Marine raised an eyebrow. She fumbled through the photographs until she found one of Agathe Barbier, and passed it to Verlaque. “See the baptismal medal around her neck?”
Verlaque nodded. “It doesn’t mean she was devout.” He picked up a photograph of the boat’s foredeck and brought it closer, then handed it to Marine and flipped through the report until he got to the passage he was looking for. “Listen to this,” he said. “Monica Pelloquin, when interviewed, insisted that Alphonse was a maniacally thorough skipper. One of the other guests—I think it was the secretary—said the same thing.”
“Obviously the storm wasn’t his fault,” Marine said.
“But look at that foredeck,” Verlaque said, pointing to the photograph.
“Oh là là.” Marine brought the photograph closer and narrowed her eyes, looking at it from left to right. “Quel bordel! Why isn’t the anchor in its well?”
Verlaque smiled. “You do remember something about sailing. I remember Daniel de Rudder was a fanatic about using the anchor well. And look at all those lines on the deck, the ones that belong in the cleats and bow fairleads or whatever they’re called. They should be coiled and stowed away. Rudder always said that an untidy deck was an accident waiting to happen—anyone could trip and fall overboard.”
“Do you think that’s the detail that Rudder wanted you to see?” Marine asked.
“I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”
“It’s not much to go on,” Marine replied, setting the photograph down and frowning.
“But if Pelloquin was such a good sailor, he would have a tidy deck, no?”
“So you’re saying he intentionally left out the anchor and lines? To trip Agathe?”
Verlaque got up from the table and began clearing away their teacups. “I know, I know,” he replied. “It’s a long shot.”
Marine sat back and folded her arms against her chest. “To begin with,” she said,“we’re missing a motive.”
Chapter Fifteen
New York City,
September 22, 2010
Justin felt relieved that Valère was enjoying the cheeses and thus taking a break from talking. He wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, but he was certain the famous writer was wracked with guilt and had somehow chosen a young editor to pour out his heart to. Perhaps it helped that Justin wasn’t French, or perhaps their age difference made it easier for Valère to be honest—that is, if he was telling the truth.
Before their meeting, Justin had spent a few hours reading newspaper articles about Agathe Barbier’s accidental death. He was thankful he had picked up enough French at NYU to understand the details of the reports. But he wanted Valère’s version and so far wasn’t getting it. Certainly the episode would be an important part of Barbier’s memoir. And was that why the author was so guilt-stricken?
“Your wife . . . Agathe . . . She was from Brittany, right?” Justin asked. “I had a French professor at NYU who said that the Bretons are the most distinctive people in France. She’d make us sing Breton songs.”
Valère wiped his mouth with his napkin. He crossed his arms and smiled. “Agathe was born Agathe Le Flahec, in Crozon, just south of Brest. Beautiful wild clean beaches, with no one on them. She hated Mediterranean beaches, but I can’t stand cold water, and, let’s face it, in the sixties and seventies all the beautiful people were down on the Med, not in bloody freezing Brittany.”
Justin laughed. “Were her parents artists as well?”
“Her father was a country doctor, and her mother stayed at home with the kids but was an accomplished watercolorist. Agathe went to the village elementary school, but it was decided that for lycée she would go to Les Loges in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, outside Paris. You’ve probably never heard of Les Loges. The school—and there’s another one just like it in Saint-Denis—was set up for the daughters, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters of decorated soldiers. They were prestigious boarding schools that were free to those girls, and still are. Agathe’s grandfather, Erwan Le Flahec, was a general in the First World War. So off she went to Les Loges in 1961, then the École des Beaux-Arts in 1964, from which she graduated with a master’s in fine art in 1969.”
“I used to walk by the Beaux-Arts all the time,” Justin said. “The students were snooty and as soon as they heard our American accents would refuse to talk to us.”
“Well, it seems like you had no problem in chatting up Clothilde,” Valère said, laughing. “But I know what you’re saying about the art students. They acted like that when I was your age. I was intimidated, but my wild friend Hugo, a reporter, wasn’t. He used to claim that the male Beaux-Arts students were all insane, and the women all beautiful, so we’d have a good chance of scoring with the girls.”
“And so you met Agathe.” Justin pinched himself, realizing how lucky he was to be hearing all this. He wished his own parents were as open.
Valère smiled. “Agathe used to joke that the high point of her time in Paris was discovering clay at the Beaux-Arts. In second place was meeting me. I had just graduated from the Sorbonne and was working my first job, as an assistant editor at Le Monde. Hugo and I would finish up correcting the sheets and then head out to the cafés and bars to pick up girls. I think that’s one of the many things we have in common, Justin.”
Before Justin could reply, Valère’s mood changed. His brow furrowed and he said, “Back to the Bastide Blanche.”
“Right,” Justin agreed, coughing. “Judge Verlaque’s visit must have thrown you for a loop.”
I’ll say. After he left, Sandrine was even more fidgety than she usually was. She kept checking her cell phone and insisted we get outside and take an early evening walk. As we started down the drive, we came across Léa, who was sitting under an oak tree, reading. “You’re not reading in our
