“I have business in Puyloubier this afternoon,” Verlaque said. “Are you free for lunch? I know it’s last minute.”
“You mean, that nice restaurant . . .”
“Yes, on the rue qui monte.”
“Well, I say, this is a nice surprise! I’ll just put my daube back in the fridge.”
Verlaque smiled. Only an old peasant—one who worked outside every day—would be eating beef stew on a hot July day.
Jean-Claude Auvieux read the menu, holding it tightly with his large, rough hands. Verlaque watched the farmer, his brow furrowed and his mouth partly open. Auvieux wasn’t that much older than Verlaque, but his childlike naivety made him seem almost elderly. His name didn’t help either: Auvieux meant “of old.” His face was red and weathered—the face of someone who worked outside, in the sun and wind—and he had lost most of his hair, save for the short white whiskers that covered his face.
Auvieux flinched when the young waitress brought over a small blackboard and propped it up on the edge of their table. “The chef’s daily specials,” she announced, beaming, her shoulders thrust back and her back straight, as if the dishes were brilliant offspring.
“Oh my!” Auvieux cried, setting the menu down. “I’ll have to start all over!”
“I’ll have one of the specials,” Verlaque said, trying to make the choice easier for Auvieux. “The cod with fennel and orange.”
“Excellent choice, monsieur!” she cried.
“Osso bucco?” Auvieux asked, looking at the blackboard and then at Verlaque.
“Veal,” Verlaque replied.
“But the chef has made an unusual osso bucco today,” the waitress explained. “With white wine, fennel, and artichoke hearts.” She lifted up her right hand, gathered the tips of her fingers, and pressed them to her mouth, making a loud kissing noise. Verlaque looked down at the table to try to control his laughter, and Auvieux beamed.
“That’s that, then!” Auvieux exclaimed, lifting his hands into the air. “I’ll have the osso . . . whatever it is.”
“We’ll have a white burgundy,” Verlaque said, putting on his reading glasses to look at the short but well-put-together wine menu. “From Rully, the—”
“If I may be so bold,” the waitress cut in, “as to suggest a white côtes du Rhône. Its floral bouquet will be excellent with both the cod and monsieur’s osso bucco.”
“Thank you. That sounds fine,” Verlaque said, handing her the menu. “And might you have a first-course recommendation?” He loved this girl and couldn’t wait to tell Marine that she still worked here.
She leaned in and whispered, as if revealing state secrets. “For you, monsieur, the foie gras poêlé, since you have chosen un plat legér. The chef has prepared an exquisite apricot chutney to go with the foie gras. The best local apricots he could find, bien sûr.”
“It was a bumper crop for apricots this year,” Auvieux added, smiling. “I had hundreds.”
“Perfect,” Verlaque said. He didn’t care what kind of chutney the sautéed foie gras came with; simply the liver and browned butter were enough.
“And for your friend,” she continued, “to balance the veal, and the acidity of the white wine and artichokes, might I suggest the roasted chèvre?”
Auvieux rubbed his stomach.
“I think you can take that as a yes,” Verlaque said.
Auvieux nodded and took a large gulp of water, as if preparing his palate.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll be right back with the wine.”
Verlaque smiled and leaned back, glad that Auvieux had been available at such short notice and feeling slightly guilty that it had taken him so long to call and invite him out. He thought back to the Bremont case, trying to remember exactly when it was that he had first met Auvieux, caretaker of the Bremont estate, while investigating the case involving the brothers Étienne and François.
The wine was opened and the first course came. They talked about the weather, the food, and Aix’s rugby team’s losing streak. After the waitress had taken their plates away, Verlaque poured them each another glass of wine and rested his forearms on the wooden table. “Jean-Claude,” he began, “what do you know about the Bastide Blanche? It’s just down the road, on the way out of the village.”
Auvieux bit his lower lip. “I’ve never been there. It’s a big place, very old.”
Verlaque nodded, but Auvieux stayed silent. “Yes, it’s hundreds of years old,” Verlaque continued. “Tell me, what’s its history? A friend of mine has just bought it, and he said that some of the villagers make the sign of the cross before going there.”
“Oh yes, oh yes. That they do, that they do.”
Verlaque tried to remain patient with Auvieux’s repetitive nonanswers. “Some old tale?” he asked.
“They say it’s cursed and haunted.”
“By whom?”
Auvieux looked up at the ceiling. “Why, someone who once lived there, I suppose,” he replied. “I’ve never really known. We were simply told it was haunted and not to go near it. Bad things happened there many years ago.”
Verlaque sat back. That would explain the villagers’ apprehensions but not how Mme Baudouin fell down the stairs—that is, if she wasn’t pushed by the housekeeper. “The new owner is a famous writer,” Verlaque said.
Auvieux nodded. “I know. Everyone knows.”
“Do the villagers like him?”
Auvieux shrugged. “We hardly know him,” he said. “He’s just arrived and stays at the house. But he does have the housekeeper buy his food at the market and in the village shops, so he’s well liked for that. He doesn’t send her to the hypermarchés in Trets or Aix.”
“Anyone else new in the village?”
Auvieux rolled his eyes. “It’s summer! The village almost doubles in size! Let’s see, a Dutch family is renting old lady Coydon’s house for a month while she visits her grandson in Lyon,” he said. “There’s a German couple, two men, who have just bought une maison du village and are restoring it. Oh, and there’s a Parisian, very well dressed she is, very proper. Someone said she’s a retired librarian. She hardly goes out, only to buy food. But you can hear her coming down the sidewalk.”
“Why is
