Free Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) by M.L. Longworth

out the ballerinalike policewoman Verlaque had seen yesterday. She smiled when she saw the judge and commissioner, and the boys hurried into thebuilding, the taller one pushing his friend through first and following behind.
    “Officer Cazal, good morning,” Paulik said, shaking her hand. Verlaque and the policewoman said hello and the three walked into the building. “We’ll be in room 103, the third door down on the right,” she said, smiling at both men but her gaze lingering on Verlaque. “Everyone is here now; we were waiting for the boys to arrive.”
    As they got closer to the assembly room voices could be heard—some high-pitched, others rapid-fire whispers—but all silenced when the judge and two police officers entered the room.
    “Good morning and thank you for coming on a Sunday,” Bruno Paulik said. Those gathered—twenty-some-odd who had been present at Professor Moutte’s party or who had worked with the deceased—stared at the former rugby player, some of them with half-eaten cookies in their mouths. Verlaque stayed silent, enjoying the impression that his six-two, 210-pound bald commissioner was making.
    “We’ll begin by talking with all of you together, followed by individual interviews. As Officer Cazal has informed you, you’ll be expected to remain here for the day, and if you are planning to leave Aix this week, please let her know where you can be reached.”
    “I have research to do at the Bibliothèque nationale in Paris later in the week!” complained a well-dressed middle-aged man with chiseled cheekbones and thick white hair.
    “Ah, come off it, Bernard, you can do your research anytime!” a woman answered. She looked Italian or Spanish to Verlaque, and like her colleague had also been blessed with abundant, thick hair, all of it still black.
    “But my train ticket is booked!”
    “Paris is no problem, just leave us a number where we can getahold of you,” Paulik quickly replied before any other interruptions could be made. “Most of you present this morning were at Professor Moutte’s party on Friday night. The doyen was murdered sometime early Saturday morning, just a few hours after the party. My first question is, who was the last person to leave the party?”
    “I was,” the Italian-looking woman spoke, her voice loud and self-assured. “My name is Annie Leonetti. I’m a theology professor. I heard Georges—Dr. Moutte—tell his housekeeper that she could go home and come back in the morning to do the dishes.”
    “And so you stayed late to help the doyen?”
    “No,” Dr. Leonetti replied. “I stayed late to help out the maid. I took the dirty wineglasses into the kitchen and helped wrap up the leftovers.”
    “Okay,” Paulik said. “What did you speak of with the doyen?”
    “No doubt his surprise retirement postponement,” the white-haired professor said, quietly but loud enough for those close to Verlaque and Paulik to hear.
    “Certainly not, Bernard!” Leonetti replied. Then, looking at Paulik and then Verlaque, she added, “We only spoke of the merits of cling wrap versus aluminum foil.”
    “Did he tell you that he was going to the office after cleaning up?” Verlaque asked.
    Annie Leonetti paused for the briefest of seconds, Verlaque noted, before replying.
    “He did mention it, yes.”
    “Did that not seem unusual to you? Given the late hour?”
    “No, not really,” she answered. “He had no family to look after, and he often worked late. But when I left just after midnight he was still in the kitchen. We didn’t leave together.”
    “Thank you,” Verlaque replied. He wondered how Annie Leonettiknew that the doyen often worked late. She also sounded resentful of the fact that he had “no family to look after.” She was a beautiful woman, with olive skin and thick red lips, but her sparkling brown eyes had dark circles under them. He thought of the modern professor’s life—publish or perish—and imagined that she might have small