Read Online The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne by M. L. Longworth - Free Book Online

inches taller than both he and Pierre, the slender black woman had the height, flawless skin, and high cheekbones of a runway model. Her eyes were almond-shaped and the color of honey, and she kept her hair in a large afro. She wore no jewelry, but she didn’t need any. Her coat was amulticolored vintage Missoni that barked good taste, money, and bravado.
    She slowly backed toward the kitchen, which both men could see was in a state of chaos, its cupboards and drawers open with contents spilling out.
    â€œI speak English,” Verlaque said. “My name is Antoine Verlaque; I’m the examining magistrate in Aix. This is my friend Pierre Millot—.”
    â€œHe was like that when I came in,” she interrupted, stuttering and pointing to the body. “The door was ajar and I walked right in.”
    â€œWho are you and what are you doing in René Rouquet’s apartment?” Pierre cried out.
    The Beauty—as Verlaque would later call her—stepped forward and held out a trembling hand. Antoine Verlaque reciprocated and shook her hand.
    â€œYou still haven’t told us what you’re doing here,” Verlaque said.
    â€œMy name is Rebecca Schultz,” she replied, switching to an almost-perfect French. “I teach art history at Yale University.”

Chapter Five

The Neighbors Make Tea
    R ené Rouquet’s apartment, for the first time since he bought the flat in 1963, was full of people. Eric and Françoise Legendre had quickly dressed and were now passing around mismatched mugs of tea. The police arrived soon after the ambulance and began to mark off the apartment as a crime scene.
    Dr. Agnès Cohen leaned over Rouquet’s body, her hands on her hips.
    â€œI thought Bouvet would have come at this late hour,” Verlaque said to the coroner, who was slightly younger than himself, wore expensive bright-blue glasses, and wore her thick, prematurely white hair short and tidy.
    Cohen smiled. “He has seniority,” she replied. “I get the late-night calls.” She glanced over at Rebecca Schultz, who was sitting in a corner, sipping tea, and staring at the wall. “Quite a suspect,” the doctor whispered.
    Verlaque shrugged, not wanting to respond. “How was M. Rouquet killed?”
    Dr. Cohen kneeled down. “Head injury.”
    Verlaque looked at the marble fireplace, as did Dr. Cohen, who then said, “I’d say he hit the corner of the fireplace on his way down.”
    â€œSo he was pushed,” Verlaque said. “Or drunk?”
    Cohen shook her head back and forth. “You have to be pushed with a lot of force to die from a fall like this,” she said. “But he’s old, and by the looks of it in poor health, which doesn’t help.”
    â€œTime?” Verlaque asked.
    She sat down on the floor, drew her knees up against her chest, and looked more closely. It seemed to Verlaque an odd position, more like she was at the beach than beside a dead body, but it
was
the middle of the night. “Very recent,” she said. “No more than two or three hours ago.”
    â€œThank you,” he said. He reached out a hand to help the doctor up.
    â€œI’ll let you know if I can be more specific once I examine the body at the morgue,” she said.
    â€œThank you,” he said.
    â€œYou already said that,” Dr. Cohen said, putting on her coat. “But I appreciate it. Bouvet never says thank you.”
    Verlaque walked over to Pierre, who was sitting on a wobbly wooden barstool, said good night, and told him to try to sleep. Pierre slowly slid off the stool, walked to the door, opened it, and, taking one last look at his former neighbor, walked out. Verlaque pulled a chair over to Rebecca Schultz’s side. “If you answer all of my questions, you’ll be able to go back to your hotel tonight and not sit in jail,” he said.
    Dr. Schultz did not hide her surprise. “You