Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (30 page)

“Good for him, since he'll inherit,” Paulik said, looking at his wife.

Hélène sighed. “Pity me, not being born into a wine family.”

V
erlaque parked his car in his garage and listened to his messages while walking into downtown Aix. He had turned his phone off while speaking to Soeur Clothilde and forgotten to turn it back on. He realized that he had been so mesmerized by their conversation that not only had he not switched his phone back on—something he never forgot to do—but he had also forgotten to pull off at the rest stop to look at Carcassonne. He had a text message from Marine that read “Still no word from the lab. Sylvie and Charlotte are back, so I'm at their place celebrating their return. Don't wait up…. S. had a very exciting summer; we have much to talk about.”

He listened to Paulik's message about Philippe Léridon and decided to walk straight there. It sounded as if Paulik had had a busy day, while he himself had been walking in a rose garden, getting psychoanalyzed by a nun. He laughed for the first time that day, and it felt good.

He zigzagged his way through Aix's medieval streets until he got to the Palais de Justice. Verlaque looked up at the justice hall's upper stories and noticed for the first time that instead of shutters on the windows there were flimsy blinds, many of them broken, flapping in the wind. “How embarrassing,” Verlaque muttered, and he turned up Rue Émeric David. He knew that wooden Provençal shutters would look out of place on a neoclassical building, but there must be a better solution than using metal blinds that were meant for interiors.

On Émeric David he noticed how many storefronts had recently changed, and he was thankful that the antique dealer on the northwest corner was still in business. From across the street he looked at its interior, dimly lit, its walls painted a dark burgundy, and he remembered his grandmother Emmeline saying that antique shops were both welcoming and intimidating at the same time. He walked on, noticing that across the street from the d'Arras apartment was a tattoo-and-piercing salon. Verlaque didn't have to guess twice about what Mme d'Arras had thought of it.

He rang at number 16, Hôtel de Panisse-Passis, admiring its elaborate door carving as he waited. A crown was carved in huge relief in the center, and branching out from it were a variety of weapons: swords, an ax, bows and arrows, knives. Delicately carved ribbons and foliage offset the manly weapons. Scaffolding covered most of the façade, and a piece of tarp blew in the breeze, making a flapping sound against the metal poles of the scaffold. Verlaque stretched his neck and looked up between the wall and the blue tarp; much of the stonework was heavily carved into busts or foliage, and the second-story balcony was a riot of twisted wrought iron. It was all very wedding-cake-like. Someone in the seventeenth century had certainly been showing off.

Verlaque was about to ring again when a male voice answered, “
Oui?
” A camera and speakerphone had already been installed at the front doors, even though the building was still being renovated.

“Philippe? It's Antoine Verlaque. We met at Jacob Lévy's house last Friday night.”

“
Ah oui!
Come in.” The door clicked, and Verlaque pushed it open and stepped inside—not into a hallway, as he had expected, but into a paved inner courtyard, open to the sky. Léridon walked across the courtyard and shook Verlaque's hand. “
Bon soir,
” he said, smiling.

“
Bon soir,
” Verlaque said. “I'm afraid this isn't a social call.”

Léridon's smile faded. “In that case, let's go inside to talk.” He gestured with his hand to the far side of the courtyard. They were walking across the cobblestones when Léridon stopped and said, “Is it about Mme d'Arras? Her husband's on my case now too.”

Verlaque nodded.

“Follow me,” Léridon said, and they walked through a second set of doors—not wood, as they once would have been, but clear glass edged in matte-black aluminum frames. The contrast was striking between the old and the new. Inside the hall, the floors were laid in worn black-and-white-checkered marble, common in Aix's
hôtels
. They turned left and walked into a living room whose central focus was a huge flat-screen TV. Verlaque winced. “This room's finished,” Léridon said, his hands on his hips. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Whiskey?”

Verlaque chose a seat with his back to the television and wanted to say, “I'd love a whiskey. I've had a hell of a day.” Instead, he answered, “A coffee, if it's no trouble.”

“I have an espresso machine; it'll take two seconds,” Léridon said. “I'll be right back; the machine is in the temporary kitchen. Sugar?”

“One lump. Thanks.” While Léridon was gone, Verlaque mused on his day; he had wanted to describe it as “hellish,” but it hadn't been hellish at all. Reliving his past had been hellish, yes, but it had been eased by the company of the nun, especially in that environment. He sat back and looked around Léridon's living room. The abstract paintings on the walls were probably expensive, but not to his taste: the colors were too garish. The white leather sofas were probably Italian, and expensive as well, but cold both to the touch and on the eyes. The color scheme seemed to be white, with highlights of red in the light fixtures, vases, and carpets, a color Verlaque didn't like in decoration. The dark, almost brown red of Burgundy wine, perhaps, but not this bright red.

Léridon came back balancing two espresso cups on a small tray and held the tray in front of Verlaque. “The blue cup is the one with sugar,” he said. “I always take it black.”

“Thanks,” Verlaque said, stirring his coffee with a tiny silver spoon.

Léridon sat down and drank his coffee. “So what's d'Arras complaining about now?” he asked. “The noise? I told my workmen to knock off early, around six p.m., because I know how much it's been bothering the d'Arrases.”

“Him now, not them,” Verlaque answered. He brought his demitasse to his mouth, but the smell of the coffee turned his stomach. He forced himself to have a tiny sip, to be polite.

Léridon finished his coffee in two sips and set the cup on a glass coffee table. “She wasn't my favorite person in the world, but I'm sorry she died.”

“She was murdered,” Verlaque said, leaning forward. “And, unfortunately, you were overheard threatening her. Multiple times.”

