Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (29 page)

Prodos's garage was almost in walking distance of the Pauliks'
house. As he pulled up in front of the garage, he could see lights on through the streaked window glass.

Prodos heard Paulik pull up, and knew by the sound that he was driving an older Range Rover that needed work on the fan belt. That squealing sound it made as it turned was unmistakable. He came out of the garage to meet the commissioner, wiping his oily hands on a small blue towel.

“
Bon soir,
” Prodos said, extending his elbow. “I've wiped my hands, but they're still pretty oily. My elbow will have to do.”

Paulik shook the mechanic's elbow. “No problem. I'm Commissioner Bruno Paulik.”

“Come inside, Commissioner.”

Paulik followed Prodos through what looked to him like any office in a working garage: an old metal desk was piled high with old invoices and dirty coffee mugs. Posters and framed photographs covered every wall surface, along with a collection of trophies. There were no girlie posters or photos of Ferraris or Maseratis. The cars proudly featured were Citroëns, mostly from the 1960s and '70s, and only two models, the DS and the ID.

“Have a seat,” Prodos said, gesturing to a chair across from the desk.

From where he sat, Paulik could see into the garage; a two-toned black-and-white DS 21 was on a hoist about six feet high, and a burgundy-colored ID was next to it, parked on the garage's concrete floor. Paulik said, “I'm sorry about Gisèle's death.”

Prodos nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Paulik tried to study the mechanic without making it obvious. Prodos didn't look like a mechanic, or at least like other mechanics that Paulik had dealt with. He was tall and thin and wore small wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was brown, and receding, and he spoke and carried himself with…grace, Paulik thought. Grace.

“I imagine you're here to ask me about where I was this weekend,”
Prodos said, looking straight at Paulik. “Gisèle looked like…looked like she had been dead for a while….”

“Yes,” Paulik answered. “She was murdered on Friday evening, between six and eight p.m.”

Prodos bit his lip and thought for a few seconds, and then said, “I was here, in the garage. No alibi, I'm afraid.”

Paulik nodded. “Did anyone call the garage, by any chance?”

Prodos shook his head. “No, I don't think so. It was just me and the cars.”

“When did you and Mlle Durand split up?” Paulik asked.

“We stopped seeing each other about a month after she stopped working at the clothing store in Rognes,” Prodos said. “It was more my decision than hers, and it was very hard on both of us.”

“But you still kept in touch, and went to see her on Monday.”

“Yes,” Prodos replied. “Neither of us have cell phones; Gisèle felt she couldn't afford one, and I'm too old-school for such advanced technology, so the only way I could get hold of her was on her landline. But she didn't answer all weekend. I was worried about her. And so I closed the garage early on Monday evening and drove over to Rognes to see her.”

“I'm sorry,” Paulik said. “Did she have any other friends?”

“No, not many,” Prodos replied. “We're both loners.”

“How was her mood recently?”

“Gisèle was in a real funk—a depression, really—but I just couldn't reach her anymore. I needed to protect myself—my mother was a depressive, before she killed herself when I was thirteen—and Gisèle's mood reminded me too much of…”

Paulik watched the mechanic closely. André Prodos looked down at his crossed arms and took a deep breath. “I'm sorry,” he said. “And to think I've had years of therapy,” he said, trying to smile.

Paulik smiled and said, “Take your time. Anything you can
tell me about Mlle Durand's habits, and moods, will help.” Paulik thought to himself: a garage mechanic who not only has seen a therapist, but admits to it.

“Anyway,” Prodos went on, “Gisèle and I had stopped dating, but that didn't stop me from loving her. So I checked up on her, tried to boost her morale.”

“Was she seeing anyone?”

“No, I really don't think she was. She would have told me.”

“I was told that some of her previous boyfriends were not so nice,” Paulik said.

“She went for the tough guys,” Prodos answered. “Until me. At least I like to think of myself as a gentle soul.”

Paulik looked at Prodos; he spoke like a poet, not a mechanic. “Any of those guys on your suspect list?”

“I thought of one of them, Georges Hoquet, right away,” Prodos replied. “I even phoned him up, ready to accuse him, or at least ask him to a duel. But his brother answered the phone: Hoquet is in Paris.”

“Paris isn't that far away….”

“In jail,” Prodos went on. “For armed robbery. Has been for over a year.”

“I see,” Paulik said. “What did Mlle Durand do all day?” he asked, changing the subject. “What were her habits?”

“I think the only time she went out was to do a bit of grocery shopping,” Prodos said.

Paulik wrote, “Double-check shops in Rognes,” in his notebook. “Did she go into Aix often?”

“Nah,” Prodos replied. “Even when we were dating and I could drive her in, she didn't like it. She found it too snooty. I go about once a week to the Cinéma Mazarin, but she wouldn't come, so I ended up going to films alone.”

Paulik nodded. The Cinéma Mazarin showed foreign movies—in their original languages—and art films.

“That was the big problem for me,” Prodos went on. “Gisèle was a great woman, but was too easily intimidated. She lacked so much self-confidence. I tried to help her….” Prodos again looked down at his folded arms and then took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.

As Paulik waited for Prodos to collect himself, he saw, across the office, toward the door that led to the garage, a bust of Charles de Gaulle.

Prodos put his glasses back on and looked up. “President de Gaulle was a huge Citroën DS 19 fan,” he said, noticing the commissioner's puzzled expression. “It saved his life.”

“Really?” Paulik asked. “I didn't know.”

“In 1962. The president's car was ambushed, and shots were fired. The would-be assassins fired at de Gaulle but hit the tires instead. The DS kept rolling along, with two flat tires. Got the president out of harm's way.”

