Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth

added.
    â€œI’m sorry to disturb your breakfast,” Mme Denis said, reaching out her hand. Verlaque was so surprised at the offer of an introduction that his foot got caught on the table’s wrought iron leg and Sylvie snorted out a laugh. He hadn’t told Marine of Emmanuelle Denis’s late-night appearance in the bar the previous night.
    â€œAntoine Verlaque,” he said, shaking her hand. “And this is Marine Bonnet, and . . . our friend, Sylvie Grassi.”
    â€œEmmanuelle Denis,” she replied, and nodded in the direction of Marine and Sylvie. “It’s Brice, my son,” she continued. “I can’t find him, and it looks like he didn’t sleep in his bed last night.”
    â€œPerhaps he made it?” Verlaque asked. But before Mme Denis answered, Verlaque said, “Oh, he’s a teenage boy . . .”
    Mme Denis forced a smile. “Exactly.”
    â€œThis is a small island, and it’s summer, but I can’t imagine someone sleeping outside,” Verlaque said.
    â€œHe’s done this kind of thing before,” Mme Denis replied. She looked at her husband and he rolled his eyes. “As you say, this is an island, but Brice doesn’t know it. It’s not the same as Paris.”
    Marine looked at Mme Denis and remembered the boy’s absence at dinner last night. But his mother had been there, without him, and was now decked out for a bathing suit photo shoot, not frolicking in the waves with her son, or playing games with him, or whatever Marine supposed mothers should be doing on vacation with their children, even teenage ones.
    Mme Denis went on, “Brice wouldn’t eat with us last night. . . . He was too upset.”
    â€œI really don’t think you should go telling strangers our family history,” Alain Denis hissed, now standing beside his wife.
    â€œ
What
family?” she answered back.
    â€œCome have something to eat,” Denis said, taking her arm.
    â€œI’m not hungry,” she replied, shaking off his hold.
    â€œEmmanuelle, don’t be a daft cow,” he said.
    â€œLeave her,” Verlaque said. “She’s obviously upset.”
    â€œMind your own business, asshole,” Denis said, grabbing his wife’s arm once again.
    â€œI said I’m not hungry,” she cried. “I’m going out, to look for my son!” She pulled herself away from Denis but he lunged toward her, pulling on her arm.
    Verlaque was about to reach out to help Mme Denis when Hugo Sammut’s body appeared out of nowhere, as if he had flown over the hedge. With one fast gesture he grabbed Alain Denis’s arms, forcing them behind his back with his hands in a locked position. Hugo threw Denis against the wall of the hotel, while Denis shouted protestations of having Hugo fired, and suing the hotel.
    â€œHugo!” Max Le Bon shouted, now standing at the edge of the terrace, having heard the commotion. “Release M. Denis this instant!”
    The actor’s face was reddened, and his sunglasses had fallen and broken in the scrimmage. Verlaque quickly bent down and picked them up, hiding them under a napkin.
    â€œWhat kind of staff do you have here?” Denis cried, tucking his shirt back into the waist of his shorts. “That man will be fired, I assume!” Denis walked over to his table and picked up his iPhone and left the terrace.
    â€œCome, Hugo,” Max Le Bon said. “I’m terribly sorry for this,” he then said to the patrons.
    â€œHe did nothing wrong,” Sylvie said. “He was defending—”
    â€œThank you, mademoiselle,” Le Bon said, gently taking Hugo by the elbow and leading him away.
    â€œI hope he doesn’t get fired on my behalf,” Mme Denis said, slowly sitting down.
    â€œHugo went too far,” Verlaque said. “Right or wrong, your husband is a