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 Page A
Authors: M.L. Longworth
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night. I was sure I had the job, and I had mentally moved us into the Quatre Dauphins apartment.”
“Ah,” Marcel said, frowning. “The kids would have left a trail of water from the pool into the house all summer long. Think of the mess.” Annie laughed and reached over the table, taking her husband’s face in her large brown hands and giving him a kiss.
Chapter Ten
Dr. Bouvet Delights in Annoying Judge Verlaque
V erlaque arrived late at the restaurant, having toured each level of the underground parking garage only to find, on the bottom floor, what he was fairly certain was the very last spot. He had then run up the stairs of the garage that emptied into the immense place aux Huiles, then run up more stairs that led to the rue Sainte, the restaurant just on his right. Opening the restaurant’s door was always a delight—a haven away from the busy Marseille port and its bars spilling out onto the sidewalks, most of them televising a soccer game at full volume.
Jacques saw him and walked, as quickly as his cane would take him, toward Verlaque.
“Monsieur le Juge!”
he exclaimed, slowly lifting his right hand up to shake Verlaque’s.
“M. Jacques!” Verlaque exclaimed. He knew the couple’s family name, but had always referred to them as Jacques and Jeanne.
“M. Madani is already seated, with a view of the old port.” This was Jacques’s regular joke, as the restaurant had no windowsoverlooking the port, but one long fresco of the port that took up the entire west wall—where the view would have been, had there been windows. The painting was too bright, the perspective all wrong, but Verlaque loved it. He made his way to the table, smiling at two young women as he passed their table.
“I’m dying over this whiskey,” Madani said, taking Verlaque’s hand and shaking it.
“Jacques has a new one?”
“Bruichladdich,” Madani answered. “I’m sure I’m butchering the name. Jacques says it’s new—well, it was old, but the distillery closed and so the head whiskey maker went out and raised just enough money to save it. A labor of love, according to Jacques.”
Verlaque sniffed the golden whiskey and asked, “Islay?”
“Yes,” answered Jacques, who was now at their table.
“Were you Scottish in another life, Jacques?” asked Madani, laughing and looking over Verlaque’s shoulder at the dozens of whiskey bottles displayed behind the bar.
“Oh yes, I think so,” the restaurateur replied, with a seriousness that surprised the two diners. Jacques stared off for a moment, as if he were imagining the island of Islay, before saying, “Jeanne has grilled shrimp tonight, with an artichoke tapenade, as an entrée. As a main dish she made her daube, which I know you love, Judge, served with pasta.”
Verlaque did love Jeanne’s beef stew, which she made with Camargue bulls’ meat, a generous helping of orange zest, and tomatoes that she had canned over the summer. But he could never understand the Provençal preference for noodles with stews. “Sounds great, but I’d like potatoes instead of pasta.”
Jacques smiled. “Jeanne made the pasta,
Monsieur le Juge.
”
“In that case, pasta, please. And I’ll start with the same whiskey that my filmmaker friend here is drinking.”
Jacques motioned to the barman to pour another whiskey and then looked down at their table, leaning even more heavily on his cane. Madani and Verlaque exchanged looks and Verlaque nodded, winking. Madani understood the cue and said, “Jacques, would you like to sit down and join us for a whiskey?”
Jacques looked around at the restaurant, full but with the other diners already happily eating.
“Well, I think I might! Just for a minute or two!” With surprising quickness he pulled out a chair from a neighboring table and sat down.
Just before Verlaque began to break the golden crust of his lavender crème brûlée, his cell phone rang. He immediately answered it, seeing that the caller was Dr. Emile
“Ah,” Marcel said, frowning. “The kids would have left a trail of water from the pool into the house all summer long. Think of the mess.” Annie laughed and reached over the table, taking her husband’s face in her large brown hands and giving him a kiss.
Chapter Ten
Dr. Bouvet Delights in Annoying Judge Verlaque
V erlaque arrived late at the restaurant, having toured each level of the underground parking garage only to find, on the bottom floor, what he was fairly certain was the very last spot. He had then run up the stairs of the garage that emptied into the immense place aux Huiles, then run up more stairs that led to the rue Sainte, the restaurant just on his right. Opening the restaurant’s door was always a delight—a haven away from the busy Marseille port and its bars spilling out onto the sidewalks, most of them televising a soccer game at full volume.
Jacques saw him and walked, as quickly as his cane would take him, toward Verlaque.
“Monsieur le Juge!”
he exclaimed, slowly lifting his right hand up to shake Verlaque’s.
“M. Jacques!” Verlaque exclaimed. He knew the couple’s family name, but had always referred to them as Jacques and Jeanne.
“M. Madani is already seated, with a view of the old port.” This was Jacques’s regular joke, as the restaurant had no windowsoverlooking the port, but one long fresco of the port that took up the entire west wall—where the view would have been, had there been windows. The painting was too bright, the perspective all wrong, but Verlaque loved it. He made his way to the table, smiling at two young women as he passed their table.
“I’m dying over this whiskey,” Madani said, taking Verlaque’s hand and shaking it.
“Jacques has a new one?”
“Bruichladdich,” Madani answered. “I’m sure I’m butchering the name. Jacques says it’s new—well, it was old, but the distillery closed and so the head whiskey maker went out and raised just enough money to save it. A labor of love, according to Jacques.”
Verlaque sniffed the golden whiskey and asked, “Islay?”
“Yes,” answered Jacques, who was now at their table.
“Were you Scottish in another life, Jacques?” asked Madani, laughing and looking over Verlaque’s shoulder at the dozens of whiskey bottles displayed behind the bar.
“Oh yes, I think so,” the restaurateur replied, with a seriousness that surprised the two diners. Jacques stared off for a moment, as if he were imagining the island of Islay, before saying, “Jeanne has grilled shrimp tonight, with an artichoke tapenade, as an entrée. As a main dish she made her daube, which I know you love, Judge, served with pasta.”
Verlaque did love Jeanne’s beef stew, which she made with Camargue bulls’ meat, a generous helping of orange zest, and tomatoes that she had canned over the summer. But he could never understand the Provençal preference for noodles with stews. “Sounds great, but I’d like potatoes instead of pasta.”
Jacques smiled. “Jeanne made the pasta,
Monsieur le Juge.
”
“In that case, pasta, please. And I’ll start with the same whiskey that my filmmaker friend here is drinking.”
Jacques motioned to the barman to pour another whiskey and then looked down at their table, leaning even more heavily on his cane. Madani and Verlaque exchanged looks and Verlaque nodded, winking. Madani understood the cue and said, “Jacques, would you like to sit down and join us for a whiskey?”
Jacques looked around at the restaurant, full but with the other diners already happily eating.
“Well, I think I might! Just for a minute or two!” With surprising quickness he pulled out a chair from a neighboring table and sat down.
Just before Verlaque began to break the golden crust of his lavender crème brûlée, his cell phone rang. He immediately answered it, seeing that the caller was Dr. Emile
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