“My grandparents had one,” Paulik said. “Sort of like that one you have up on the hoist, but it wasn't as fancy. Definitely not two-toned. It was light blue. Eggshell blue, my mother used to say. I thought it was the sleekest car in the world.” Paulik sat back and laughed. “The way those headlights moved with the steering wheel! Talk about avant-garde!”

Prodos smiled. “Wanna come into the garage and look at them?”

Paulik got up and stretched his legs. “I'd love to.”

Prodos held the garage door open for Paulik. “That one on the hoist is a DS 21, 1970.”

“I remember when I figured out for the first time the puns Citroën was using for its car names,” Paulik said, staring up at the
strange lemon-shaped car. “‘DS' sounds like
déesse
. I ran and told my father.”

“Yes, ‘goddess,'” Prodos replied. “And that's what these cars are: goddesses. I hate long trips when I'm not in one of these.”

“I'm with you. That hydraulic suspension—the way the car would float along, hardly even slowing down at potholes or speed bumps. The suspension had its bad side too—I used to get carsick.”

“Ah yes,” Prodos said, resting a slender hand on the car's rear. “That soupy-floaty motion did have its negative side effects, but I've never felt that way in one. It's just ice-smooth to me.”

“I remember my grandfather using the hydraulic suspension to change a flat tire,” Paulik said. “We used to beg him to drive the car with the suspension all the way up. He did once, but he only drove about twenty kilometers an hour. The car was sitting up about one meter off the ground. We hung our heads out the window and yelled like warriors.”

Prodos laughed. “There were warriors in West Africa who actually did that for big-game hunting, with the suspension hiked all the way up, just like you say—except they weren't going twenty kilometers an hour, but sixty.”

“Really? Can the car handle that kind of speed while sitting one meter off the ground?”

“No way,” Prodos replied. “They busted the suspensions. Citroën couldn't figure out what was going on with all of these broken cars until it realized they were driving them with the suspension hiked up in order to chase antelopes. But ten or twenty kilometers an hour, over rough terrain, is no problem. Just the other day, before the rains…”

“Do you sell these?” Paulik cut in as he walked around the burgundy ID.

“All the time,” Prodos said. “There's a waiting list. There are fan clubs all over the world.”

“Makes you proud to be French, eh?” Paulik asked.

“I've always been proud to be French,” Prodos said. “Except when Pompidou chose a Citroën SM for the presidential car.”

Paulik groaned. “I agree! That was an eyesore compared with earlier Citroëns, even if it did have a Maserati engine.”

“I'm thinking of selling the Range Rover,” Paulik said as he came into their kitchen. Hélène Paulik looked up at her husband, pushing aside her glass of red wine.

“You're so late tonight, Bruno,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” he replied. “I must have conducted a record number of interviews today. And everyone has an alibi, or no motive.”

“Did you listen to my messages?” she asked. “Léa even left you a message. She's in bed, sleeping, by the way.”

Paulik looked up at the kitchen clock; it was after 10:00 p.m. “I heard Léa's message. I'll write her a note and put it by her bed.”

“A
note
?”

Paulik set the bottle down; he had been about to pour himself a glass of red wine. “Hélène, I'm sorry. I know that Léa misses me, and that you're under stress at work….”

“Stress? That's what you call it, Bruno?”

Paulik shrugged. “Yes, stress. Hélène, I'm doing everything I can….”

“It's more than stress! Olivier is now accusing his employees of stealing wine! He's gone through all the family members, and he's so desperate he's started in on us…. Cyril quit today!”

“He quit? Well, I'm sorry about Cyril quitting, but the Bonnards' little wine loss is nothing compared with these women being attacked and killed!”

“I'm not saying it is!” Hélène said. “Do you think I'm thick? I'm not comparing wine theft to rape and murder, and I know that Beauclaire's wines aren't worth as much as famous Bordeaux and California wines, but the sentimental loss…”

“Sentimental loss? I went to a funeral today for a twenty-eight-year-old girl!”

Hélène put her head in her hands and then looked up at her husband. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

Paulik sat down across from his wife. “And there'll be two more funerals this week: one for Mme d'Arras, with the church full of people who didn't like her but pretended they did; and the other in Rognes, with maybe ten people, one of whom cared very much for the dead woman.”

“That's terrible, honey.”

“And so your Cyril is quitting,” Paulik said. “You'll be overworked.”

Hélène nodded. “He's the best assistant I've ever had. A real natural.” She took a sip of wine and ate a handful of salted cashews. “I can't stop eating these things.”

Paulik grabbed a handful. “Yum. Dinner.” He got up and pointed to the bottle. “Do you mind if I have a glass?”

Hélène laughed. “Go ahead. I could see that you needed one, but I kept interrupting.”

“I was thinking today that I haven't been doing enough on the Bonnards' wine caper,” he said, pouring one of Hélène's special-reserve Syrahs in a glass.

“Caper? You make it sound like a board game.”

“Sorry,” Paulik replied. “God, you don't know how many times I've said ‘sorry' today.”

“Sorry,” Hélène said, and they burst out laughing. “I think we're both exhausted,” she said.

“I'm sure you're right. I'm stumped on these attacks, and stumped on the Bonnards' wine theft.” He sat back and had a sip of wine, swirling it in his glass and then sniffing it. “Wild raspberries. You make great wine, honey.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you really think Cyril's leaving?” Paulik asked. “He could be bluffing.”

“Oh yeah,” Hélène answered. “He's already found another job, in Burgundy, for some Chinese who have just bought Château Baron Dubreuil. At double the salary.”

“Are foreigners buying up all our wine estates?”

“Almost! Soon we'll have to buy our own wines back from them!” Both Pauliks laughed. “Luckily, Victor is very sharp in the cellar, and he loves it out in the field too. The two don't always go hand in hand.”