The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne (12 page)

H
e's been shot through the head, once, clean,” said Dr. Cohen as she looked down at the lifeless body that laid in Aix's morgue. “Killed late last night or early this morning, so he's been dead for ten hours or so. The killer, by the looks of it a professional, used a .22 caliber revolver. Head shot, up close; the bullet's still in there. It spun and spun around,” she said, motioning with her hands, “inside the curved interior of the dead man's skull, causing instant death.”

Paulik looked down at the dead man and took a deep breath, wishing the doctor would keep her narrative more scientific. “A .22 revolver makes noise,” Paulik said.

“Not the Russian ones,” Flamant said.

“Where was he found?” Paulik asked as he continued to look at the body.

“Down by Pont de l'Arc,” Flamant said.

“And if the killer didn't have a Russian revolver?” Paulik asked. “Pont de l'Arc is quiet.”

“There's a disco by the river,” Flamant said. “It would have been loud on Friday night.”

“You're right,” Paulik answered, nodding. “At any rate, get some officers down to the river to ask joggers and the gypsies if they saw or heard anything. Are the gypsies still camped down there?”

“Yes,” Flamant said. “They were watching as we cordoned off the scene of the crime. Whoever shot Maneval didn't care that he would be identified. But I recognized him anyway. Small-time thug. I think he's a bouncer at La Fantasie.”

“I recognize him, too,” Paulik said. He thought of a six-month-old Guy Maneval, cradled by his mother; a nine-year-old Guy, chasing some kid in the school yard; then a fifteen-year-old Guy, smoking and already getting into trouble; and downhill from there.

“Do you still need me?” Dr. Cohen asked, covering the body with a sheet. “I got called away from a dinner party.”

No,” Paulik said. “I'm sorry about the dinner. Maybe you can still make the dessert.”

“I hate sweets,” the doctor answered. “Good evening.”

“Good-bye, and thanks,” Paulik said. He turned to Flamant and asked, “And this painting?”

Flamant pointed to a table behind the commissioner.

“There's not much left of the painting,” Flamant said, “as it was pushed over the victim's head. A warning?”

“If it's the same painting that's missing out of René Rouquet's apartment, then it's a clue intentionally left by the killer, linking Guy Maneval to René Rouquet.”

“And the Cézanne mystery.”

“Did the same person kill the two men?” Paulik asked. “Or did Maneval kill Rouquet and then did someone kill Maneval? Maneval was killed by a professional.”

“And Rouquet wasn't,” Flamant said. “Or that's the way it appeared.”

“Well,” Paulik said, looking down at the painting, “it looks like there's enough left in the corners for Pierre Millot to identify it as the painting that hung above his neighbor's sofa. Let's put it in a bag and take it to the Palais de Justice. There's no reason to bring Pierre here.”

 • • • 

Marine sat in her childhood kitchen, holding her head in her hands as her father passed her a Kleenex. She looked around at the kitchen—vintage 1973—and although it was ugly and not functional, she knew that her parents would never change it. Her parents hated change, and loved routine. Since she had become a full-time professor in Aix, Marine made it a habit of having breakfast with her parents every Sunday morning, before they headed off to Mass at Saint Jean de Malte. It got her out of bed, and she enjoyed the early-morning walk when Aix's streets were still empty. Both she and Antoine had been raised to be early risers, and she had recently read an interview with a three-star Michelin chef who, when asked to what he owed his success, answered, “My parents never letting me sleep in as a teenager.”

“This must be about something other than Pierre Soulages and the Pompidou,” Anatole Bonnet said, setting down his coffee. “Although I enjoyed that story.”

“I'm a law professor,” Marine said, blowing her nose. “I've published law articles, I pay my mortgage on time, my students and colleagues respect me. But—” She sighed and her father waited for her to finish her sentence. “It's just that sometimes Antoine Verlaque makes me so damn mad,” she said.

“Me, too!” Marine's mother said from the living room.

“Florence, you're not helping,” Anatole Bonnet called to his wife.

“So . . . ,” Anatole Bonnet said, “you think that Antoine should loan the Pompidou the Soulages.”

“Papa,” Marine said. “This has nothing to do with Soulages!”

“Right, sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry,” Marine said, taking her father's hands in hers and looking again at the age spots. “Look at the state of me,” she said. “I'm being irrational for the first time in my life and it's killing me. I can't stand myself. He brings out the best and worst in me.”

Anatole smiled and motioned with a nod of the head toward the living room, where Florence was simultaneously finishing the
Le Monde
crossword, listening to a play on the radio, and eavesdropping on their conversation.

Marine smiled and dried her eyes.

“Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?” Anatole asked his daughter. “I'm not sure I understand.”

Marine sighed and said, “I'm not even sure myself, but the other night, we were at the Pauliks' house—”

“The commissioner who looks like a thug?”

“Right,” Marine said. “He's a teddy bear, actually. Well, there we all are, laughing our heads off as Léa—she's their ten-year-old—sits under the table and calls out who gets which piece of galette. And I see that Antoine is having the time of his life. He adores that kid—” She stopped and took a breath. “And I got jealous, not of Léa, but of the Pauliks and their cute family of three.” She stopped speaking and looked at her father.

“I always loved our cute family of three,” Anatole said quietly, not wanting Florence to hear. Their son, born a few years earlier than Marine, had died of infant crib death. He and Florence, in their seventies, were only now speaking to a
therapist about it. He hadn't told Marine about the therapy sessions, twice weekly on the Cours Mirabeau.

“I realized that evening that I want to have a family,” Marine said. She then loudly added for her mother's benefit, “Yes, with Antoine Verlaque.”

