned.

Verlaque reached down and tapped on the brim of her hat. “I love your white, freckled legs,” he said. “They match all the polka dots in the bar downstairs.”

“Thanks,” Marine said, rolling her eyes.

“Aren't you hungry?”

Marine laughed. “No, but
you
are, I take it. Aren't there any snacks in the minibar?”

“There was a small bag of peanuts, but I already ate them.”

“Thanks for sharing!” Marine said.

“It really was minuscule,” Verlaque replied. “About this big,” he added, putting his thumb and pointer finger about an inch apart.

Marine looked at her watch, made of white gold and encrusted with very discreet diamonds. It had been a birthday present from Verlaque, and she dreaded to even think of how much it cost, probably as much as a down payment on a smallish apartment in Aix.

“Let's go down to the dining room,” Verlaque said, rubbing his hands together. “It's almost eight-thirty.”

“All right, don't rush me,” Marine said as she slowly got up from the very comfortable deck chair she had been sitting on and took one last look at the sea.

“Come on, slowpoke,” Verlaque said, already heading for the door. “Let's get a good table.”

“Wait a minute, Antoine,” Marine said, catching up to him and gently grabbing his shoulder. “I don't want to be rushed, or stressed, this week. There are other guests here, and so what if they get the dining table with the best view. Okay? Look at the view out of this bedroom window.”

“I'm just hungry.”

“I believe that you're hungry,” Marine said, laughing. “But I also know that as an examining magistrate, and an independently wealthy one at that, that you're used to getting your own way. But there are other wealthy, even famous, people here, and they too are used to getting what they want. So let's let them have their . . . way.”

Verlaque took Marine in his arms and kissed her. He then drew away and said, “Do I have the right to send the wineglasses back if I don't like them?”

Marine laughed and looked up at the ceiling, knowing that Antoine would be restless the entire dinner if the wineglasses were too small or their rims too thick. “Yes!”

He took her once again in his arms and kissed her, lifting up the back of her dress and running his hand up her leg toward her buttocks.

“Antoine,” Marine said, reaching behind and taking his hand in hers. “We already made love, twice, after we got here. Remember?”

“Yes,” Verlaque replied, kissing her. “That's the problem. I remember.”

“Besides—”

A knock at the door interrupted their embrace.

“Who could that be?” Verlaque asked.

“Sylvie,” Marine whispered.

“Why?” Verlaque asked, adopting Marine's hushed tones. “Can't we just meet her downstairs?”

Marine shook her head back and forth. “No, she doesn't like going into dining room, or even to parties, alone. Shhh . . .”

“That's ridiculous,” Verlaque whispered when the caller knocked again, this time harder.

“It's just a phobia she has,” Marine whispered, moving toward the door. “She sees herself as a loser if she enters a place alone.”

Verlaque tapped the side of his head, putting his hand down just in time as Marine had opened the door and Sylvie rushed into their room. “Didn't you hear me knock?” she asked. “Nice dress, Marine.” She looked over at Verlaque, who earlier had changed into a short-sleeved blue linen shirt and clean khakis, his bare feet in a new pair of Tod's. “And you, Antoine, look very . . .”

“Elegant?” Verlaque asked.

“Preppy,” Sylvie replied. “But it suits you.”

Verlaque pressed his lips together, knowing that “preppy” for a contemporary photographer—who this evening wore a short gold-lamé dress and high-heeled strappy sandals—was an insult, but he had promised Marine he would try to get along with her best friend. He looked over at Marine, who was smiling, and she winked at him.

“What did you two do all afternoon?” Sylvie asked, walking around their large room and inspecting it.

“We had sex twice, then a nap,” Marine said flatly.

Verlaque laughed.

Sylvie took a step back and looked at her friend, wide-eyed. “Are you under some kind of Sordou spell?”

“Perhaps,” replied Marine.

“Well, I had a nap too,” Sylvie replied, still looking sideways at Marine. “And then went for a swim in the pool where both the young godlike chef and rugged boatman were ogling me, and then saw a huge fight between Alain Denis and Botox wifey, whose name, I found out, is Emmanuelle.”

Verlaque yawned. “Who's hungry?”

•   •   •

The dining room's décor was more subdued than the Jacky Bar's, but every bit as interesting, and also Capri-inspired. Cat-Cat Le Bon and Émile Villey had spent weeks poring over the Internet and design magazines, choosing what they agreed were the most comfortable chairs, elegant linens, and tasteful table settings. The chandeliers were made from colored Murano glass; everything else was a shade of ivory or cream, save for the bunches of pale-pink peonies on the sideboards.

Niki Darcette, who had changed into a short black evening dress, was there to greet the guests, and she escorted the trio to a round table set for three, which did have a view of the sea, as did most of the other tables, given there were only ten people eating that evening. “I'm sorry that it's too cold to eat outside on your first night here,” Darcette said. “We weren't expecting the wind to pick up like it did.”

“That's Provence for you,” Sylvie answered. Despite living and working in Aix-en-Provence for over twenty years, she still hated the Provençal wind.

The dining room was big but didn't feel too cold, partly thanks to the low carved ceiling and the expansive windows. The architect had renovated a second, smaller dining room, which was now closed off by sliding wooden doors but could be opened to join the main room when the hotel reached—the Le Bons hoped by next summer—its maximum capacity.

