Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery (9 page)

“I'm sorry you have to meet me, and my small but very efficient staff, under these circumstances,” he said quietly.

“So am I,” Verlaque answered. “Mlle Montmory seems to be a quiet, reserved young woman.”

Iachella nodded. “She is. She was so quiet during my first interview with her that I had to ask her to speak up. But I could see that she was bright.”

“Do you know anything about her personal life?” Verlaque asked.

“Not anything more than Gustav could have told you. I know that her parents and siblings live in Aix. I should know more about her; I feel bad about that, you know? Especially now.”

“I understand,” Verlaque said. “Did she seem upset recently? Out of sorts?”

Iachella shook his head back and forth, looking surprised. “No…no. I wish now I had been more observant. But she seemed like the same quiet Suzanne. It's unfortunate, but as a manager I tend to deal more with the employees who are having problems or are dissatisfied. The quiet, hardworking ones just get on, don't they?”

Both Paulik and Verlaque smiled.

“And that day, when she left early?” Verlaque asked. “Normal?”

“She was behaving normally, yes,” Iachella answered. “As the day went on, we could all hear that she was losing her voice. Mme Liotta was worried that it was a sinus infection coming on, and sent her home around four p.m.”

Verlaque thought silently that if she was losing her voice she wouldn't have been able to call out for help. A team of policemen were spending the day interviewing the tenants of Mlle Montmory's three-story apartment building. Perhaps one of them had unintentionally let in the attacker?

“What time did the rest of you leave the bank?” Verlaque asked.

“We close at six p.m. and usually have the place tidied up—I mean the financial transactions, not the housekeeping—by six-thirty. I left at six-thirty, with Gustav. The others had gone before us, between six and six-thirty.”

“Thank you,” Verlaque said. “That will be all.”

“You'll keep us informed?” Iachella asked, his eyes watery. “Mme Liotta tried calling the hospital this morning, but they wouldn't give out any information.”

“They were told not to,” Verlaque said. “We'll keep you informed, yes. Goodbye. You can send in Mme Liotta now.”

When Iachella had quietly left the room, Paulik turned to the judge. “The attacker must have known her working hours. But he wouldn't have known that she'd be home earlier than usual unless he works here. So I think the attack took place closer to seven-thirty p.m.”

“So do I,” Verlaque answered. “If she left the bank daily between six and six-thirty, and it's a ten-minute walk home, he could have been waiting for her. But it's risky, isn't it, an attack like that in broad daylight? Why not wait until evening, when no one will see you entering the building?”

“A family man?” Paulik suggested. “Or he worked nights?”

“Or he wasn't worried about anyone seeing him?” Verlaque asked. “Because he's respectable. No cause for worry. Wearing a suit and tie.”

“A banker?”

“Or any professional. Nice-looking. Handsome people have an easier time in this world. People are more trusting of them.”

Paulik nodded. The commissioner had a bald, scarred head; a pug nose; and one ear that was beginning to “cauliflower” from too many rugby scrums. He looked across the desk at Verlaque, whom, although he was not classically good-looking, women thought of as handsome.

There was a knock at the door, and Mme Liotta came in, carrying a tray. “Funny to knock at my own office door,” she said, setting the tray down. On it were placed three cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar with three spoons, and three pieces of cake. “I baked the lemon cake last night, after Kamel phoned me with the news of Suzanne's attack. I needed to keep busy.” Smiling, she served each of the men a coffee and a slice of cake, without asking them if they wanted the cake. As she sat down, she adopted a more serious expression—her stint as mother hen had been completed. “I
don't know very much about Suzanne's private life,” she began, uninvited. “But I do know that, about two years ago, she dated a young man from Aix. I gathered that it had become quite serious, for Suzanne at least, until he up and left.”

“Left?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes, he moved to Montreal. With hardly a warning. Suzanne told me that one morning, when I made her a coffee and sat her down. I could see she had been crying.”

“He couldn't have just moved to Montreal like that,” Verlaque said. “It takes a few months, if not a year, to get the paperwork together to immigrate.”