“Shouldn't you be speaking to Antoine about this?” Anatole asked, with a puzzled look on his face.

“Of course I should,” Marine said. “If I can stay Zen long enough. Why is this subject making me so crazy?” She slapped the wooden table. “Why am I embarrassed about this wish?”

“Because you've always thought out your life so rationally,” Anatole said. “At age six you reorganized our kitchen, and at age nine you were campaigning for Mitterrand for president.” Dr. Bonnet smiled and added, “I'm sure the Verlaques were not looking forward to having a Socialist run the country.”

“No, they weren't,” Marine said. “They took one of their only trips together as a family just before the elections, to Montréal, to see about getting Canadian passports in the event of Mitterrand winning. Which he did, so they just hid their money in Luxembourg.”

Anatole Bonnet tried not to frown. “So it seems to you that now, at age thirty-five, you're acting instinctively, following your heart, and that scares you.”

Marine looked at her father and smiled.

“And it shouldn't,” Anatole went on. “Your mother and I drew up a list of pros and cons before deciding to have children. It seems stupid now, but back in the early '70s all of our friends were reproducing like rabbits without giving it a thought. Or that's how it seemed to us. And then when it happened it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. We were over the moon.”

“But Antoine had such a lousy childhood.”

“All the more reason to talk to him about your feelings,” Anatole said.

“Goddamn crossword!” Florence Bonnet yelled. “Who cares about movie stars? Nine letters. Who played Cyrano—”

“
Depardieu!
” Marine and her father answered in unison.

“You're not being fair to Antoine, Marine,” Anatole said. “He's being selfish about the Soulages, I agree. But his opinions about children and marriage may surprise you.” He wasn't sure why Marine had come to him with these questions, but he was glad. He wished that he could have spoken to his own parents about life's big decisions. No doubt Sylvie had given Marine advice, and although he liked Sylvie, he would never wish his daughter to have a child without a partner as Sylvie had done.

Florence Bonnet came into the kitchen and set her coffee cup in the sink. “I couldn't help but overhear.”

Marine and her father laughed. “Whatever you do, chérie,” Florence said, kissing her daughter on the forehead, “we support you one hundred percent. And now I'm off for choir practice before Mass starts. Philomène will have my head if I'm late. I'll see you there, Anatole.”

“
Oui, oui
,” Anatole Bonnet mumbled.

They heard Florence put on her coat and hat and rush out the front door. Marine reached up and touched her forehead where her mother had uncharacteristically kissed it. “Well, I should be going, too,” Marine said.

“Will you go to Antoine's?”

“Yes, I think so. At least to tell him that he should loan the Soulages. Should we walk into town together?”

Anatole shrugged.

“What's wrong, Papa?”

“I'm not going to Mass.”

“Aren't you feeling well?” Marine asked.

He paused. “I'm not sure I believe in it anymore.”

“
Oh mon dieu!
”

“You can say that again,” Anatole said, trying to smile.

“How long have you been feeling this way?” Marine asked, reaching once again for her father's hands.

Anatole thought about her question. He wasn't sure, but his doubts began surfacing after their first few appointments with the therapist on the Cours Mirabeau. As a medical man he had never questioned the death of their baby boy. Thomas had stopped breathing in his crib, for whatever reasons. “A few months now,” he answered.

“And Maman doesn't know.”

Anatole laughed. “It's not like I'm afraid of your mother—”

“But you don't want the conflict,” Marine said. “I'm a bit like that with Antoine. We have to be sure, you and I, before we start tipping the bottle and letting out all our fears and questions and demands.”

“Exactly.”

Marine's cell phone rang and she saw that the caller was Antoine. “Do you mind if I pick up the phone, Papa? It's Antoine.”

“Go right ahead. I'll make more coffee.”

“Hello, Marine the Magnificent,” Verlaque said. “Don't say anything until I say this: I love you, and I'm going to loan the Soulages to the Pompidou. I'll even take you to the opening night.”

“I'd love that,” Marine said.

“And we'll stay in one of the many spare bedrooms at my parents' place. It's around the corner from the Pompidou. It's time you got to know them.”

Marine held out the phone in disbelief. “Okay.”

“I just had a call from my father this morning,” Verlaque went on. “He was being his usual vague self, but finally managed to tell me that my mother is sick, and in a hospital.”

“Antoine! That's awful! What's wrong?”

Anatole Bonnet turned around from making coffee.

“I think it's the eating disorder she's had all her life,” Verlaque said. “I'm going to go up to Paris in the next few days.”

“As you should,” Marine said.

“In the meantime,” Verlaque continued, “I was wondering if you, and your father, would be available for a lunch date today, in the Luberon.”

“Just a second and I'll ask him. Lunch in the Luberon, Papa?” Marine asked her father.

“Since I'm not going to Mass, I guess I'm available,” Anatole answered. “Your mother is having lunch with Philomène Joubert and some other people from the choir.”

“Yes,” Marine said to Verlaque. “What's going on?”

“There's a retired art auctioneer, a Cézanne expert, who lives up there. I just called him and he invited us up for lunch. It's a bit weird, I know, but he lost his license driving drunk so can't come to us. René Rouquet had also called him; we found the phone number written down on a piece of paper in Rouquet's flat.”

“We'll pick you up,” Marine said. “This is exciting. We may get some answers about the painting. What's this man's name?”

“Lydgate. Edmund Lydgate,” Verlaque said. “You can ask your father if he's heard of him. He's English but I think he must speak French.”

“We'll be ready,” Marine said.