Léridon laughed uneasily. “I have a hot temper,” he said. “Ask anyone who's ever worked for me.”

“I will.” Verlaque forced himself to finish his coffee and set his cup beside Léridon's. “I'll have to ask you if you have an alibi for Friday evening—”

Léridon cut in. “I was at that cigar party.”

“Between six and eight p.m.,” Verlaque said, “before the party.”

“I was here.”

“Were there any workmen still around? Or family members?” Verlaque watched as Léridon lowered his eyes and then rubbed them.

“My wife's in Paris….” he mumbled. “But the electrician was still here. I'll get you his phone number.” Léridon went into another room and came back with a business card. “I don't recommend him,” he said. “Every time I put the microwave on, the power downstairs cuts off. But here's his phone number. I made him stay late Friday night to fix his mess.”

“Thank you,” Verlaque said. “I'm sorry to have bothered you.” He went to get up and fell back down on the white sofa.

“Are you all right?” Léridon asked, hovering over him.

Verlaque looked at Philippe Léridon and saw two men standing before him. He rubbed his eyes and said, “Could I have a tall glass of water?”

“Done,” Léridon said, quickly leaving the living room. Verlaque closed his eyes; when he opened them, Léridon was standing over him, holding a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Verlaque said. “My mouth is incredibly dry.” He drank half of it and rested the glass on his knee. “M. and Mme d'Arras complained that you have something in your garden that you're hiding. My commissioner reminded me of it earlier this evening.” Verlaque realized he had almost left Léridon's without
asking about it. Something was not right with him this evening, and he tried to ignore the churning noises his stomach was making.

Léridon laughed uneasily. “Are they worried I'm building a swimming pool without a permit?”

“No, they seem to think that it's something more sinister,” Verlaque replied.

Léridon sneered. “It's none of their business, as I told both of them.”

Verlaque finished his water and set the glass down. “It's my business now, since Mme d'Arras was murdered. What's out there, Philippe?”

Léridon said nothing. He crossed the living room and looked at the front courtyard through the tall living-room windows.

“You can show me tonight,” Verlaque said, rubbing his stomach, “or I can have four guys and a van in your courtyard tomorrow at eight a.m.”

Still Léridon said nothing and continued looking out the window.

“I can also tap your phones, have you followed, and go over your business and private bank accounts with a team of accountants from Paris who get their kicks finding holes in accounts….”

Léridon turned toward Verlaque and held up his hand, the palm facing the judge. “All right, all right,” he said, “I get the point! But you'll see; I haven't done anything wrong.”

“So let's go and see it,” Verlaque asked.

Léridon sighed. “I knew I couldn't keep it a secret forever.” He looked at Verlaque, who was half slumped over on his sofa. “Let's go outside, then.” Léridon went to the door, and Verlaque got up, trying not to groan. They walked through what Léridon referred to as a temporary kitchen, which looked to Verlaque
like an already decent one, and exited through a set of French doors into a garden that was in total darkness. Léridon led, with a flashlight in his hand, toward a lean-to set against the rear stone wall. Once there, he motioned for Verlaque to squat down at the edge of the lean-to. Verlaque almost fell down onto the lush lawn.

“You have to stick the upper half of your body over the hole to see it,” Léridon said, pointing his flashlight to where a blue tarp was laid. “Way over.”

Verlaque did as he was told, awkwardly poising his body over the tarp, which made the same eerie flapping noise as the one by the front door. Verlaque's forearms shivered, and he could feel sweat dripping down his back. Léridon stood behind him, shining the light on the blue tarp. “Are you ready?” he said. “Lean out a little more.”

Verlaque set his aching stomach on the grass and craned his neck. He felt woozy; it must have been the long drive…or had Léridon put something in the coffee? His dry mouth…If Léridon had murdered Mme d'Arras, would he be stupid enough to kill an examining magistrate? But, buried in this hole, Verlaque's body might never be discovered. The voice of Soeur Clothilde rang in his head, and her words: “It's not your fault; you did nothing wrong.”

He was struggling to get on his knees when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He imagined that it was Soeur Clothilde's, forgiving him. Léridon said, “Lean over more or you won't see it,” and Verlaque groggily obeyed. Léridon reached over and lifted the blue tarp off with a fast, practiced gesture; he shone his flashlight twelve feet below. “Do you see it?”

Verlaque blinked and waited until his eyes had adjusted to the light. He gasped. Léridon was now lying on the grass beside him,
looking down, his chin resting on the end of the flashlight. “Isn't it amazing?” he asked.

Below was a large mosaic floor, laid in small black and white stone. “It's Roman, isn't it?” Verlaque asked, not able to take his eyes off it. He blinked and looked down again, scanning the squares, diamonds, and circles that created a vivid geometric pattern. He couldn't see any missing tiles—it was in perfect condition.

“Of course,” Léridon replied. “Aix was a Roman spa town.”

Verlaque sighed. “Thanks, Philippe. I didn't know that.”

“Oh, sorry if I sounded uppity. I've just never been excited by any…art…like this before. I did some research at the library, and did some asking around. I think this dates from the first or second century A.D.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“One of my workmen, the guy who discovered it while digging to install a wine cellar,” Léridon answered. “I've had to pay them off to keep them quiet, but who knows how long that will last. Plus, the head research librarian at the municipal library probably suspects something.”

Verlaque laughed. “You were asking a lot of questions?”

“Yeah. I kept pestering her for articles on the history of Roman Aix.”

Verlaque looked over at Léridon, noting his expensive moccasins, open shirt, and tanned forearms. Léridon was right: he probably hadn't been mistaken for a historian. “And you didn't want to report the mosaic,” he said.