Both she and Antoine loved to eat well, and she was competitive enough to want to strive to be a better cook than her husband. His kitchen—their kitchen now—was a joy to cook in, with its smooth marble countertops, gas range with five burners, and very sharp German knives. How had she managed for so long with dull knives, in her simple kitchen on the other side of Aix?
The door to their fourth-floor apartment opened, and Antoine walked in, shouting, “Coucou!” as he usually did. Marine replied with her standard, “Buonasera!” While pouring dark-green olive oil into two glass baking dishes, she continued, “I’m afraid I’m losing my Italian.”
“It doesn’t look like it,” Verlaque replied, pointing to the olive oil.
Marine laughed. “I don’t mean cooking. The language.”
“Let’s buy an apartment in Venice, then.”
“You’re joking!”
“Not at all,” he said. “Apartments in Venice are now half the price of the same in Paris.”
Marine set down the olive oil and stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“I can show you,” he said, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.
“No no,” she said. “I believe you. I want to get this in the oven.”
“Is it all right if I spread some papers on the dining room table?”
“Sure. I thought we’d eat outside on the terrace.”
“Great.” Verlaque held up a faded green folder about two inches thick and said, “The report on Agathe Barbier’s drowning, from 1988.”
“Should you have that here?”
Verlaque shrugged, thinking of Chantal’s demand that the dossier be sent back to her accompanied by police officers. “Probably not. But I wanted your opinion.”
“Okay, I’ll look at it after you’ve gone through it.”
“I’ll save you the good bits.” He took a few steps toward the dining room and then turned back. “There’s only one problem with an apartment in Venice,” he said.
“The city is sinking?”
“No.”
“Acqua alta?”
“No.”
“Too many tourists?”
“Not in Castello.”
“I give up.”
Verlaque frowned. “There isn’t a direct flight from Marseille.”
“Ah, that would complicate quick weekend getaways. By the way, it’s an all-vegetable dinner tonight.”
Verlaque mimed stabbing himself as he walked back into the dining room.
Verlaque leaned back in his chair, wiping the corners of his mouth with a large linen napkin. “Excellent,” he proclaimed.
Marine squirmed. She thought her husband was being overcongratulatory. “Thank you,” she answered. “Too bad the rosemary was burnt.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.” Verlaque poured the rest of the wine into their glasses, and his stomach made a rumbling sound.
“Was that your stomach?” Marine asked. “You can’t be hungry?”
“Maybe I’ll just grab a few slices of salami from the fridge. Do you mind?”
“Go right ahead,” she answered, laughing. “Was the Agathe Barbier dossier revealing in any way?”
“Fairly straightforward so far,” he said, getting up from the table. “I managed to read all the interviews while you were cooking.”
“Don’t waste a trip,” Marine said, handing him a few dirty dishes as he made his way to the kitchen.
She leaned back and looked over the rooftops. The cathedral’s octagonal steeple was lit up, and she suddenly heard the chorus of the opera break into song, just a few meters from their apartment. Verlaque came back upstairs carrying a small plate with thinly sliced salami and said, “Cheapest opera seats, right here.”
“And we can eat as we listen.”
“And drink,” he said, lifting his glass to hers.
“Who was on the boat when Agathe went overboard?” Marine asked, picking up a piece of the salami and putting it into her mouth.
“They were five,” Verlaque answered. “Agathe and Valère Barbier; Valère’s publisher Alphonse Pelloquin and his wife, Monica; and Valère’s secretary, Ursule Genoux.”
“His secretary? On vacation?”
“The commissioner in Cannes asked the same question when she interviewed Genoux,” Verlaque replied. “They were finishing up a book, and apparently she was always present when Valère was working. It was still the 1980s.”
“Right,” Marine said. “No computers.”
“Valère dictated to her while she typed.”
“But on a boat?”
“They had been in Sardinia for three weeks,” Verlaque said. “Monica Pelloquin is Italian and has a house there.”
Marine winked. “Lucky them. I remember my parents talking about the accident. It all sounded so sordid. One imagines too many gin and tonics, too much sun, and then arguments and fights. You know, like those Hollywood stars in the thirties. What on earth was Agathe Barbier doing on deck during a storm anyway?”
“She was seasick,” Verlaque replied. “No one knew she had gone up on deck, except for Alphonse Pelloquin, who warned her about the bad weather. The others were down below. Pelloquin claimed that when she insisted—she had been very sick all day, which the others confirmed—he told her to harness herself to the lifeline near the bow of the boat. He went back to the cockpit to steer, and just minutes after that she was gone. Over the storm’s racket he hadn’t heard a thing.”
“Suicide?”
“They all said that was impossible, knowing her even temperament and good nature.”
“Where are these people now?” Marine asked.
“In Paris,” Verlaque replied. “Except for Alphonse Pelloquin, who died of cancer in 2001.”
Marine finished her wine, and then frowned and shook her head.
“What’s bothering you, my dear?” Verlaque asked.
“Why didn’t Agathe tie herself to the lifeline, like she was supposed to?”
“Because she couldn’t? Perhaps she fell off before she had a chance to tether herself to the boat?”
“And Daniel de Rudder wants you to find something in the dossier, right?”
Verlaque nodded. “There are some photographs of the boat in the file. You used to sail, right?”
“Hardly,” Marine answered. “A boy I dated
