“It’s all my fault,” Valère said. “Who’s behind all this? She must have known all along—”
“Known what?” Marine asked.
Valère mumbled, “I swear if Léa comes out of this all right, I’ll confess—I swear to God . . .”
“Confess?” Marine asked. From far away a car horn sounded, getting louder and louder. “It’s Sandrine.”
A firefighter ran up to Sandrine’s car, admonishing her for driving so close to the house. “Whatever!” Sandrine yelled as she jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger side, opening the door. “Come on, sweetie pie,” she gently said.
“Maman!”
“Léa!” Hélène yelled. Bruno ripped off the oxygen mask and slowly got to his feet, stumbling. “Easy there, Bruno,” Verlaque said, running to help him stand up.
“Oh, thank God,” Marine said, hugging Valère. They looked at the Pauliks, who were locked in a three-way embrace.
Sandrine ran up to them, and Valère hugged her. “You’re a genius!” he said. “Where was she? The chapel?”
“Yep,” Sandrine said. Marine looked down, noticing that she was barefoot. Sandrine continued, “I figured that Léa may have run there, out the back door, to get away. It was a lucky guess.”
“Why didn’t she just go home?” Marine asked.
“She told me in the car that she was worried that the woman chasing her might guess that’s where she would go,” Sandrine said, “and catch up to her there.”
“Smart kid,” Valère said.
“And there was no sign of anyone else at the chapel?” Marine asked.
“Nope, but we didn’t stick around long,” Sandrine said. “That place gives me the willies. In fact, this whole countryside does. I can’t wait to get back to downtown Aix.”
Valère looked at his sidekick and smiled. For Sandrine to say that meant she was healed of her pain. No more running.
Marine realized that her husband was no longer standing beside her. She looked around and saw him by the swimming pool, talking on his phone. She walked down, partly to get farther away from the smoke, and partly to nudge him that it was time they headed home. “Merci, Charles-Henri,” Verlaque said as he hung up the phone.
“Everything all right?” Marine asked. “It’s late for a phone call.”
“Charles-Henri stays up late. I asked him to do me a favor.” He looked up at the bastide, now a smoking shell. “There’s a woman in there—I’m certain of it.”
Marine took him by the shoulders. “I think you’re right,” she said. “We’ll know more tomorrow. Come on. Let’s get home.”
A mistral blew through Aix-en-Provence the next day, causing the temperature to drop almost ten degrees, much to everyone’s relief, but also canceling the Bastille Day fireworks for most of the region. The fire at La Bastide Blanche was contained by early morning, but because of the wind the firefighters stood watch.
Bruno Paulik called Verlaque’s cell phone just after ten, telling him that everyone was all right. Shaken, but all right. Léa and Hélène were still sleeping, cuddled together in the master bed. Paulik suggested that Verlaque and Marine come out to the house after lunch, as both the fire captain and the chief of the local gendarmes needed to question all who had been present. Valère and Sandrine had booked rooms in a roadside chain hotel near the highway, and would come at two o’clock as well. “They need clothes and toiletries,” Bruno added, giving Verlaque their sizes and the name of their hotel.
“Right,” Verlaque said, hanging up and taking a cappuccino to Marine. “Here you go,” he said, handing Marine the coffee as she sat up in bed, fluffing the pillows behind her.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the coffee and blowing on it. “You’re an angel.”
“Drink up. We need to hit Monoprix to buy clothes for Valère and Sandrine before lunch, then go out to Bruno’s.”
“Just give me a few seconds,” Marine said sleepily.
“What a night,” Verlaque said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Everything happened so quickly.”
“I know.” Marine took a sip and said, “When you were paying the restaurant tab, Nathalie called. She’s my old friend who works at Les Loges. She said it took her a few days to work up the courage to call me, as she’s recently divorced and is terrified of losing her job. After my visit, Mme Parent, the director, ran up to the archives in a rage, screaming about their lack of care and gross ineptitude. The archivist was on holiday but had obviously done a shoddy job of checking the ID of this apparent scholar.”
“Michèle Baudouin—”
“Yes,” Marine said. “The archivist didn’t recognize her, obviously. Mme Parent grabbed Agathe Barbier’s file from some poor underling and opened it in a fury, throwing papers all over the room. Nathalie said it was obvious that something was missing.”
“Agathe’s prize-winning story.”
“‘A Chance Meeting on the rue du Faubourg,’” Marine said. “Ursule’s proof that Agathe had more than just helped Valère. Mme Parent told me it had nothing in common with the book, but I think she was lying.”
“Good thing we chose to eat in Puyloubier last night,” Verlaque said. “Although I don’t feel that we—I—helped that much.”
“We were there,” Marine answered. “That’s help enough.”
“So Michèle must have this story with her,” Verlaque said. “Wherever she is in the Luberon.”
“Or it could have been left in the house—”
“In which case it’s gone forever.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Marine suggested. “Now it’s up to Valère to tell the truth.”
“No more deception,” Verlaque said. He thought of Valère deceiving Agathe, Ursule Genoux and Alphonse Pelloquin deceiving Daniel de Rudder, Michèle Baudouin deceiving Célestine Parent and the poor archivist, and he himself almost deceiving his beloved wife. It was only for a second, but it had scared him all the same.
Marine asked, “What did you ask Charles-Henri Lagarde to do for you last night?”
“It’s just a hunch, but there’s someone we forgot—someone who could gain from driving Valère Barbier insane. I asked Charles-Henri to do some asking around, since he knows everyone in the newspaper and publishing world.”
“You can fill me in