Verlaque, Marine, and Sylvie politely nodded at the other diners, who nodded back. Eric Monnier was just tucking his napkin into the top of his shirt and Verlaque shook his hand and wished him well. As they passed the Hobbses' table Verlaque said bon appétit to the couple, who were already halfway though their main dishes.

“
Merci
,” Shirley Hobbs said, visibly thrilled to be able to understand the man's greeting.

“Darn fine lamb chops,” Bill Hobbs said, pointing to the meat with his fork, his hand gently shaking.

Verlaque stopped and said, in English, “Is that so? I'll order them, then.”

“Oh my God,” Sylvie whispered to Marine as they sat down. “Next we'll be playing musical chairs with the other guests.”

Marine smiled. “Antoine loves to talk about food, and especially use his English.”

“What's the sauce surrounding the polenta?” Verlaque asked Hobbs.

“It's just the meat juice, pure and simple,” Bill Hobbs answered.

Verlaque rubbed his stomach. “Sounds perfect. Enjoy the rest of your meal.”

“Thank you,” the Hobbses said in unison.

As he walked away Verlaque heard Shirley Hobbs whisper, “The French are
so
nice, not at all like Susan and Ian Bertwhistle said.”

Verlaque smiled, glad to have proven the Bertwhistles wrong. And what did he have to be snooty, or sour, about? Why not be nice, and kind, to strangers, even if it had horrified Sylvie Grassi? He liked his job as the examining magistrate in sleepy and affluent Aix-en-Provence; he was very in love with Marine Bonnet, who was the most intelligent, cultured, and warmhearted law professor he was sure to ever meet; he enjoyed, and respected—apart from Prosecutor Yves Roussel—his colleagues at the Palais de Justice; and he was, as the heir to a flour fortune, financially more than well-off. What was missing? he asked himself as he sat down, still smiling.

“Why don't you go and chat with the rest of the diners?” Sylvie asked.

“I would,” Verlaque answered, shaking open the pale-blue linen napkin and setting it on his lap. “But I'm too hungry—”

Verlaque's sentence was cut short by what sounded like a gunshot, quickly followed by two more. Sylvie held her hand to her chest and said, “What in the world?”

“Hunters?” Marine asked. “It's off season . . .”

Maxime Le Bon rushed into the dining room, motioning to the diners with his palms pushing the air. “Please, do not be alarmed,” he said.

“Those were gunshots,” Bill Hobbs said.

“Dear guests,” Max Le Bon continued. “As I said, please do not be alarmed. As you saw from the boat as you arrived at Sordou, the island is home to one of France's tallest lighthouses . . .”

The guests nodded, perplexed.

“And in that lighthouse lives our very own eccentric islander—every island needs one, ha-ha—Prosper Buffa.”

Verlaque leaned over and quickly translated for the Hobbses.

“M. Buffa, having never lived on the mainland, hunts and fishes for his food,” Le Bon went on. “That was Prosper now, obviously hunting rabbits. I'm dreadfully sorry, and I'll ask him to stay on his side of the island from now on, and to restrict his hunting to the early morning.”

“That's so dangerous,” Bill Hobbs said, looking at his fellow diners for approval.

“
Mais oui, certainement! Très dangereux!
” the Parisian woman called out.

“Oh, Bill,” Shirley Hobbs said. “Don't be such a square. We're in France, and people still hunt here.” She smiled kindly at Verlaque and Marine and Sylvie. Sylvie waved.

“Zank you for ze understanding,” Max Le Bon said in heavily accented English. “Bon appétit!”

“Good, here comes the waitress,” Verlaque said.

“
Bonsoir
,” Marie-Thérèse Guichard said, still nervous on her first official day as waitress. She had practiced over the whole month of June on the rest of the staff, but hadn't taken it seriously as she had grown to know, and feel comfortable with, her coworkers. At twenty-two she was the youngest person on staff and had heard about the job through her uncle, who had overseen the masonry work during the renovations. “There's a simple menu this evening,” she began. “In fact, a simple menu all this week.”

Verlaque and Sylvie laughed, and Marine kicked both of them under the table.

Marie-Thérèse coughed and went on. “Um, tonight's specials are . . . cold zucchini soup served with crème-fraîche from the Alps . . . I mean the cream, not the zucchini . . . and stacked, roasted vegetables layered with the chef's own phyllo dough.” She looked seriously from Marine to Sylvie and went on, too shy to look at the chubby man, whom she could see was sitting forward staring intently at her, his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his fists. “Um, for entrées . . . freshly caught sea bream . . . Isnard caught it . . . he's our fisherman . . . he's really nice . . .”

Verlaque laughed and Sylvie and Marine held their napkins up to their mouths, Marine's eyes filling with tears.

“. . . braised, um, in olive oil with cherry tomatoes, black olives, and artichokes, or wood-fired lamb chops served with polenta.” Marie-Thérèse sighed and shifted her weight, daring to glance at the male diner, who was know sitting back, his thick arms crossed, still smiling.

“I'll have the soup,” Marine said.

“So will I,” Sylvie added.

“Stacked vegetables for me,” Verlaque said.

Marie-Thérèse nodded. “Okay. And to follow?”

“The sea bream,” Marine said.

“Lamb chops,” Sylvie said.

“Another lamb here,” Verlaque said, raising his hand.

“Thank you,” Marie-Thérèse said, turning quickly on her heel to go. “Oh, here's the wine menu!” she added, handing Verlaque a thick white book.