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

for Suzanne at least, until he up and left.”
    â€œLeft?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œYes, he moved to Montreal. With hardly a warning. Suzanne told me that one morning, when I made her a coffee and sat her down. I could see she had been crying.”
    â€œHe couldn’t have just moved to Montreal like that,” Verlaque said. “It takes a few months, if not a year, to get the paperwork together to immigrate.”
    Mme Liotta nodded. “That’s just it. He had already done all the paperwork, without telling Suzanne. It was her opinion that he had been using her.” She leaned in and whispered, “For his own benefit.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Verlaque asked. “For sex?”
    â€œOh no,” Mme Liotta said. “Suzanne told me that she thought she had been courted by him to impress his family. She cried in my arms when she said she believed he had asked her out only so he could have a charming date for two family weddings that summer.”
    â€œDid they part on good terms?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œNo,” replied Mme Liotta. “They fought, Suzanne told me, and she also told me—in the strictest confidence—that he was awkward…um, in bed….”
    Verlaque glanced at Paulik, who was writing in his notebook. Mme Liotta now sat back and ate some cake, her eyebrows arching in delight at its taste.
    â€œCan you at all remember his name?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œHis first name was Edmond. Unusual, old-fashioned name, quite bourgeois. Perhaps her family would know his surname? Ido know that he worked in logistics, at the Marseille airport. Suzanne said that the Canadians were hiring French with experience in those sorts of jobs.”
    â€œThank you, madame. Is there anything else you can tell us about Suzanne’s life outside the bank?”
    She set her cake down and wiped her hands clean on a paper napkin. “No. Suzanne’s a quiet girl. I was surprised that morning when she told me so much about Edmond. Since then, there’s been nothing.”
    â€œHer routine is fairly consistent?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œYes, except yesterday, when she left early, and once last week, because she had a doctor’s appointment. Routine, she told me. I didn’t pry.”
    â€œDo you know the name of her doctor?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œI can’t remember, but Patricia, our loan officer, will be able to tell you. She was the one who suggested that Suzanne see him, because she was looking for a doctor here in Éguilles.”
    â€œThank you, Mme Liotta. And thank you for the cake. I’ll try it now.”
    As Mme Liotta left, the judge and commissioner leaned over the desk, both quickly eating their cake.
    â€œThis is very good,” Verlaque said. “Too bad Mme Girard doesn’t bring in food like this.”
    â€œThat would be against her dietary rules,” Paulik said, his mouth full. He used the last bit of cake to pick up the remaining crumbs.
    Verlaque smiled. “Make sure you get all the bits.”
    â€œDon’t worry.”
    â€œLet’s bring in this loan officer and talk to her next,” Verlaque said. He stuck his head out of the door and called for the loan officer.
    Patricia Pont was an elegant woman in her mid-to late thirties. Slim, of medium height, she was dressed conservatively in a pale-blue suit that, unlike Mme Liotta’s crumpled polyester, was made of good-quality linen. She had a long face with bright-blue eyes and wore a touch of pale-pink lipstick. Her necklace suggested that when she was not at work she dressed with panache—the necklace was unusual, made of large transparent glass beads, worn close to her neck like a choker.
    â€œI work here part-time,” she said, wasting no time. “And part-time at a slightly larger branch in Ventabren, where I live.”
    â€œAnd do you know Suzanne Montmory well?” Verlaque asked, but he was already sure