Paulik handed Thomas the menu and patted him on the back. “Thanks, mate.”
After dinner Marine received a text message from Sylvie, asking if Charlotte could spend the night. Marine answered in the affirmative and went to the linen closet to get sheets. If they bought a house in the country, they would have more room for guests, she thought as she set up a bed for Charlotte on the living room sofa. She gave Charlotte a new toothbrush and a clean T-shirt and tucked her in. “Would you like me to close the living room curtains?” she asked after she kissed Charlotte on the forehead.
“No, thank you,” Charlotte answered. “If I lift up my head a little bit, I can see the lights on the cathedral steeple.”
“I love that view too,” Marine said as she turned off the lights. A house in the country wouldn’t have that view, only darkness. Marine had never lived in the country and even as a child had preferred being in town. She went into the bathroom, showered, and brushed her teeth, putting on a new, sheer nightgown that she had bought on the first day of the July sales. Walking into the bedroom, she did a pirouette.
Verlaque was in bed, reading. He’d arrived home, in a sour mood, just after her parents left. Marine cleared her throat, but he did not look up. “Antoine,” she said, getting into bed. “Why are you so cranky this evening?”
“Is Sylvie out again?” he asked.
Marine, who usually liked to defend her best friend, agreed. “Sylvie’s absences are beginning to bother me too,” she whispered. “I’ll try to talk to her tomorrow.”
“No idea who’s she seeing?”
“Nope,” Marine replied. “She was at the international photography conference in Arles last week. Perhaps she met someone there. That’s where she met Charlotte’s father.”
“And he has no idea about Charlotte, right?”
“He was married, with ten- and twelve-year-olds, and living in Berlin,” Marine answered. “So Sylvie never told him. She didn’t want to upset his marriage.”
Verlaque snorted.
“Don’t throw stones,” Marine said.
“You’re right.”
“Your meeting went late this evening.”
Verlaque coughed. “It was a waste of time. How was the Sèvres museum, by the way? I was so busy on the train we really didn’t get to talk.”
“Agathe Barbier’s letters were more interesting than I thought they’d be,” Marine answered. She had detected an intentional switch in the conversation but decided to let it go. “Not so much in what they said but in how they were written. She really was a beautiful letter writer.”
“Those were the days,” Verlaque said. “I remember my grandmother Emmeline spending a good part of her day writing letters. It’s a practiced art that’s been lost.”
“I still have the letters you wrote me,” Marine said, kissing Verlaque. She rubbed his stomach, and he kissed her.
“I spent about an hour writing that first postcard to you,” he said.
“From Rome.”
“Yes, I remember the exact café where I wrote it. You were such a good catch, and I so desperately wanted to impress you.”
Marine smiled but secretly wished he had said something other than wanting to impress her. What, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t put it into words.
Verlaque continued, “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Charlotte, but Valère’s stepson showed up late last night from Paris and was promptly kidnapped. There was a ransom note and a phone call this morning asking for fifty thousand euros.”
Marine sat up. “What?” Verlaque filled her in on the details. “Did the stepson set this up?” Marine asked. “They’ve never gotten along very well.”
“How do you know?”
“Paris Match,” Marine answered. “At the doctor’s office.”
Verlaque laughed. “Bruno and I asked Valère the same thing, but he was adamant that Erwan isn’t capable of carrying out such an organized plan. Valère was a wreck.”
“I should think so, the poor man.”
“He looked like a recovering drug addict or alcoholic who hasn’t been allowed to drink for two weeks,” Verlaque said. “He was sweating and had the shakes. He admitted he hasn’t been sleeping.”
“More ghost stories?”
“Yes. They’re more frequent and of a more disturbing nature.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Something is making him wake up in the middle of the night,” Verlaque said. “Even his housekeeper said so.”
“Sandrine?” Marine asked. “She’s a weird bird. Weird in a good way, though.”
Verlaque held up a battered copy of Rebecca. “It was one of Emmeline’s favorites. When the first VCRs came to France, my grandfather bought one for the Normandy house, and Emmeline would let us stay up late to watch the Hitchcock film.”
“I’ve never read it. Can you give me the condensed version?” Marine asked as she lay on her side, propped up on her elbow.
Verlaque began: “A wealthy widow, Maxim, marries a young woman, who upon arrival at his estate, Manderley, is tortured by pranks perpetrated by the housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, more famously known as Danny, who will do anything to get the young wife out of the house and drive the couple apart.”
“What was Danny’s motive?”
“Love,” Verlaque said. “Or obsession. You’re never really sure. She was in love with Maxim’s dead wife.”
“Rebecca.”
“Exactly.”
Marine took the book from him and asked, “Are you thinking that Sandrine is behind the late-night frights?”
“I don’t know,” Verlaque slowly answered. “Sandrine began living in the house almost the day he moved in, which is—”
“Odd,” Marine cut in.
“Yes. Valère’s lawyer is her uncle,” Verlaque said. “I’m going to call him tomorrow. Physically, Sandrine doesn’t resemble Danny at all, but Ursule Genoux certainly does.”
“Valère’s secretary?”
“Yes, tall and gaunt, with not a hint of emotion in her voice. A very sad woman.”
“But she’s in Paris, while Sandrine is in the house.”
“Yes, it would be difficulty to play those kinds of tricks from the 8th arrondissement.”
“I read something interesting about Ursule in Agathe’s letters,” Marine said. “Ursule was recommended for employment by her younger sister, who was an old friend of Agathe’s. All three of them went to Les Loges
