Read Online Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) by M.L. Longworth - Free Book Online
Authors: M.L. Longworth
Ads: Link
a lover’s quarrel? You saw her getting cosy with him at the party.”
“That’s disgusting. She’s a third his age.”
“Oh, you’re an expert, I see.” Thierry leaned back on his desk chair and rubbed his stomach. He was in fact very hungry, but nervous too. “Listen, Yann. I really think you should tell the judge that you weren’t in the pub with me the whole time.”
Yann stared at his friend and then let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks, Thierry!”
“I just think we should be honest!”
“I am being honest. I felt light-headed from all the wine and beer and wandered outside. I walked down the rue d’Italie and threw up into a potted tree, then fell asleep on a bench in front of Saint-Jean-de-Malte. I was gone, what, forty minutes?”
Thierry picked at threads on the old blanket that covered his desk chair. “And you left me all that time alone with those American girls.”
“You’re too shy with girls. I did you a favor. And when I came back, I was in fine form, right?”
Thierry nodded, rubbing his stomach. “I think there’s some dried pasta in the cupboard.”
Yann stood up and looked at his friend. “Please tell me it’s De Cecco.”
“It’s De Cecco.”
Yann clapped his hands and opened the door, grabbing the familiar blue bag of his favorite pasta. “You do listen to me!”
“It really is superior,” Thierry replied, running his hand through his hair in mock pretension.
“Sauce? Do we have sauce?”
“There you’re in luck too. No sauce, but there’s a bottle of my uncle’s olive oil. It’s under my bed. I’ve been saving it.”
Yann ran to Thierry’s bedroom and fell down on his knees and rummaged under the unmade bed. “Your uncle with the olive orchard in Allauch?” he called.
“Yes! Full of the flavor of Marcel Pagnol’s stories, or so my uncle always claims.”
After finding slippers and one tennis shoe, Yann found the olive oil and hugged the bottle.
“Just don’t ask me for wine,” Thierry said, getting up to help.
“Ah. The sadness.”
“I’m sorry about the pasta,” Marcel Féau said as he cleared away the dishes.
“It wasn’t that bad,” replied his wife.
“That’s very kind of you, but it was overcooked, and I know how fussy Corsicans are about their pasta.”
Annie Leonetti rested her head back against the kitchen wall. “I hardly noticed, to tell you the truth. And the kids gobbled it down. Where did they learn to put ketchup on pasta, by the way?”
“My parents’ house,” Marcel replied, pouring his wife a cup of herbal tea. He braced himself for a discourse on the poor eating habits of his parents, who as retired French civil servants had more money than they knew what to do with. They obviously didn’t spend it on food—as Annie complained about regularly—and Marcel often wondered if his father had a secret gambling habit,or if his mother had been a victim of some Internet scam. But Annie stayed quiet for some time, until she finally said, “It is terrible about Professor Moutte’s death, but I can’t help but not feel too saddened by it. Terrible for a theologian to admit that, isn’t it?”
“Theologians aren’t immune to impure thoughts,” her husband replied, putting a packet of cookies on the table. “Besides, Moutte wasn’t the most likeable man in the world. He treated you and Bernard horribly, waiting until the last minute to retract his retirement promise, teasing you the whole time with the suggestion that you had the job. I’m sure he did the same to Bernard.”
“Yes, I’m quite certain he did, judging by Bernard’s behavior at the party. You don’t think…?”
Marcel looked at his wife, surprised. “Annie, I can’t imagine
anyone
doing such a thing, and I’m surprised that you would think so of Bernard.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. More likely it was Rocchia.”
“Annie!”
Annie laughed and took a cookie and dipped it into her tea. “I was feeling quite cocky up until Friday
“That’s disgusting. She’s a third his age.”
“Oh, you’re an expert, I see.” Thierry leaned back on his desk chair and rubbed his stomach. He was in fact very hungry, but nervous too. “Listen, Yann. I really think you should tell the judge that you weren’t in the pub with me the whole time.”
Yann stared at his friend and then let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks, Thierry!”
“I just think we should be honest!”
“I am being honest. I felt light-headed from all the wine and beer and wandered outside. I walked down the rue d’Italie and threw up into a potted tree, then fell asleep on a bench in front of Saint-Jean-de-Malte. I was gone, what, forty minutes?”
Thierry picked at threads on the old blanket that covered his desk chair. “And you left me all that time alone with those American girls.”
“You’re too shy with girls. I did you a favor. And when I came back, I was in fine form, right?”
Thierry nodded, rubbing his stomach. “I think there’s some dried pasta in the cupboard.”
Yann stood up and looked at his friend. “Please tell me it’s De Cecco.”
“It’s De Cecco.”
Yann clapped his hands and opened the door, grabbing the familiar blue bag of his favorite pasta. “You do listen to me!”
“It really is superior,” Thierry replied, running his hand through his hair in mock pretension.
“Sauce? Do we have sauce?”
“There you’re in luck too. No sauce, but there’s a bottle of my uncle’s olive oil. It’s under my bed. I’ve been saving it.”
Yann ran to Thierry’s bedroom and fell down on his knees and rummaged under the unmade bed. “Your uncle with the olive orchard in Allauch?” he called.
“Yes! Full of the flavor of Marcel Pagnol’s stories, or so my uncle always claims.”
After finding slippers and one tennis shoe, Yann found the olive oil and hugged the bottle.
“Just don’t ask me for wine,” Thierry said, getting up to help.
“Ah. The sadness.”
“I’m sorry about the pasta,” Marcel Féau said as he cleared away the dishes.
“It wasn’t that bad,” replied his wife.
“That’s very kind of you, but it was overcooked, and I know how fussy Corsicans are about their pasta.”
Annie Leonetti rested her head back against the kitchen wall. “I hardly noticed, to tell you the truth. And the kids gobbled it down. Where did they learn to put ketchup on pasta, by the way?”
“My parents’ house,” Marcel replied, pouring his wife a cup of herbal tea. He braced himself for a discourse on the poor eating habits of his parents, who as retired French civil servants had more money than they knew what to do with. They obviously didn’t spend it on food—as Annie complained about regularly—and Marcel often wondered if his father had a secret gambling habit,or if his mother had been a victim of some Internet scam. But Annie stayed quiet for some time, until she finally said, “It is terrible about Professor Moutte’s death, but I can’t help but not feel too saddened by it. Terrible for a theologian to admit that, isn’t it?”
“Theologians aren’t immune to impure thoughts,” her husband replied, putting a packet of cookies on the table. “Besides, Moutte wasn’t the most likeable man in the world. He treated you and Bernard horribly, waiting until the last minute to retract his retirement promise, teasing you the whole time with the suggestion that you had the job. I’m sure he did the same to Bernard.”
“Yes, I’m quite certain he did, judging by Bernard’s behavior at the party. You don’t think…?”
Marcel looked at his wife, surprised. “Annie, I can’t imagine
anyone
doing such a thing, and I’m surprised that you would think so of Bernard.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. More likely it was Rocchia.”
“Annie!”
Annie laughed and took a cookie and dipped it into her tea. “I was feeling quite cocky up until Friday
Similar Books
