“Rio Mar!” Julien and Fabrice said in unison.
Valère snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Best lobster I’ve ever had.”
Julien and Fabrice had an ongoing bet to see who could visit Cuba the most. Since they usually went together, it was another redundant challenge.
Verlaque’s cell phone vibrated inside his pocket, and he quickly snuck a look at it. Cell phones—and he was one of the biggest enforcers of the rule—were frowned upon during their get-togethers. It was a text message from Officer Goulin: There’s been an accident at La Bastide Blanche. The commissioner thinks M Barbier may be with you. Can you please bring M Barbier to Puyloubier? Tell him to brace himself. Sophie Goulin
Chapter Twelve
New York City,
September 22, 2010
An accident?” Justin asked. “What happened?”
“So,” Valère leaned back and continued, “I was in the car with the judge, and I wasn’t nervous as we drove back to the Bastide Blanche. We chatted about this and that—current French politics, Parisian restaurants—as Verlaque’s friend Jean-Marc followed, driving my Mercedes. It made me nervous at first, as it’s a very nice car . . .”
“Do I need to know that?” Justin asked, anxious to hear what had gone on at the bastide.
“Whoa! Yes, otherwise you’d be scratching your head later tonight, trying to figure out what we did with my Merc.” A waiter walked in, pushing a trolley laden with cheese. Valère sat upright and looked over the selection of more than twenty French cheeses, all perfectly ripened.
“Les fromages!” Justin said, relieved thanks to the waiter’s perfect sense of timing. He realized he’d spoken out of turn but was annoyed all the same by the interruption.
Valère held up his knife and bounced it a few times in Justin’s direction. “Cheese. The perfect dessert. Look at this delectable, runny Saint-Marcellin.”
“Was someone hurt?” Justin asked, not looking at the cheeses.
“Okay, I see I’d better continue or you’ll never be able to choose.”
Verlaque didn’t know any more than I did, or why the officer had thought it necessary that Verlaque drive me home, like I was an old man. But I’m famous—or at least I was once—and perhaps the commissioner thought I was accustomed to star treatment. I wasn’t worried. In fact, I was fairly certain that the house had been broken into. Sandrine would have left for the evening, and Michèle was probably passed out again, deaf to the sound of burglars walking around, opening drawers, and emptying cupboards. But what did I even have to steal? An acquaintance in Paris once had his massive apartment in the avenue Foch burgled, and they took nothing! After all, what did he have? Books, records, a silver tea service that was priceless and sitting out on an equally expensive rare Scandinavian buffet. The thieves were looking for money, which he never kept in the house, and electronic equipment—iPhones and computers—and jewelry. His cell phone was on him, and he only owned one computer, which was in his office in the 1st arrondissement. He was a bachelor, so no diamond necklaces. La Bastide Blanche was very much the same as that guy’s apartment: there was little in it that an eighteen-year-old thief would want. Would he care about Agathe’s pots? Never.
As we entered the village, my palms began to sweat, and I could sense that Verlaque was tensing up too, his hands tightening their grip around the steering wheel. I then realized that I might have been targeted by professional art thieves who knew the value of Agathe’s work. For all the police knew, this may have happened to me before, which is why they asked the examining magistrate to drive me home. They didn’t want me driving through the streets of Aix like a lunatic, endangering myself and others, in desperation to get back to my house. I assumed that was why I had been warned to brace myself: I had been robbed, and somehow not only did the thief or thieves know the value of Agathe’s work, but they had been organized enough to get the pots out of the house and into a truck kitted out with protective cases for them. If these guys were skilled enough to steal van Goghs from famous museums, my old house would be kids’ play. Could they have done all this with Michèle there, even if she was asleep? Yes. Michèle could sleep through anything. Anyway, it would have been easy work to tie her up and shove a napkin in her mouth. At this point, as we neared the house, I started quietly laughing. Verlaque gave me a quick, nonjudgmental look. He thought it was nervousness, but in fact I was laughing at the back talk I imagined Michèle would have given the young thugs, and I pictured them running around the house looking for something to shut her up with. The linen napkins would have been easy to find; Sandrine had been ironing them when I left for Aix.
I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and blew my nose. Verlaque brought his little car to an abrupt stop, jerking me forward in my seat. I looked up and saw a police car, Thomas’s red pizza-delivery motorbike, and an ambulance with its lights flashing.
Verlaque was quicker to get out of the car than I was, so by the time I reached the ambulance, the attendants were closing the back doors and getting ready to go. Paulik didn’t seem to be around. I heard one of the guys say to Verlaque, just before jumping into the driver’s seat, “The commissioner is with her.” Who? My mind raced, and just as I had imagined the theft scenario while driving home, I