Mme Liotta nodded. “That's just it. He had already done all the paperwork, without telling Suzanne. It was her opinion that he had been using her.” She leaned in and whispered, “For his own benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Verlaque asked. “For sex?”

“Oh no,” Mme Liotta said. “Suzanne told me that she thought she had been courted by him to impress his family. She cried in my arms when she said she believed he had asked her out only so he could have a charming date for two family weddings that summer.”

“Did they part on good terms?” Verlaque asked.

“No,” replied Mme Liotta. “They fought, Suzanne told me, and she also told me—in the strictest confidence—that he was awkward…um, in bed….”

Verlaque glanced at Paulik, who was writing in his notebook. Mme Liotta now sat back and ate some cake, her eyebrows arching in delight at its taste.

“Can you at all remember his name?” Verlaque asked.

“His first name was Edmond. Unusual, old-fashioned name, quite bourgeois. Perhaps her family would know his surname? I
do know that he worked in logistics, at the Marseille airport. Suzanne said that the Canadians were hiring French with experience in those sorts of jobs.”

“Thank you, madame. Is there anything else you can tell us about Suzanne's life outside the bank?”

She set her cake down and wiped her hands clean on a paper napkin. “No. Suzanne's a quiet girl. I was surprised that morning when she told me so much about Edmond. Since then, there's been nothing.”

“Her routine is fairly consistent?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes, except yesterday, when she left early, and once last week, because she had a doctor's appointment. Routine, she told me. I didn't pry.”

“Do you know the name of her doctor?” Verlaque asked.

“I can't remember, but Patricia, our loan officer, will be able to tell you. She was the one who suggested that Suzanne see him, because she was looking for a doctor here in Éguilles.”

“Thank you, Mme Liotta. And thank you for the cake. I'll try it now.”

As Mme Liotta left, the judge and commissioner leaned over the desk, both quickly eating their cake.

“This is very good,” Verlaque said. “Too bad Mme Girard doesn't bring in food like this.”

“That would be against her dietary rules,” Paulik said, his mouth full. He used the last bit of cake to pick up the remaining crumbs.

Verlaque smiled. “Make sure you get all the bits.”

“Don't worry.”

“Let's bring in this loan officer and talk to her next,” Verlaque said. He stuck his head out of the door and called for the loan officer.

Patricia Pont was an elegant woman in her mid-to late thirties. Slim, of medium height, she was dressed conservatively in a pale-blue suit that, unlike Mme Liotta's crumpled polyester, was made of good-quality linen. She had a long face with bright-blue eyes and wore a touch of pale-pink lipstick. Her necklace suggested that when she was not at work she dressed with panache—the necklace was unusual, made of large transparent glass beads, worn close to her neck like a choker.

“I work here part-time,” she said, wasting no time. “And part-time at a slightly larger branch in Ventabren, where I live.”

“And do you know Suzanne Montmory well?” Verlaque asked, but he was already sure of the reply.

“No, since I'm sort of in and out. No.”

“You have the same doctor, I'm told,” Verlaque said.

“Yes, Dr. Vilion, Jean-François. His practice is just up the street, at number 46, on the second floor, above yet another new real-estate agent in town. That makes four now, I believe.”

Verlaque said, “I used to think that hairdressers outnumbered all other services in Provence. But you're right, I believe now it's Realtors. Why did Mlle Montmory need a new doctor?”

“Her doctor retired.”

“What was wrong with her?” Verlaque asked.

Mme Pont flinched for a second but answered his question. “Stomach flu.”

“What else do you know about her?” Verlaque asked.

Mme Pont smiled. “Other than sharing the same general practitioner, I can't say that I know much about Suzanne. I have three children, so when I leave work I switch off my banking mind.”

“I couldn't help hearing the antagonism in Sharon's voice whenever Suzanne Montmory was mentioned,” Verlaque said.

