Murder on the Ile Sordou (9 page)

The Rising Sea

M
arine Bonnet and Antoine Verlaque stepped out onto the dining room's terrace, its small red marble tables set with fine white china for breakfast. The only sound was made by Hugo Sammut; wearing neatly pressed shorts and a tightly fitting polo shirt, Sammut was clipping the fragrant hedge that separated the terrace from the gardens that gently slopped down the hill.

“This view is just as spectacular as the view from our room,” Marine said, slipping her hand around Verlaque's waist.

Verlaque nodded and looked out over the island's small, protected bay toward the limestone cliffs in the west that fell abruptly into the sea. “I'm glad we came,” he finally said, kissing her.

“Lovebirds!” Sylvie called from under an enormous white sun hat.

“Hey,” Marine said, walking over to Sylvie's table and giving her the
bise
. “How's the coffee?”

“Divine,” Sylvie said, lowering her oversize vintage sunglasses for special effect. “It's illy, not French, thank God.”

“Great news,” Verlaque said, sitting down and pouring two glasses of orange juice for himself and Marine from a cut-glass pitcher.

“French coffee is good, you two,” Marine said. She always felt that she had to defend their country, as Verlaque was a quarter English, and proud to be, and Sylvie was just a reactionary.

Marie-Thérèse had seen Pretty Woman—the name she gave Marine the moment she first saw her—and Chubby Man walk onto the terrace, and she came out to greet them.

“How are you this morning?” Verlaque bellowed.

“F-fine,” she answered, adjusting her white apron. “Chef Émile has baked scones this morning. Would you like some?”

“Scones?” Verlaque asked. “Fantastic. And two cappuccinos, please.”

“Yes, that sounds great,” Marine added.

“I'll have another scone, pretty please,” Sylvie said. “And another cappuccino.”

Marie-Thérèse nodded and almost ran off.

“It's charming how she refers to the chef as Chef Émile,” Marine said. “They're almost the same age, I would guess.” She looked out over the blue-green, almost transparent water. “Incredible to think that there are underwater caves all around these islands,” she said. “With prehistoric paintings and carvings.”

“Weren't those a hoax?” Sylvie asked.

“Oh no,” Marine answered. “They've been dated as the real thing.”

“But how did those little prehistoric dudes get into those underwater caves, with their paints and all?” Sylvie asked.

“First they went to the art store and bought the paints, then to the hardware store for the flashlights,” Verlaque said.

“By land,” Marine answered, smiling. “The sea was farther away then. Those caves, tens of thousands of years ago, were at the water's edge. Today you have to swim in to get to them, with scuba gear.”

Sylvie sighed and looked out at the sea. “The sea keeps rising, doesn't it?

“Yes. With global warming the glaciers are melting,” Marine said.

Sylvie moaned. “What a depressing thought.”

“Time to buy a beach house in Skagen,” Verlaque said, looking over his
Le Monde
at the women.

“I'm in,” Sylvie said. “I love the Danish. That
is
in Denmark, right?”

“On the northern tip,” Verlaque said, sitting up as Marie-Thérèse came back with their breakfast.

Marine continued to look out at the cliffs and the sea. It was indeed depressing to think that one day it would be too hot to sit out in the south of France, even at 9 a.m.

“What's amazing to me is that we have the
calanques
and islands right here, just a few miles from one of the world's biggest cesspools,” Verlaque said, smearing his scone, which had just appeared, with too much butter.

“Are you in one of your anti-Marseille moods?” Marine asked.

“I've never liked it,” Verlaque replied. “Just the restaurants are better than ours in Aix, that's all.”

Marine winked at Sylvie and asked, “Has everyone else already eaten breakfast?” she asked.

“The Yanks were on the way out when I came,” Sylvie said. “Dressed for the golf course. The poet was here but left just before you came. Other than that, no one. Oh, here comes Alain Denis . . .”

