“Are you all right?” Verlaque asked once the noise had stopped.
He heard some shuffling noises and a woman came on the telephone. “Judge Verlaque?” she asked. “I’m Daphné de Rudder. I know that my father-in-law has been calling you.”
“Yes. Is Daniel okay?”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “He just needs to rest right now. He was up far too early this morning.” Verlaque could hear Rudder arguing in the background.
“I understand,” Verlaque said. “And thank you for taking such good care of Daniel.” As he hung up, someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”
Bruno Paulik walked in, shook hands, went to the bright-red espresso machine, and turned it on. “Coffee?” Paulik asked.
Verlaque shook his head. “I’ve had two already. Do you think it odd that Agathe Barbier’s body was never recovered?”
Paulik shrugged. “Not really. Anything can happen in the sea. There are sharks out there.”
“Nice. But then an arm or a leg would turn up, no?”
“Now you’re the one being morbid. Are you thinking she planned her accident and is still wandering around?” The espresso machine’s red light went out, signaling it was ready, and Paulik made coffee. “Are you sure?” he asked, holding up his demitasse.
“Okay, go ahead and make me one,” Verlaque said, smiling.
“You’re a pushover.” Paulik made another espresso. “Faking a death has always seemed far too unreal to me,” he said, handing Verlaque a demitasse and sitting down across from him. “It can hardly be worth all the fuss. Why?”
“Revenge. She’s frightening Valère. Trying to drive him mad.”
“But for what?”
Verlaque filled Paulik in on Marine’s discovery. “Plus, my old law professor seems to think that Agathe may have staged her own death.”
Paulik listened with an open mouth. “This is beginning to sound like a novel.”
“Exactly,” Verlaque said, thinking of Rebecca.
“But what if,” Paulik suggested, “Valère Barbier is simply imagining these ghosts? What if it’s just an old house making weird noises at night, and Valère really did write those great books all on his own?” He put his right hand on his heart. “Because I’m having a very hard time believing otherwise. An Honorable Man? The Receptionist? Red Earth? Not written by our national hero? What if Agathe Barbier did simply fall off a boat?”
“For an opera lover, you really are very unimaginative.”
Verlaque ran into their apartment and emptied his pockets, setting his wallet and cell phone on the kitchen counter. It was still warm out, nearly 30°C, he suspected, and on the walk home he had thought about how good a shower would feel. But he was too excited. “Marine!” he hollered.
“What?” she called from the mezzanine. “You’re making so much noise down there!”
“Come down!” he cried.
“Oh, brother,” Marine mumbled, turning off her laptop. She had been staring at the same sentence for over half an hour; it was time to stop. She could hear her husband opening the refrigerator and banging the kitchen cupboards.
“White?” he called as she walked down the metal staircase she had always thought too contemporary and masculine for such an old apartment.
“Yes, please,” she said, walking into the kitchen and hugging Verlaque. “You’re warm.”
“And sweaty,” he said. “Sorry. I’m going to dive into the shower before dinner. Too bad we can’t fit a lap pool on the terrace. But first,” he said, pouring them each a glass of white burgundy, “I want to talk about Valère.”
“Santé,” Marine said, tapping her glass to her husband’s then taking a sip. “Did you speak to Daniel de Rudder?”
“Yes, and he’s put an idea in my head,” Verlaque said. “I think Agathe is still alive.”
Marine tried not to laugh. She walked around their small but efficient kitchen and sipped more wine. “And she’s trying to frighten Valère?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s a problem with that theory,” she said.
“What?”
“Erwan. She’d want to be with her son, no?”
“Maybe Erwan knows. Perhaps they see each other secretly.”
“For twenty-two years? And,” Marine said, her face getting flushed from the heat and wine, “if Agathe wrote the great books, wouldn’t she still be writing, or at least making pots?”
Verlaque grinned. “That’s why I ran up the stairs and put my shower on hold.”
“You ran up four flights of stairs?”
“I paused on the second-floor landing. Just be quiet and listen.”
“You’re such a jerk,” Marine said, laughing.
“Claude Petitjean.”
“I gave it back to Sylvie,” Marine asked. “Sorry.”
“I’ll buy it—don’t worry. Did you read Le Monde’s literary section last weekend?”
Marine set her empty glass on the counter and stared at her husband.
Verlaque continued: “Petitjean has published five books, the first four were critically acclaimed but little read, and now this one—”
“A huge success,” Marine cut in, “despite the author refusing to do interviews or even release his or her photograph. Claude can be either male or female.”
“And guess when Claude Petitjean’s first novel was published?”
“Just after Agathe’s death?” Marine asked.
“In 1990.”
Verlaque’s cell phone began to ring. He picked it up and looked at the caller. “Merde. It’s Jacob from the club. He never calls. Do you mind if I answer?”
“Go ahead. Tell him I say hello. I’ll start preparing dinner.”
Verlaque picked up the phone and took it into the living room. Marine opened the refrigerator and took out a bunch of arugula she’d bought at the market that morning. Digging into the back of the fridge, she found a bag of pine nuts, a chunk of Parmesan they’d brought back from their most recent trip to Liguria, and some herbed pancetta from her butcher. She’d make linguini, using these ingredients cooked in chicken broth.
Ten minutes later Verlaque came back into the kitchen and set his phone back on the counter, plugging it in to charge.
Marine was pacing back and forth. “Something kept bothering me when I was reading the Petitjean.”
Verlaque opened the fridge, grabbed the wine, and refilled their glasses. “Oh yeah?”
“Do you remember me telling you what it was about?”
Verlaque nodded. “Two kids who grew up on the same street in Paris get back in touch in their seventies.” He looked at Marine. “Of course . . . It
