“Yeah, the office every great writer has,” Valère said with noticeable sarcasm. “On the desk a Gae Aulenti Pipistrello lamp purchased at a Drouot auction; first editions of Proust and Philip Roth on the bookshelf; and in the corner an Eames chair that once belonged to Le Corbusier.”
Verlaque looked at Valère, reading his moroseness as guilt over Erwan’s disappearance. “I was in Paris yesterday,” Verlaque began, “and met Ursule Genoux and, later, Monica Pelloquin.”
“Lucky you,” Valère replied. He now seemed bored, and looked out the window.
Verlaque crossed his legs and also looked out at the vast view, the vines a sea of bright green. Barbier now seemed like the famous writer he had expected to meet—spoiled and indifferent—not the charming and talkative one he had taken to the cigar club.
Valère turned to Verlaque and asked, his voice now almost menacing, “Why in the world were you talking to them?”
Relieved that Valère had finally asked the question he should have a few moments before, Verlaque replied, “The inquiry into the death of your late wife has been reopened.”
“Well, it was never really closed, since they never found her body—did they?” Valère asked, as if the police were at fault and Verlaque was somehow involved in their incompetence.
“That’s correct,” Verlaque said.
“So what’s going on?”
“New evidence has come to light,” Verlaque lied.
“Like what?” Valère demanded, leaning forward to lessen the space between him and the judge.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Verlaque said. “It’s too early to tell.”
“And what did Ursule and Monica have to say?”
“What they told me yesterday matches what they reported to the Cannes police back in 1988.”
Valère grunted. “Of course it would.”
“After I met with them, I ran into Charles-Henri Lagarde, on the terrace of Le Hibou.”
“He practically lives at Le Hibou,” Valère replied. “He sits there all afternoon hoping to meet writers and actors more important than himself.”
Verlaque smiled. This was the kind of talk he had expected from a famous man: petty and gossipy. “I met Charles-Henri once, at a party, years ago,” he continued, noting that Valère hadn’t asked how he knew Lagarde. “And yesterday he told me that Alphonse Pelloquin also frequented Le Hibou.”
“See, what did I tell you? Lagarde is a poof too. That’s why his wife left him.”
Verlaque ignored the homophobic comment. He was now not amused by, but disappointed in, Barbier. Besides, the way Lagarde was checking out the women at the café made Verlaque even surer of the stupidity and inaccuracy of such slander.
Valère again looked out the window. He asked, almost into the air, “And what do I care that Alphonse used to go to Le Hibou?”
Verlaque replied, “I’m not sure. This may not be news to you, but Lagarde told me he frequently saw your publisher at Le Hibou in the company of your late wife, Agathe.”
Marine waited while her mother spoke with the university’s head librarian. Léopold Crépillon adored Florence Bonnet, with whom he, too, sang in the choir. Marine smiled as she listened to them; she was too far away to hear the conversation but close enough to get a sense of the excitement they shared when in each other’s company. Marine could hear Léopold clicking on the computer, the printer starting up, and then more excited chatter. When Marine finished writing a long e-mail to her editor in Paris, she realized that thirty minutes had gone by.
“You needn’t have hid,” Florence said when she found Marine.
“I wasn’t hiding,” Marine lied. Léopold was in his late forties or early fifties and still lived with his mother; the presence of any handsome woman under the age of sixty made him very nervous, and so Marine found an empty desk at the far end of the history stacks and read her e-mails on her cell phone. “I was just keeping my distance. I think I make Léopold break out into a sweat.” Some of Marine’s female colleagues referred to Léopold Crépillon as Le Creep, but Marine thought he was harmless. He just needed to bathe more often, another reason she kept her distance.
“Well, well,” Florence replied, huffing. She held up a few slips of white paper marked with call numbers. “Léopold has given us some great places to start. He’s always so useful.” They divided up Léopold’s suggestions between them and went looking for the books in the stacks. Marine could hear her mother making excited sounds a few rows down. “Ciel!” Florence loudly whispered after about ten minutes. “This is a real find!”
Marine took the two books that she thought might be useful back to the desk and pulled up a second chair. Florence joined her, her face flushed with excitement. “Poverty and Charity in Aix-en-Provence, 1640–1789,” she quickly said, holding up a slim green-bound volume for Marine to see. “Let’s start with this one.”
Marine read the table of contents. “This looks great,” she said.
“Good old Léopold,” Florence said. “He also gave me this, which I’ve been saving for you.” She beamed as she passed Marine a few photocopied pages, some of which Léopold had marked in red.
“Wow,” Marine said as she began reading. “It’s part of a late medieval census, listing the owners of the bigger properties in and around Aix, including La Bastide Blanche.”
“Léopold marked La Bastide with a red X,” Florence said.
“Was Léopold at the choir practice when Philomène told you about the bastide’s . . . legends?”
Florence nodded. “But he already knew all about it,” she said. “His great-aunts used to tell him ghost stories when he was a boy. The stories about La Bastide Blanche were his favorites.”
“Charming.”
“Yes, well, when you were small your father and I agreed that stories that frighten children aren’t necessarily the best bedtime reading.”
“Merci, Maman.”
“Léopold even told me who to begin with,” Florence said as she took a selection of colored pens and lined them up on the wooden desk. “Count Hugues de Besse,” she said, whispering. She took the cap off the green pen and marked two Xs beside his name, which appeared on the first page
