“I can see from your expression that you think it’s a lot of hocus-pocus,” Florence said. “But there may be some truth in the ghost stories. There usually is.”
“But, Maman, that’s pure superstition, the kind of thing you normally fight against.”
Florence shrugged. “It’s an old house, and old houses have souls and histories.” Marine looked at her mother aghast. Florence continued, “That’s one of the reasons your father and I bought a new house in 1964. Other than the fact that we wanted central heating.”
“And it was close to the university,” Marine added.
“Exactly.”
“So, not really because of the house having an old soul you’d have to deal with,” Marine pointed out.
“Well, I suppose not,” Florence said. She paused, looking up at the restaurant’s art deco ceiling, then went on. “But, in the case of La Bastide Blanche, there are just too many unexplainable circumstances.”
Marine smiled, happy to see her mother so relaxed. “Go on.”
Florence leaned forward. “What are you doing after lunch?”
“I was going to write.”
“Let’s take a quick detour to the university library.”
“Maman!”
“It won’t take long,” Florence said. “We could verify Philomène’s story, right?”
Marine nodded. “Okay, then perhaps we should just order a main dish to make it quicker.”
Florence looked surprised, then disappointed. “Quoi? Pas une entrée, ni dessert?”
Marine smiled; perhaps she was slowly turning her mother into an epicurean.
Bruno Paulik knocked on Verlaque’s office door. “Come in,” Verlaque said, moving a pile of papers aside with the back of his hand. “Coffee?”
“Can’t,” Paulik answered. “I have to go to the Bastide Blanche.”
“Now what’s happened?”
“Valère Barbier’s stepson is missing.”
“I didn’t know his stepson was visiting,” Verlaque said.
“He arrived late last night,” Paulik said. “Hélène and I saw the taxi drive up around ten thirty, as we were going to bed. He came in on the seven o’clock TGV from Paris.”
“Odd, Marine and I were on the same train,” Verlaque said, standing up. “I’ll come too, and on the way there I’ll fill you in on what I learned in Paris. Why is Barbier worried? Maybe his stepson went on a hike or back to Paris?”
Paulik said, “Barbier and his housekeeper found a ransom note in the living room this morning.”
They were able to get to Puyloubier in twenty minutes. Officer Goulin drove the commissioner, thrilled to be out of the office for the morning. The judge followed the police car in his vintage Porsche.
Valère and Sandrine were standing on the bastide’s front steps when they arrived. “Thank you for getting here so quickly,” Valère said as Verlaque, Paulik, and Sophie Goulin approached.
“We didn’t touch the note,” Sandrine said.
“We found it lying on the coffee table,” Barbier explained as they walked in the house. “It was Sandrine’s idea not to touch it.”
“That was very smart,” Paulik said.
Sophie Goulin took a set of tweezers from her kit, picked up the handwritten note, and held it before Paulik. “‘We have Erwan,’” he read aloud. “‘If you want him alive, please follow further instructions.’”
“The spelling is atrocious,” Valère said.
“What happened last night?” Paulik asked. “Try not to leave anything out, even if it seems unimportant.”
“M Barbier had a bad dream around three thirty,” Sandrine said.
“But before that,” Paulik said. “When did Erwan arrive?”
“Ten thirty or so,” Valère said, looking at Sandrine for confirmation. “In a taxi from the Aix TGV station.”
“Seventy euro fare,” Sandrine added, crossing her arms.
“We went immediately to bed,” Valère continued. “Sandrine had made up one of the guest rooms.”
“And none of you heard anything?”
“Just M Barbier yelling in his sleep, like I said,” Sandrine said. “I ran into his room and woke him up.”
“I was worried that I had also woken up Erwan, so Sandrine went to check on him and found he was gone.”
“Did you check the house then?” Verlaque asked.
“Of course,” Valère answered. “We checked all the rooms, upstairs and down. And neither of us saw the note on the table. I’m sure it wasn’t there.”
“Yes,” Sandrine said. “I would have seen it. I had just cleaned the living room.”
“I turned on the outdoor lights,” Valère continued. “And nothing seemed unusual outside, so I went back to bed. I figured that Erwan must have walked into the village and hitchhiked into Aix, or called a taxi. I checked my desk drawer, where I keep cash, and money was missing.”
“Whoever left this note must have come back, in the early morning, to deliver it,” Paulik said. “Was the door locked?”
Valère and Sandrine exchanged looks. “That’s the problem,” Sandrine said. “We both thought the other had locked it.” She looked out the window and could see Sophie Goulin now outside, walking slowly around the grounds, her head down.
Paulik said, “Whoever has Erwan will call you. Make sure your cell phone is on and charged. In the meantime, Judge Verlaque and I will take your statements, separately, in the kitchen and your office, if that’s a good place.”
Valère shrugged. “Yes, that’s fine. This kid . . . nothing but problems.”
“Is there a chance it’s a hoax?” Verlaque asked.
Valère shook his head. “He does get angry quickly, which is why I assumed he had left. I wasn’t very welcoming. But he’s never done anything this extreme.”
“He did say last night that he was out of money,” Sandrine said.
“Really?” Verlaque asked.
Valère looked at him. “To arrange a fake kidnapping would take ingenuity and energy, neither of which Erwan has.”
“Maybe he has some Parisian friends who helped him?” Sandrine suggested.
“Mlle Matton may be right,” Paulik said.
Valère shook his head. “I still don’t see it . . . but I may be wrong.”
Verlaque took the visibly tired and shaken Valère into the office, while Paulik and Sandrine (who was still complaining about the taxi fare) went into the kitchen.
“You have a beautiful office,” Verlaque said sincerely, looking around at the mix of French and Italian furniture and the ancient built-in bookcases. Two large windows gave onto the pebbled terrace and its row of plane trees, which in turn framed the rolling hills covered in vineyards and olive
