mustache and shook his head like a man with few options. “I can do this one of two ways. Either here or at the commissariat in Bergerac. Which would you prefer, mademoiselle?”
“Okay, okay.” Her father knew when he was beaten. “Get on
with it.”
Mazarelle wanted to know whether Ali was working that morning at L’Ermitage when Georgette arrived. She said she didn’t see him, and as for the day before, she had no idea because she wasn’t there. He came and went as he pleased.
Chambouvard interrupted. “I know when he left. I was on my tractor working late that night in the fields and saw his car leave about ten or ten thirty.”
“Could it have been a little later?”
“Maybe. I don’t wear a watch and I don’t punch a clock. But one thing I know for sure is that old white bug he drives.”
Mazarelle turned to Georgette and asked if there were any hunting knives at L’Ermitage. She folded her arms defensively and told him no knives, no guns. The only knives were the ones in the kitchen.
“How did the two couples get along?”
“If you mean was anything going on between them the answer is yes. I’d say so. Monsieur Reece and Madame Schuyler loved the sun. They were always up at the pool together, sunning themselves.”
The inspector’s bushy right eyebrow rose like a circumflex.
“So what?”
“Naked.”
The way she said it clearly indicated that she didn’t care to say any more on the subject or need to—especially while her father was watching her like the pope. Interesting, Mazarelle thought, but hardly decisive. He chalked it up to a romantic young woman and an overheated imagination thunderous with heavy breathing. The last question he asked before leaving was whether Georgette happened to notice if any of the four visitors owned a cell phone.
“Monsieur Schuyler. His wife complained about it all the time.”
16
CHEZ DOUCETTE, TAZIAC
T he restaurant’s parking lot was almost empty when Mazarelle pulled in. The last two lunchtime customers were just leaving, one man holding the other by the arm and talking nonstop as they stood in the sun out front beside the small stone fountain. The inspector had picked a good time to speak to Doucette. He found him in the back room with his wife, rubbing his eyes. Looking up, Doucette quickly put his glasses back on and, seeing who it was, took the inspector’s hand. He asked how he was and poured him a glass of wine. His wife nodded a silent greeting.
Though Sandrine Doucette had nothing against the policeman, she’d never cared for his wife. They had gone to high school together and Sandrine thought Martine was a snob. Too good for Sandrine and her friends and Taziac. And wild too. It didn’t surprise her at all that as soon as Martine got knocked up, she’d dropped out of school and left for Paris to get an abortion. She had always talked about living in Paris. What Sandrine didn’t expect was that one day she’d marry a cop and come back.
Mazarelle took the bill out of his pocket and asked Doucette if he recalled the four foreigners. Of course he remembered them. They were good customers who’d come several times since they arrived in Taziac. Lovely people. He called their deaths a tragedy and an awful thing for the village. The frightening news all over the newspapers, the TV. He’d heard that reservations had already been canceled at the Fleuri, which was the only hotel in town. Though Chez Doucette was a popular restaurant, he was sure business would suffer if the killer wasn’t caught soon.
“Any new developments, Inspector?”
Mazarelle shook his head and pointed to the time on the bill. “Was that when the four of them left?”
“Three.”
The inspector looked at him.
“They had a reservation for four, but only three of them came. Madame Phillips said that her husband wasn’t feeling well. That’s why she took home some dinner for him.”
“I see. And the time?”
“Yes, around eleven. That would be about
“Okay, okay.” Her father knew when he was beaten. “Get on
with it.”
Mazarelle wanted to know whether Ali was working that morning at L’Ermitage when Georgette arrived. She said she didn’t see him, and as for the day before, she had no idea because she wasn’t there. He came and went as he pleased.
Chambouvard interrupted. “I know when he left. I was on my tractor working late that night in the fields and saw his car leave about ten or ten thirty.”
“Could it have been a little later?”
“Maybe. I don’t wear a watch and I don’t punch a clock. But one thing I know for sure is that old white bug he drives.”
Mazarelle turned to Georgette and asked if there were any hunting knives at L’Ermitage. She folded her arms defensively and told him no knives, no guns. The only knives were the ones in the kitchen.
“How did the two couples get along?”
“If you mean was anything going on between them the answer is yes. I’d say so. Monsieur Reece and Madame Schuyler loved the sun. They were always up at the pool together, sunning themselves.”
The inspector’s bushy right eyebrow rose like a circumflex.
“So what?”
“Naked.”
The way she said it clearly indicated that she didn’t care to say any more on the subject or need to—especially while her father was watching her like the pope. Interesting, Mazarelle thought, but hardly decisive. He chalked it up to a romantic young woman and an overheated imagination thunderous with heavy breathing. The last question he asked before leaving was whether Georgette happened to notice if any of the four visitors owned a cell phone.
“Monsieur Schuyler. His wife complained about it all the time.”
16
CHEZ DOUCETTE, TAZIAC
T he restaurant’s parking lot was almost empty when Mazarelle pulled in. The last two lunchtime customers were just leaving, one man holding the other by the arm and talking nonstop as they stood in the sun out front beside the small stone fountain. The inspector had picked a good time to speak to Doucette. He found him in the back room with his wife, rubbing his eyes. Looking up, Doucette quickly put his glasses back on and, seeing who it was, took the inspector’s hand. He asked how he was and poured him a glass of wine. His wife nodded a silent greeting.
Though Sandrine Doucette had nothing against the policeman, she’d never cared for his wife. They had gone to high school together and Sandrine thought Martine was a snob. Too good for Sandrine and her friends and Taziac. And wild too. It didn’t surprise her at all that as soon as Martine got knocked up, she’d dropped out of school and left for Paris to get an abortion. She had always talked about living in Paris. What Sandrine didn’t expect was that one day she’d marry a cop and come back.
Mazarelle took the bill out of his pocket and asked Doucette if he recalled the four foreigners. Of course he remembered them. They were good customers who’d come several times since they arrived in Taziac. Lovely people. He called their deaths a tragedy and an awful thing for the village. The frightening news all over the newspapers, the TV. He’d heard that reservations had already been canceled at the Fleuri, which was the only hotel in town. Though Chez Doucette was a popular restaurant, he was sure business would suffer if the killer wasn’t caught soon.
“Any new developments, Inspector?”
Mazarelle shook his head and pointed to the time on the bill. “Was that when the four of them left?”
“Three.”
The inspector looked at him.
“They had a reservation for four, but only three of them came. Madame Phillips said that her husband wasn’t feeling well. That’s why she took home some dinner for him.”
“I see. And the time?”
“Yes, around eleven. That would be about
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