“That’s quite a coincidence,” Verlaque said. “Which campus, Saint-Germain-en-Laye or Saint-Denis?”
“Saint-Germain,” Marine replied. “The letter mentioned a ‘stressful’ event and that Ursule was smart and a fast typist and needed employment. Agathe must have answered in the affirmative—her reply wasn’t there—but Ursule was then hired as Valère’s secretary, right?”
“Yes, Ursule began in the late seventies—1979 I think,” Verlaque said. “She’s exactly the kind of woman you’d expect to be a famous wealthy man’s secretary. If Valère’s spoiled and uncooperative behavior today is any indication of what he was like in the days when he was hanging out with the Rolling Stones and Norman Mailer, then Ursule Genoux could have handled it.” He put Rebecca back on his nightstand and sighed.
“You’re a little out of sorts this evening. Is this case getting to you?” Marine asked.
“I drove to Cannes this evening,” Verlaque quickly said. “To deliver the Agathe Barbier files.”
“Oh, that explains why you got home so late. Was the traffic bad? Is that why you’re upset?”
“I gave the files to the examining magistrate, and then we had dinner in the hills.”
“And I assume it wasn’t a good time?” Marine asked.
“It was just like old times,” Verlaque replied. “But I’m so happy I’m married to you.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten,” Marine said, looking down at her hands. “The new judge there is Chantal Sennat. Your old college flame.”
Verlaque nodded. “It was a mistake to have gone,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
New York City,
September 22, 2010
That evening Michèle returned from the hospital. Sandrine managed to get Tinker Bell started and drove off in a huff, saying she was going to stay at her sister Josy’s place. Sandrine had been a ball of nervous energy all day, walking around the house biting her nails and rubbing her hands together. Several times I asked her what was wrong, but she just mumbled to herself and kept pacing.
I told her she could have a few days off—she deserved it, with all that had been going on at the house. I was relieved not to have the two women there at the same time, but I still thought Sandrine had nothing to do with Michèle’s fall. Michèle had had too much to drink and lost her balance, and because of the drink, she imagined someone had pushed her.
Michèle was in surprisingly good form. But, then again, she always had an excess of energy. I made cheese-and-ham omelets, and we ate in the kitchen. Her face was still bruised, and I was fascinated by the one on her forehead, which had the same shape as France. “Stare much?” she asked as she gobbled up her dinner. “Wow, you don’t get a simple good omelet in a hospital. Thank you, Barbier.” She pushed her plate aside and lit a cigar.
“Can you smoke?” I asked.
She looked at me like I was a stupid boy. In other words, the way she always looked at me. “Of course,” she said. “But I’m laying off the booze.”
“Right,” I answered, clearing away the plates and going to get my own cigar. “I’ll make us herbal tea.”
“We are like two old fogies,” she said, watching me pour water into the kettle. “I always knew we’d end up together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Relax,” she said, laughing. “I only meant that I knew that we’d still be friends when we were old.”
“As fate would have it,” I said. “We grew up on the same street, and here we are.”
“But you have the Bastide Blanche.”
“Do you want it?” I asked. “You keep saying how much you’ve always loved the fresco in the stairway. I’m thinking of selling.”
“You don’t say,” she said, blowing smoke out of her mouth. She didn’t ask me why I wanted to sell the house so soon, and it wasn’t until days later that I realized that was odd. She shrugged and said, “I’m not so sure I want it now. You know me and my instant urges. They quickly wear off. Besides, I have a house in Cuba. And there’s an Italian island near Tunisia that’s awfully hip right now.”
I put the teapot on the table between us and got two mugs out of the cupboard. With all that had been happening in the house these past days, I had been ignoring my friend on the wall, the lady in the pink dress. I sat down and looked at Michèle. “Where exactly did you first see the fresco?” I asked.
“Oh, I can’t remember,” she answered, twisting one of the oversized rings she likes to wear. “In some magazine perhaps.”
“Michèle, why are you here?”
Her rings made a clunking sound as she smacked her hands on the table. “I told you the other night, before my accident.”
“All you did was try to threaten me into writing a book with you, based on some phony piece of evidence you claim to have, which Sandrine may have overheard.”
“It’s not phony,” Michèle said, reaching into her gaudy Louis Vuitton purse. She carefully pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to me. Opening it, I pulled out some faded pieces of paper, typed on a typewriter. As soon as I saw it, I knew exactly what it was.
“Where did you get this?” I demanded.
“It doesn’t matter—does it?” she said, grinning, grabbing the pages back from me before I had a chance to do anything. I know, Justin, I wasn’t fast enough.
“So tell me about your project.”
“We’d write a book, a great book.”
“I’m retired.”
“A writer never retires,” she insisted.
“I’ve retired from fiction,” I replied. “If I write anything, it will be nonfiction.”
“Your memoirs?” she snorted. “Like some film star or professional athlete.”
“It’s a great genre.”
“It’s voyeurism.”
“That’s funny coming from you,” I said. “You’ve made millions selling love stories.”
“Tens of millions,” she corrected. “But I haven’t written a serious literary book. One that will be read in schools, like yours are.”
“Who’s
