“That hardly sounds like Léa,” Verlaque said. He was a big fan of Léa Paulik, a singer in the junior opera. She was polite, smart, and thoughtful. “She’s such a solid little girl.”
“I know,” Bruno said. “That’s why we made our excuses and left. Léa is stubborn and sometimes a bit of a know-it-all, but she isn’t theatrical. We were a bit freaked out. But the weird thing is, Léa didn’t even seem scared. She was . . . concerned, and . . . perplexed. But not frightened.”
“How did Barbier handle it?” Marine asked.
Bruno Paulik thought for a moment before answering. “He looked terrified.”
Chapter Five
New York City,
September 22, 2010
Justin excused himself and went to the restroom. At the beginning of dinner he had placed his new iPhone on the table, with the microphone on. He had recorded forty-five minutes of Valère Barbier’s story and now sent himself an e-mail with the file attached so he could delete it and begin recording anew. He had no idea how much memory the phone had and didn’t want to take any chances.
“Lobster nage?” Valère asked as Justin returned to the table. He had put on his reading glasses and was looking at the evening’s menu, printed on a sheet of white paper.
“Their signature dish,” Justin replied. “Or so I’ve read. A lobster soup with squash and zucchini. The white burgundy will be perfect.” He set his phone back on the table, and Valère smirked.
“You’re expecting a call?” he asked.
“My boss wanted updates,” Justin said. “So I just sent her a text message.”
“You’re honest.”
Justin forced a smile. He continued to lie: “She’s also a big fan of this restaurant, and I promised I’d send her our menu, dish by dish.”
The soup arrived, followed by the sommelier. She walked around the table and showed Valère the bottle, a 2006 Puligny-Montrachet. “Merci,” he said. “I think my young friend would like to test it.”
The sommelier poured a little wine in Justin’s glass. He noted its fine golden yellow, then swirled it a few times, keeping the base of the glass on the table, and slowly brought it to his nose. He breathed in, long and slow. “It’s perfect.”
Both the sommelier and Valère smiled. After filling Valère’s glass and pouring more wine into Justin’s, the sommelier said, “Enjoy, gentlemen,” as she set the bottle into an ice bucket and carefully draped a white linen napkin over it.
“Énorme,” Valère said, leaning toward Justin. “You could tell simply from the aroma whether it was corked.”
Justin shrugged. “I watch a lot of wine shows,” he said.
“While we eat this nage, should I continue my story?” Valère asked.
“By all means,” Justin said, and he took a sip of wine.
I had, I think you can guess, another restless night. One of the good things about being retired is that you know you can have an afternoon nap. I tossed and turned for a while, trying to get comfortable in the heat and not think about the indentation I had seen on my bed. Around two or three a wind came in through the windows, and I had to pull up the blanket that was folded at the bottom of the bed. I lay on my right side, facing the door, and tucked the blanket up under my chin, finally feeling comfortable. Suddenly, the blanket pulled away. I froze. I very slowly and gently pulled it back over my body. I thought I heard a sound, like a low groaning. It must be the wind, I thought.
I tried thinking of errands that had to be done, and began making a list for Mlle Matton. I was at item five—buy a new hose for watering the garden, one that doesn’t leak or kink up every foot—when the blanket was again torn off me from the left side. This time I sat up and fumbled for my cell phone, turning on its flashlight. I again heard noises, but there seemed to be nothing in the room. Something banged, and my heart leapt. I looked at one of the windows and saw that a shutter was wildly swinging back and forth, hitting the stone wall. I got up and ran to the window, fastening the shutters against the wall and closing the window. I’d roast with no fresh air coming in, but maybe I’d sleep.
I awoke to the sound of a car spinning on the gravel drive. It almost sounded like it had sped around in a tight circle before coming to a stop. You call that a donut, Justin? Well, doing a donut in your car is probably better for your health than eating one. I got out of bed and opened one of the windows that face south, over the front gardens. I knew right away it was Mlle Matton. The car was a real . . . how do you say it? Shit box. A little two-door Citroën AX that must have been thirty years old. She jumped out of the driver’s seat before I had a chance to duck my head back inside the window. “Oh là là!” she hollered up to me. She laughed, pointing to her watch, a bright-pink plastic thing that was so big I could almost read it from my bedroom. “Someone sure sleeps in!”
I rubbed my eyes and looked at the bedside clock; it was almost ten. She was right. I quickly got dressed and as I did could hear her getting things out of the car and slamming doors. “I’ll be right down!” I yelled. I wasn’t sure she heard me, as the cigales were busy sawing away. It was the second time in two days that I had been awoken in my new home by a guest. I wasn’t getting off to a good start. I once again stopped in the front hall to check in the mirror and run my fingers through my hair. I noticed that I looked even
