Free Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth

hotel.”
    â€œStepson,” Sylvie said.
    Marine looked at her friend, puzzled.
    â€œI read it in
Paris Match
,” Sylvie said. “Oh, look. Here he comes now.”
    The teenager strode onto the terrace, a book and towel under his arm. Marine thought that in his swimsuit he looked even thinner, and more fragile. He threw his affairs on a chaise longue not far from Sylvie and muttered, “I hate him,” and then dove into the pool.
    â€œWow,” Sylvie said. “That was pretty frank.”
    â€œIt might not have been about Alain Denis,” Marine whispered. “What’s he reading?” she asked, craning to see the book.
    Sylvie, who was closer, got part way off of her lounger to see the book’s cover. “
Death in Venice
,” she said, sitting back down. “Must be on next year’s reading list.”
    â€œI’m not so sure,” Marine replied. She had been a great reader at that age, as had Antoine. She knew that Sylvie’s reading consisted mostly of photography journals and fashion magazines. But she didn’t fault Sylvie for that: how dull life would be if one’s friends did exactly the same thing as you.
    They watched in silence as the boy swam lengths. They smiled as he did a few somersaults and then floated on his back, looking up at the cloudless sky, framed by the dark-green needles of the umbrella pine trees that circled the south side of the pool. Marine found it curious that, even though there were available chairs on the opposite side of the terrace, Brice had chosen one near them. Perhaps he had thrown his towel on the closest chair and was going to leave as soon as he got out of the pool. She was about to ask Sylvie something about Charlotte—her beloved goddaughter—when the boy got out of the water, shook himself off like a dog, and sat down.
    â€œFun book?” Sylvie asked, pointing to the Thomas Mann novel.
    â€œI wouldn’t say fun,” Brice answered, not showing his surprise that this woman, who must be more than twenty years older than himself, would refer to Thomas Mann as “fun.” “Disturbing. And dense, but highly readable too.”
    â€œOh. Well, if it’s too treacherous,” Sylvie went on, as if she hadn’t heard his answer, “there’s a great film version with Dirk Bogarde in the lead.”
    â€œI’ve seen it,” Brice said. “Now,
Bogarde
was an actor.”
    Marine and Sylvie exchanged quick looks. As if Brice too regretted his comment, he quietly added, “Thanks for the recommendation though.” He slipped on his earplugs, and like Antoine with his newspaper, Marine saw that their short discussion was over.
    But Marine kept the image of Brice, floating on his back, in her head. What was he thinking when floating, looking at the sky? What
do
we think of when we’re teenagers? Food? The opposite—or same, given your preferences—sex? Music? She thought of herself at sixteen, seventeen: a studious and polite girl. But it had also been the summer when she had been so conscious of a new silence that enveloped her parents—a doctor and a theologian in Aix—and Marine, an only child, had been unable to speak to anyone about it.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Antoine Verlaque walked into the Jacky Bar to the sounds of Billie Holiday. He was hungry and felt good after his long swim. He saw Eric Monnier sitting at his usual table, under the large framed photograph of the Cuban tobacco farmer. Monnier, seeing the judge, held a finger in the air. “Ze Lady,” he said in heavily accented English. Intrigued, for Verlaque had always preferred the scratchy and sad voice of Billie Holiday over the too-perfect one of Ella Fitzgerald, he saluted and walked over to the teacher.
    â€œâ€˜Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do,’” Verlaque said, sitting down.
    â€œWritten by Bessie Smith, I believe,” Monnier