The Secrets of the Bastide Blanche

hand. Verlaque nodded, approving the idea. I believe I saved him from launching into one of those “you must not leave the country” speeches they make in the cop shows. Neither Sandrine nor I offered any information about the night visitors: Sandrine’s scare in the cellar and my nightly tug-of-war with the person in my bed. We were too tired, I think, and I suppose we had both quietly decided that things were looking bad enough for Sandrine without mentioning ghosts. Or whatever they might be. Verlaque and Jean-Marc left together, the former promising to visit me the next day and keep me updated on Michèle’s condition. I gave Sandrine a sleeping pill and closed her bedroom door. I lit the hall light and was halfway down the hall when I heard her snoring, almost as loudly as Michèle had. I was almost at my room when the light went off, and I ran the remaining three or so feet to my room, charging in like a bull, fumbling for the light switch, panting. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, but with everything else in the house, it had hardly seemed worth getting upset about. But that night it did.

I dressed for bed, dropping my cigar-scented clothes in a heap on the floor. I thought about Michèle saying, “She pushed me.” If the person was behind Michèle, she might not have seen them. She would have assumed it was Sandrine, the only other person, to her knowledge, in the house. It could have been a woman or a man. I went back to my original thief idea: they had been in the house, getting ready to steal, and saw Michèle at the top of the stairs. It may have been an accident; the thief, in a hurry to leave, rushed past her, causing her to fall. But Thomas would have seen them leaving, and he had said nothing.

I looked around the room and somehow had a premonition that it would never be changed. The ocher-colored walls were decorated with plaster carvings painted dark gold. At first I had found this gypserie hideous but after a short time I had come to like it. My wrought-iron bed was now in the middle of the room—Sandrine’s solution, to help with my sleep— but I wasn’t convinced about the bed’s new position, as the room was so big. I felt like I was on a raft drifting in the middle of the sea. I watched the shadows cast by the pine trees dance around the walls. Then something on the floor, beside the fireplace, caught my eye. I sighed, too tired to go pick it up, not caring if I would be chastised by Sandrine for laziness or slovenliness. I tried ignoring it but felt myself drawn in. Each time I closed my eyes they would open within seconds, fixed on what I now believed to be a piece of fabric. I finally got up and walked over to it, my heart pounding. Bending down, I lifted it by a corner, as if it were hot or poisonous. Holding it up, I saw that it was indeed fabric: a linen handkerchief, embroidered with the initials AF. I recognized it immediately and held it to my chest. It was Agathe’s favorite.

The wind suddenly stopped, and the night became still. Not a sound outside, not a frog, nor cricket, nor passing car. I went back to bed and put the handkerchief under my pillow, too tired to ask why or how it had shown up in my bedroom. It had probably fallen out of a box or suitcase when I unpacked, although I didn’t remember packing it in Paris.

My eyelids burned with fatigue. I closed them and must have immediately fallen asleep, because when I next opened them the bright sun was shining through the windows, and the cigales were just beginning to make the noise that would go on for the next twelve hours. It was nine o’clock, and I had slept through the night for the first time in months, perhaps years. I stretched, then remembered Agathe’s handkerchief. I reached under the pillow and took it out, holding it to my cheek.

Chapter Thirteen

Aix-en-Provence,

Thursday, July 7, 2010

Antoine Verlaque spent the morning going over the Yvette Tamain case with two associates, breaking at eleven thirty. They agreed they would meet again the day after Bastille Day—the fifteenth of July—to finalize their line of questioning before they called in the mayor, her campaign manager, and the CEO of AixCom. As soon as his colleagues left, he picked up the phone and called the hospital; Michèle Baudouin was still in a coma. After lunch he would go to Puyloubier and pay a visit to Valère Barbier and his housekeeper. He had some questions concerning Mme Baudouin’s accident: blanks in the evening’s events that had been bothering him all morning.

No sooner had he finished his call to the hospital than his phone rang again; it was Mme Girard, in the next room, telling him he had a call from Judge Sennat in Cannes. He thanked his secretary and took a deep breath before accepting the call. It had been years since they had spoken.

“Verlaque here,” he said, realizing he sounded colder than he had intended.

“Hello, Antoine,” the magistrate said. “How are you?”

He sat back and tried to calm himself. “I’m fine, Chantal. How are you?”

“Busier than the devil,” she answered.

“Any news on Mme Blechman’s kidnapping?” He had recently seen Chantal Sennat on M6, being interviewed by journalists. She hadn’t aged, not like he had. Her long, jet-black hair was as thick and wavy as it had ever been; it was the kind of hair that shampoo companies hired models for. Verlaque watched her as a journalist asked a repetitive question, holding his microphone too close to her face; her dark blue eyes focused on the unfortunate young man, at once