The actor, dressed in a pink linen shirt and white linen shorts, walked out onto the terrace and gazed through his Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses for a table. He made no attempt to say good morning to the only other people on the terrace and chose a table far away from them.

Verlaque saw Marie-Thérèse waiting in the wings, playing with her apron strings. He saw her take a deep breath and walk across the terrace's red terra-cotta surface and bend down to ask Denis what he would like for breakfast.

“Of course I'm alone, what does it look like?” the actor cried loud enough for everyone to hear. Marine, Sylvie, and Antoine Verlaque tried not to wince.

Marie-Thérèse straightened up. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I thought that Mme Denis might be arriving any minute.”

“Obviously not,” Denis said, sighing. “I'll just start with an espresso, no food yet,” he added in a lower voice, as if he regretted his prior outburst. “No, I'll have a bowl of fresh fruit with that.”

Marie-Thérèse said a loud and firm “Coming right up!” and left. Verlaque had to look into his newspaper for fear of laughing. The young waitress was having a go at the aging actor, but like all self-possessed people, he had no idea.

When Marine, Sylvie, and Antoine were finishing up breakfast Mme Denis appeared, wearing a beach sarong and high-heeled sandals. “I can't believe it,” she said to her husband.

“This is excellent,” Sylvie whispered, taking off her sunglasses to see well.

“You're sitting there, calmly having breakfast, when my son is missing!” Emmanuelle Denis yelled.

Denis looked up at his wife, slowly setting aside his
Paris Match
. “Brice has gone swimming, or walking, or . . . I don't know. . . . He's gone off just to worry you. He'll be back when he's hungry.” He picked up the magazine again and Mme Denis swung around and saw Marine, Sylvie, and Antoine—who had been pretending to read the newspaper—all staring at her.

Verlaque got up and said, “Maybe one of the staff have seen him,” he said quietly but firmly. “This is a wonderful place for a teenage boy to explore,” he added.

“I'm sorry to disturb your breakfast,” Mme Denis said, reaching out her hand. Verlaque was so surprised at the offer of an introduction that his foot got caught on the table's wrought iron leg and Sylvie snorted out a laugh. He hadn't told Marine of Emmanuelle Denis's late-night appearance in the bar the previous night.

“Antoine Verlaque,” he said, shaking her hand. “And this is Marine Bonnet, and . . . our friend, Sylvie Grassi.”

“Emmanuelle Denis,” she replied, and nodded in the direction of Marine and Sylvie. “It's Brice, my son,” she continued. “I can't find him, and it looks like he didn't sleep in his bed last night.”

“Perhaps he made it?” Verlaque asked. But before Mme Denis answered, Verlaque said, “Oh, he's a teenage boy . . .”

Mme Denis forced a smile. “Exactly.”

“This is a small island, and it's summer, but I can't imagine someone sleeping outside,” Verlaque said.

“He's done this kind of thing before,” Mme Denis replied. She looked at her husband and he rolled his eyes. “As you say, this is an island, but Brice doesn't know it. It's not the same as Paris.”

Marine looked at Mme Denis and remembered the boy's absence at dinner last night. But his mother had been there, without him, and was now decked out for a bathing suit photo shoot, not frolicking in the waves with her son, or playing games with him, or whatever Marine supposed mothers should be doing on vacation with their children, even teenage ones.

Mme Denis went on, “Brice wouldn't eat with us last night. . . . He was too upset.”

“I really don't think you should go telling strangers our family history,” Alain Denis hissed, now standing beside his wife.

“
What
family?” she answered back.

“Come have something to eat,” Denis said, taking her arm.

“I'm not hungry,” she replied, shaking off his hold.

“Emmanuelle, don't be a daft cow,” he said.

“Leave her,” Verlaque said. “She's obviously upset.”

“Mind your own business, asshole,” Denis said, grabbing his wife's arm once again.