“Oh, that Sharon,” Mme Pont said, sighing. “That's not a big
story. Sharon and Suzanne were up for the same promotion, and Suzanne won. I think Sharon's jealous, that's all.”

“That may explain it,” Verlaque said. “Thank you. And if you think of anything at all unusual about Suzanne's recent behavior, or moods, you'll call us?”

“Certainly,” Mme Pont said. “By the way, did you see my note on the door?”

“You wrote that?” Paulik spoke up. “It's very direct.”

“Yes, and I wanted to add ‘raped' on it, but Kamel wouldn't let me.”

Verlaque nodded and stayed silent. He agreed with the bank manager's decision.

“I have two daughters,” Mme Pont went on. “This man has to be caught, for all of us.”

“He will be,” Verlaque replied. “I promise.”

Mme Pont quietly left the room, but Verlaque and Paulik had no time to debrief: Sharon Pallard was already at the door.

“Hello, hello,” she said, quickly walking into the room and taking a seat. “I'm ready! Fire away.”

Couldn't she even pretend to be shocked by the attack on Mlle Montmory?
Verlaque thought to himself. Irritated, he said, “You don't like her, do you?”

If Sharon Pallard seemed surprised by his directness, she did not show it. “Um, I wouldn't say that,” she answered. She paused for a few seconds and added, “And I am sorry about what happened to her. Can you
imagine
?”

“No, I cannot,” Verlaque said. “Did she ever confide in you?”

Mlle Pallard laughed. “No! We stay clear of each other!”

“Why?”

“Well…we just have nothing in common, that's all.”

“So you don't know anything about her? Even though you're both women, and the same age?”

“I'm older,” she said, tugging at her skirt and sitting straighter. “Um…you know…I know just little things about her. Like, she lives this totally boring life, and watches old-fashioned movies, and sucks up to M. Iachella and Mme Liotta.”

“Really?”

“If you must know, we were up for the same promotion last month, and she got it. I have more experience, I'm older, and she still got it. You should see her with the customers! So sober and serious! I chat them up, you know? Make them happy about their day. Ask about their children and grandchildren. That sort of thing.”

Verlaque smiled, glad that Mlle Pallard didn't have access to his bank account. “Are you angry with her for getting promoted?” he asked.

“Hey, wait a minute! You're putting words in my mouth!”

“I didn't have to,” Verlaque said. “You told me about it.”

Mlle Pallard shifted in her seat. “I didn't hate her guts.”

Paulik wrote the words down exactly as she had said them, and put a star in the margin. His ten-year-old daughter, Léa, would use those kinds of expressions. Or had, when she was seven or eight.

“You may go,” Verlaque said.

The young woman got up noisily, huffing and smacking her gum as she left. “Okay,” she said at the door. “See you later.”

Paulik closed the door, then turned to the judge and said, “Suspect?”

Verlaque sat back. “I don't know. She didn't hide her contempt or jealousy of Mlle Montmory, which a guilty person would have. She's quite thick, and hopping mad. But mad enough to arrange a brutal attack on a co-worker?”

Paulik shrugged and closed his notebook. “Should we go to the hospital or the Palais de Justice?”

“Let's go to the Palais and see how Alain's research is getting on. We can check up on the ex-boyfriend too. Finding the surname of someone named Edmond who worked at the Marseille airport shouldn't be too difficult. You don't have a cousin who works there, by any chance?”

M
arine Bonnet shifted from foot to foot, angry that she was having to line up at the post office on the sole day when she didn't have to teach. She had prepared the large manila envelope ahead of time, but the two automated machines that weighed and stamped parcels were both out of order. She was pleased with her essay on the relationship, and admiration, that Honoré Mirabeau—Aix-en-Provence's famed politician and man of letters—had shared with Thomas Jefferson. She even thought that the paper could become a chapter in what she thought should be a new, sorely needed more modern biography of Mirabeau. Biographies were her favorite genre of literature, and she was much teased by Antoine Verlaque because of it. “Voyeur,” he had called her the other night as she lay in bed reading a biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine.