Verlaque was about to take a bite of a macaron and stopped. “It’s a big sea.”
“What if she made herself disappear?” Chantal asked.
“Why would she want to do that?”
Chantal shrugged. “Sick of being married?” Her dark-blue eyes gleamed at Verlaque.
The waiter came to the table, seeing that their glasses were empty. “Another aperitif?” he asked.
Le Bar des Sports looked like most village bars in Provence. It was lit by fluorescent lights that gave the bar a bright bluish-white glow. The television mounted on the wall behind the bar—it was Le Bar des Sports, after all—was permanently on. The countertop might have once been zinc or wood but was now Formica with an edge of scuffed and stained pine. Four imitation-leather stools lined the bar, each a different color, and one missing the footrest. The floor had been retiled in the seventies, in beige-and-white checks, the cheapest tile sold at the hardware store. The sole object decorating the stucco walls was a calendar from the volunteer fire department, dated 2008.
Paulik took a breath before he opened the door. He came to the Bar des Sports once or twice a year, usually after a village event, and would quickly drink a pastis, chat, and leave. In the daylight, the bar wasn’t as depressing, as the fluorescent lights weren’t on, and one could stand outside on the sidewalk with a drink, pretending it was a pretty terrace. Paulik thought about all the books glorifying life in Provence, and how they usually left out the village bars: Le Bar des Sports, La Boule d’Or, Le Bar des Touristes, or Paulik’s personal favorite name, Le Bar du XXème Siècle.
“Salut,” Paulik said when he got to the bar. He smiled and nodded to two men standing to his right, both probably in their seventies and both missing about the same number of teeth.
“Bonsoir, Bruno,” the barman said. “How have you been?”
“Excellent, thank you,” Paulik replied, amazed that the barman remembered his name. “And you?”
“Fine. Things have calmed down now.”
Paulik looked around. There were the two old guys at the bar, and at a corner table was a guy, perhaps in his thirties, fast asleep. “Right,” he said, remembering. “The World Cup.”
“It was great fun, except for Les Bleus,” the barman said, wiping down the Formica. “But at least the Spaniards beat the Dutch.”
“Bloody Orangemen,” muttered one of the old guys.
The barman asked, “What can I get you?”
“Un Ricard, s’il te plaît,” Paulik said, relieved that a pastis could be drunk quickly. He was about to reach into a bowl of peanuts but pulled back his hand, realizing that the two old men had probably been eating the peanuts all night, and hadn’t washed their hands in hours. He wondered how he could bring up the subject of Valère Barbier, and Erwan’s appearance in the bar the other night, without raising too much suspicion.
“Here you go,” the barman said, leaning his hands on the counter. “How are things going with your famous neighbor?”
Paulik laughed, relieved that he hadn’t needed to start the conversation. “M Barbier is very low-key,” he said. “He seems to be a thoroughly good guy.”
“That’s the word around here,” the barman said. “No late-night parties or orgies with his famous girlfriends, eh, Gaston?” The barman laughed and tugged at one of the old men’s shirts.
“He’s hardly had any guests,” Paulik went on, taking a sip of his pastis. “Except a fellow writer, and now his son from Paris. He’s in his early forties, named Erwan. He arrived the other night. Apparently he and his taxi driver got lost. Lost in Puyloubier!”
Gaston laughed. “They came in asking for directions, they did.”
The barman said, “Was that Valère Barbier’s son? The stuck-up Parisian?”
“Is he stuck-up?” Paulik asked. “I’ve never met him.”
The barman made a grunting noise and began pouring another beer for Gaston’s friend.
“He made it quite clear that he didn’t like the looks of this bar, or of us, he did,” Gaston said.
“Who else was here besides you two?” Paulik asked, taking a sip of his pastis.
“Who wants to know?” the barman asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Paulik said, “I’ll be frank with you. There’s been a spot of trouble at the bastide, involving Erwan. I need to know who saw him arrive in the village last night.”
Gaston looked down into his beer, and his friend pretended to be very interested in the Michael Jackson video that was playing on the television. The young man in the corner still seemed to be asleep.
“Sorry,” the barman finally said. “Can’t help you there. People were in and out of here all night.”
Paulik nodded and drained his pastis. “Thanks anyway.” He laid two euros on the counter and left, discouraged that he hadn’t handled the situation as well as he could have. His Range Rover was parked in front of the bar, and as he unlocked the front door a squealing noise sounded behind him. He turned around and saw Thomas pull up on his pizza scooter. “Hey, Thomas,” he said, walking toward him.
Thomas took off his helmet and shook the commissioner’s hand. “Bonsoir,” he said, opening the red box behind his seat and taking out a pizza.
“Bar delivery?” Paulik asked.
“Old Gaston and his buddy. Gaston’s great-niece bought him his first cell phone, but I think the only calls he makes are to us and to her.”
Paulik laughed and grabbed a menu out of the box, pretending to read it. “Thomas,” he said, keeping his eyes on the menu. “Pretend we’re talking about pizzas, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Did you deliver any pizzas here last night?”
“Yeah, late,” Thomas answered. “It was after ten.”
“Bingo,” Paulik replied. “Who was in the bar?”
“Gaston and his buddy and the barman, of course, and the guy who usually sleeps at the corner table and two thugs, I think they’re brothers or cousins. Pioger is their name.”
“Who are they?”
“You don’t want to know,” Thomas answered. “Or maybe you do, given your day job. They’re
