Free Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery by M. L. Longworth

murderer could have also been let in by a neighbor. It was unfortunate that none of those neighbors had heard anything.
    â€œThe attacker could have got in the same way I did, or he might have known Suzanne and she buzzed him in,” Lapierre said. “I just thought of that.”
    â€œRight,” Verlaque answered. “Tell me about Suzanne. You seem to know her well, and respect her.”
    â€œAs I said last night,” Lapierre said, looking in Paulik’s direction, “I was heading over there not so much to check on her health—it was just a sore throat—as to ask her out for dinner. It seemed impossible to do it here, at work. You’ve seen a bit of the atmosphere…with Mme Liotta babying us, and Sharon being the prima donna in her tacky short skirts….”
    Verlaque noted Lapierre’s disgust at Sharon’s short skirts.
    Lapierre reached across the desk, took a tissue, and blew his nose. “The more I worked with Suzanne, the more interested I became in her. She was mysterious in a way, not like other girls I’ve met. She was pretty and wore trendy clothes, but she talked about knitting and watching those costume dramas on television that my mom likes to watch. She was different. Do you get it?”
    The two men nodded. They were both in partnerships with women whom Gustav Lapierre would have considered “different,” even “mysterious.” Verlaque thought of Marine, curled up on the sofa, drinking single-malt whiskey and reading Jean-Paul Sartre’s memoirs. Paulik thought of Hélène, wearing the blue cotton overalls worn by agricultural workers around the world, kneeling on the rocky ground of Domaine Beauclaire, snipping leaf samples from the vines, then bringing them home and checking on them daily. “I’m watching them for parasites,” she told her husband. “When there are more of the black spiders, life is good. Too many red spiders, I’ll have to spray.”
    â€œGo on,” Verlaque said, leaning back on Mme Liotta’s swivel chair.
    â€œSo…I walked over there to ask her out; that’s all. But you may as well know now, before that policeman I spoke to last night tells you first…”
    â€œProsecutor Roussel?” Paulik asked.
    â€œYeah, that’s him. He asked me how I knew where Suzanne lived. I could have looked up her address here, at the bank, but I followed her home one night last week. I was curious.”
    Both men looked at each other. Verlaque raised his eyebrows; Paulik took notes.
    â€œAnd when you found her last night?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œI didn’t touch anything,” Lapierre answered. “I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know I shouldn’t, plus I could see that Suzanne was badly hurt. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called an ambulance right away. She looked awful.”
    Gustav Lapierre drew his arms in around his waist, leaned down, and began to sob. Paulik looked at Verlaque; the judge put his hands on his head, rubbed his thick black hair, and stayed silent.

Chapter Seven

Lemon Cake
    K amel Iachella, although not sobbing, seemed as distressed as Gustav Lapierre had been. The bank manager’s eyes were puffy and watery, and he moved Mme Liotta’s box of tissues closer to him as he sat down opposite Verlaque.
    â€œI’m sorry you have to meet me, and my small but very efficient staff, under these circumstances,” he said quietly.
    â€œSo am I,” Verlaque answered. “Mlle Montmory seems to be a quiet, reserved young woman.”
    Iachella nodded. “She is. She was so quiet during my first interview with her that I had to ask her to speak up. But I could see that she was bright.”
    â€œDo you know anything about her personal life?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œNot anything more than Gustav could have told you. I know that her parents and siblings live in Aix. I should know more about her; I