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

feel bad about that, you know? Especially now.”
    â€œI understand,” Verlaque said. “Did she seem upset recently? Out of sorts?”
    Iachella shook his head back and forth, looking surprised. “No…no. I wish now I had been more observant. But she seemed like the same quiet Suzanne. It’s unfortunate, but as a manager I tend to deal more with the employees who are having problems or are dissatisfied. The quiet, hardworking ones just get on, don’t they?”
    Both Paulik and Verlaque smiled.
    â€œAnd that day, when she left early?” Verlaque asked. “Normal?”
    â€œShe was behaving normally, yes,” Iachella answered. “As the day went on, we could all hear that she was losing her voice. Mme Liotta was worried that it was a sinus infection coming on, and sent her home around four p.m.”
    Verlaque thought silently that if she was losing her voice she wouldn’t have been able to call out for help. A team of policemen were spending the day interviewing the tenants of Mlle Montmory’s three-story apartment building. Perhaps one of them had unintentionally let in the attacker?
    â€œWhat time did the rest of you leave the bank?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œWe close at six p.m. and usually have the place tidied up—I mean the financial transactions, not the housekeeping—by six-thirty. I left at six-thirty, with Gustav. The others had gone before us, between six and six-thirty.”
    â€œThank you,” Verlaque said. “That will be all.”
    â€œYou’ll keep us informed?” Iachella asked, his eyes watery. “Mme Liotta tried calling the hospital this morning, but they wouldn’t give out any information.”
    â€œThey were told not to,” Verlaque said. “We’ll keep you informed, yes. Goodbye. You can send in Mme Liotta now.”
    When Iachella had quietly left the room, Paulik turned to the judge. “The attacker must have known her working hours. But he wouldn’t have known that she’d be home earlier than usual unless he works here. So I think the attack took place closer to seven-thirty p.m.”
    â€œSo do I,” Verlaque answered. “If she left the bank daily between six and six-thirty, and it’s a ten-minute walk home, he could have been waiting for her. But it’s risky, isn’t it, an attack like that in broad daylight? Why not wait until evening, when no one will see you entering the building?”
    â€œA family man?” Paulik suggested. “Or he worked nights?”
    â€œOr he wasn’t worried about anyone seeing him?” Verlaque asked. “Because he’s respectable. No cause for worry. Wearing a suit and tie.”
    â€œA banker?”
    â€œOr any professional. Nice-looking. Handsome people have an easier time in this world. People are more trusting of them.”
    Paulik nodded. The commissioner had a bald, scarred head; a pug nose; and one ear that was beginning to “cauliflower” from too many rugby scrums. He looked across the desk at Verlaque, whom, although he was not classically good-looking, women thought of as handsome.
    There was a knock at the door, and Mme Liotta came in, carrying a tray. “Funny to knock at my own office door,” she said, setting the tray down. On it were placed three cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar with three spoons, and three pieces of cake. “I baked the lemon cake last night, after Kamel phoned me with the news of Suzanne’s attack. I needed to keep busy.” Smiling, she served each of the men a coffee and a slice of cake, without asking them if they wanted the cake. As she sat down, she adopted a more serious expression—her stint as mother hen had been completed. “Idon’t know very much about Suzanne’s private life,” she began, uninvited. “But I do know that, about two years ago, she dated a young man from Aix. I gathered that it had become quite serious,