“Yes,” Marine said, lying. “And I have this funny theory that those who excel in making beautiful pots can be wonderful writers. Poets, even.”
Mme Parent nodded, smiling.
“I was hoping to include passages of Mme Barbier’s own writing in the book. You know, diary entries and the like.”
“Interesting,” Mme Parent said, sitting back. Marine saw the directrice’s shoulders fall, relaxed. “I went to school with Agathe.”
“Ah bon?” Marine said, pretending not to have known.
“From 1961 to 1964,” Mme Parent continued. “We were good friends. I adored her.”
“So you must know Valère Barbier,” Marine offered.
“Barely,” Mme Parent answered.
Marine smiled and tried to sound chatty. “Oh, I’m only asking because he’s such a celebrity.”
“You can say that, yes. Valère Barbier is a celebrity.”
“So I take it you and Mme Barbier didn’t stay in touch after her marriage?” Marine asked. “I’m only asking for research purposes. The biography is in its early stages, and I’m trying to figure out who knew Agathe Barbier, and when.”
“I wouldn’t be much help,” Mme Parent said. “After 1964, that is.”
“I saw from the school records that you became directrice in January of 1990,” Marine said. “Did a journalist named Jean-Yves Bastou contact you around that time? I know it was long ago . . .”
Mme Parent folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t remember that name,” she said. “But you’re not the only one who has asked to check our records. Agathe went on to become renowned in her field, as have many other Les Loges students.”
“Yes, Nathalie told me that just a few weeks ago someone else asked to see Mme Barbier’s records.”
Mme Parent nodded. “A scholar. I was held up in meetings all day so wasn’t available to greet her.”
Marine said, “I didn’t find much in the file. I was a bit surprised.” It occurred to Marine that the scholar, whoever she was, may have taken some of the documents.
Mme Parent flinched, and a look of worry quickly raced across her face. “Agathe may have kept a great deal,” she said, shrugging. “After her death . . . who knows. Her widower may have disposed of everything or given it to her son.”
“Did you read her essay about the rue du Faubourg?” Marine asked.
“About a hundred times,” Mme Parent answered, smiling for the first time. “We’d proofread each other’s essays. But mine were never as good.”
“Don’t you find it odd—”
“I’ll admit it’s a strange coincidence,” Mme Parent said. “I’ve always assumed that Agathe suggested the title to her husband. I don’t know if you had time to read it, but the story has nothing in common with the book.”
Marine said, “I couldn’t read it. The story wasn’t in the file. Only a mention of the prize it received.”
Mme Parent’s face whitened. “You must be mistaken. The story is there. Those files are kept under lock and key in our archives.” Mme Parent stood up, and Marine looked at her watch.
“I have to catch the TGV soon,” Marine said. “Thank you for your time.” But she saw that the directrice had not heard a word she’d said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Aix-en-Provence,
Monday, July 12, 2010
She’s lying or keeping something back,” Marine said over the sound of running water. Finished brushing her teeth, she tapped her toothbrush on the edge of the sink, walked into their bedroom, and slid into bed beside Verlaque.
“What do you think Mme Parent is covering up?” Verlaque asked, removing his reading glasses and setting them and his book on the bedside table.
Marine bit her lip. “I don’t know if she’s protecting Agathe or her sister. By the way, she didn’t mention that her sister was Valère’s secretary for years. And I didn’t bring it up. There seems to be this weird silence.”
Verlaque said, “You’re right, that’s very odd.”
“Mme Parent didn’t speak well of Valère.”
Verlaque turned to face his wife. “He and Agathe did argue that day, on the boat,” he said. He crossed his arms and looked at his beloved Pierre Soulages, the painting’s textured blackness dominating the room. “But Valère speaks so kindly of Agathe, with real love in his eyes.”
“Now you’re the one who sounds like a Hollywood movie,” Marine said. “A schmaltzy love story.”
Verlaque laughed. “Touché,” he said. “But I still think that Pelloquin may have purposely left all that equipment snarled on the boat. I’m going to call Daniel de Rudder tomorrow morning.”
“I just don’t know,” Marine said, as if she hadn’t heard her husband. “Mme Parent’s protecting Ursule and Agathe. And despite the fact that you’ve become chums with Valère, I don’t think he’s trustworthy. He’s a phony for one thing. Right?”
“That’s your opinion,” Verlaque said. “I still can’t believe that Valère didn’t write those wonderful books.”
Marine sighed. “I can’t either. Once you fall in love with a book, it’s hard to separate it from the author. But right now, cher Monsieur le Juge, my instincts point to Agathe.” She switched off the bedside lamp, then curled up beside her husband.
The next morning, Verlaque walked down rue Gaston de Saporta, taking a roundabout route to the Palais de Justice because he felt like getting a strong espresso from the coffee roaster’s on place Richelme. He knew he would probably end up in a few tourists’ photographs: walking under the Gothic arch of the tall, square clock tower, a man of medium height, wearing a mustard-colored linen suit with a blue shirt—wide shouldered and ample bellied, with messy, thick gray-and-black hair, and crooked nose. That’s all they would know about the stranger in their photograph, once they got back to Kansas or Amsterdam or Tokyo.
He slowed down in front of the town hall and, hands in his pockets, looked up at its facade. A voice behind him said, “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît.” He turned around and saw a young couple, perhaps in their early twenties.
“You’d like me to take your photograph?” Verlaque asked in English.
“Oh yes, please,” the woman answered,
