“She isn’t in our house,” Bruno said. “I’ll be right there—”
He hung up before I could say anything. I turned to Sandrine, and she started to run down the stairs. “Maybe Léa’s in the garden,” I said, following her.
Sandrine ran through the downstairs rooms, calling Léa’s name. I went into the kitchen and stared at the four walls, utterly unable to move or do anything of use. Sandrine came in and ran to the kitchen counter. “Léa’s photograph is gone,” she said.
I said, “Do you think she came back to fetch it?”
“Obviously,” Sandrine said. “I’m sorry, M Barbier!” She got wide-eyed and began to scream. “But then where is she? This house! This ghost-filled house! I should have stayed away!”
“Sandrine, calm down!” I took her by the shoulders and thought she was going to cry, but she pulled herself together when we heard Bruno’s 4x4 pull up in front of the house. I ran outside as Bruno came up the steps.
“Is she here?” he asked, panting.
“No,” I said. “We’ve called her name throughout the house. We think she may have tried walking back here to get something she forgot in the kitchen.”
“Let’s search the garden,” Bruno said, turning around to look at the olive trees and vineyards that separated our properties. The outdoor lights suddenly came on, lighting up the garden.
Sandrine then came out. “Do the lights help?” she asked.
“Yes,” Bruno snapped. Suddenly a roar came across the vines, and a bright light shone in the vineyard. “Hélène,” he said. “She’s on the tractor.”
Sandrine handed us flashlights. “Let’s each take a row and walk toward your house.” The cagole telling the police commissioner what to do.
I ran ahead, toward the swimming pool, without waiting. I felt sick to my stomach. Could she have fallen in? But when I got close I could see, thanks to the pool lights, that it was empty, just the blue-green water lapping gently at the tiled sides. “Thank God,” I muttered, and turned on my flashlight to join the others.
There were four adults yelling Léa’s name, and the sound of the tractor going up and down the rows, its light so powerful you had to look away when it came near you. I could see why Hélène thought to bring it out.
“We were watching a movie. Léa may have even called out to us, but we didn’t hear,” Bruno said to me when we met at the end of our respective rows. He held his bald head in his hands.
“I should have taken her into your house,” I said, “and said a proper good evening to you and Hélène. It’s my fault.”
Bruno quickly said, “An old villager told me last night that the blind woman who’s been renting a house isn’t who she claims to be—”
“What?” I demanded.
Hélène climbed off the tractor. She bent down, as if looking at her vineyard; the grapes hung in huge clumps among the wide, bright-green leaves. I thought it odd that she was inspecting the vines; then I realized she was bent over because she was throwing up. Bruno ran to her and rubbed her back, and we stood there, not knowing what to do, staring and waiting for directions from Bruno. He’s the police commissioner, after all. Bruno then looked up at us, his face lit by an orange glow. I could hear a rumbling sound coming from behind us. “The house!” he yelled as he got up and began to run.
Hélène followed, and Sandrine quickly caught up with her as I ran behind. It was only then that I saw that Hélène was wearing her nightgown and running shoes, and Sandrine was barefoot. She must have kicked off her high heels as we left the house. Women are stronger than us, Justin, especially in moments like this one. You need to know that and accept it. Agathe was certainly stronger than me.
The sky was lit up, the same orange-red that had lit up Bruno’s face. The bastide was ablaze, flames curling from every window.
Chapter Thirty
Aix-en-Provence,
Tuesday, July 13, and Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Antoine Verlaque saw the orange glow from the village. At first he thought it might be from fireworks in a neighboring village, and he looked at his phone to double-check the date. No, Bastille Day was tomorrow. Besides, the glow was coming from the north, below mont Sainte-Victoire, where there were only a few houses, like Bruno Paulik’s and La Bastide Blanche. He joined Marine, who was waiting, standing beside the car, looking up at the sky.
“Our blind woman isn’t at home,” he said. “Will you look at that sky.”
Marine said, “I almost ran up to the house to get you, but a bunch of people came out of the bar, looking at the sky and yelling. The barman rang the fire station on his cell phone. I’m worried, Antoine.”
“Let’s go to Valère’s.” They were about to get into the car when Verlaque’s cell phone rang. “Merde,” he said, looking at the caller ID. “It’s Rudder.”
“Answer it,” Marine said, running around to the driver’s side of the car. “It may be important. I’ll drive.”
“Daniel,” Verlaque said, holding the phone under his chin while he buckled up in the passenger seat.
“My daughter-in-law is outside,” Rudder said. “So we don’t have much time. Did you think about—”
“Yes,” Verlaque replied. “Your theory that Agathe may still be alive is fascinating.”
Rudder began to laugh, which turned into a cough. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Your last words to me—”
“We got cut off by Nurse Ratched,” Rudder said.
“But the theory fits, whether it’s yours or not,” Verlaque continued. “Claude Petitjean. Don’t you see?”
“Claude Petitjean?”
“The writer.” Verlaque looked at Marine and winked, but she had her eyes on the curving road.
Rudder yelled into the phone, “I know who you’re talking about! Petitjean is a woman, but she’s in her late forties, not late sixties. An ex-biology professor from Limoges. Lives in the countryside with her husband