“I said I'm not hungry,” she cried. “I'm going out, to look for my son!” She pulled herself away from Denis but he lunged toward her, pulling on her arm.

Verlaque was about to reach out to help Mme Denis when Hugo Sammut's body appeared out of nowhere, as if he had flown over the hedge. With one fast gesture he grabbed Alain Denis's arms, forcing them behind his back with his hands in a locked position. Hugo threw Denis against the wall of the hotel, while Denis shouted protestations of having Hugo fired, and suing the hotel.

“Hugo!” Max Le Bon shouted, now standing at the edge of the terrace, having heard the commotion. “Release M. Denis this instant!”

The actor's face was reddened, and his sunglasses had fallen and broken in the scrimmage. Verlaque quickly bent down and picked them up, hiding them under a napkin.

“What kind of staff do you have here?” Denis cried, tucking his shirt back into the waist of his shorts. “That man will be fired, I assume!” Denis walked over to his table and picked up his iPhone and left the terrace.

“Come, Hugo,” Max Le Bon said. “I'm terribly sorry for this,” he then said to the patrons.

“He did nothing wrong,” Sylvie said. “He was defending—”

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Le Bon said, gently taking Hugo by the elbow and leading him away.

“I hope he doesn't get fired on my behalf,” Mme Denis said, slowly sitting down.

“Hugo went too far,” Verlaque said. “Right or wrong, your husband is a guest.”

•   •   •

Maxime and Cat-Cat Le Bon had toyed with the idea of not putting in a swimming pool when they renovated Locanda Sordou. They thought the whole idea of it idiotic, with the sea surrounding them; budget was a concern too, and toward the end of the renovations they had started using up their money and had little left for a pool the size and quality a hotel like Sordou would need. In the end an investor—a colleague of Clément Viale's—stepped in with 50,000 euros, which enabled them to add a pool, pool house, and bar, and buy the necessary lounge furniture from B&B Italia.

The Le Bons had both grown up privileged, and their first swims had been at family vacation homes on the sea, in Deauville. And so one of the first things they had installed, before the renovations had even begun, was a small ladder that led from the flat rocks in the beach's harbor down into the sea about five feet below. The flat rocks provided perfect, natural areas to recline, and the ladder made it feel like the Mediterranean was one big swimming pool, which, compared to the Atlantic, it was.

Marine had climbed down the ladder and swam close in, where she could see down to the seafloor. But Antoine swam far out, and when she was tired she climbed out and stood on the rocks watching him, with her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. She didn't like the idea of his swimming alone, but she was too afraid of the sea, and its black depth, to venture out with him.

They had been out there all morning, alternating between reading, talking, and swimming when it got too hot. She waved to the Americans, who were sitting on the next cliff over, Mr. Hobbs fishing and Mrs. Hobbs sketching. She bent down and pulled her watch out of her beach bag; it was almost 1 p.m., and time to head back in for lunch. She waved out to Verlaque and he began swimming toward her.

“If I got you some goggles,” he said as he swam up to the cliff's edge, “I think you'd enjoy swimming in the sea more.” He swam over to the ladder and pulled himself out. Marine was always amazed that despite her boyfriend's love of good food and wine, and his ample girth, he rarely seemed out of breath after swimming, or running. “When you do a lot of sports when you're young, it stays with you,” he had explained. Marine's sports had been walking to the library when she was a young girl, and then walking around Paris's sixth
arrondissement
where she had studied law.

“Perhaps,” Marine called out, as she sat on the rock's edge and dipped her feet into the cold sea.

“Time for lunch?” Verlaque asked once he was out and was toweling off his hair.

“Yes,” Marine replied. “And I predict that Sylvie will be a no-show, and that boy, Brice, will be there, and starving.”

“I think you're right,” Verlaque said. “It would be hard to have a son, wouldn't it?”

Marine looked over at Verlaque, surprised. “You mean instead of a daughter, or just a child in general?”