The Curse of La Fontaine Read online

  Praise for The Mystery of the Lost Cézanne

  “Art theft is a hot topic on the mystery scene, and no one’s heist is livelier than Longworth’s.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A sure thing for fans of art-themed mysteries.”

  —Booklist

  “Enchanting . . . the charming local citizens of Aix-en-Provence provide the true delights in this colorful story.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for Murder on the Île Sordou

  “Charming.”

  —Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

  “[T]horoughly delightful. . . . Longworth deftly handles what is in effect a locked-room mystery, but the book’s real strength lies in the backstories she creates for each of the distinctive characters. The puzzle’s answer, buried in the past, is well prepared by what has come before.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Longworth once again immerses readers in French culture with this whodunit, which will delight Francophiles and fans of Donna Leon and Andrea Camilleri. The setting will also appeal to readers who enjoy trapped-on-the-island mysteries in the tradition of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.”

  —Library Journal

  “Longworth’s novels, set in the south of France, are mysteries for foodies, with the plot providing a table upon which the enchanting meals and accompanying wines are served.”

  —Booklist

  “[A] charming read with a well-crafted mystery and characters as rich and full bodied as a Bordeaux.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “A splendid read.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Longworth’s maritime version of a country-house cozy offers genuine pleasures.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Praise for Death in the Vines

  “Judge Antoine Verlaque, the sleuth in this civilized series, discharges his professional duties with discretion. But we’re here to taste the wines, which are discussed by experts like Hippolyte Thébaud, a former wine thief, and served in beautiful settings like a 300-year-old stone farmhouse. So many bottles, so many lovely views. A reader might be forgiven for feeling woozy.”—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

  “Though the plot is hair-raising, what keeps you glued to this mystery is its vivid portrait of everyday life in Aix, which deftly juxtaposes the elegance of the city . . . with quotidian woes and pleasures.”

  —Oprah.com

  “As much as the mystery intrigues—in this case some intertwined crimes involving a local winery, a missing elderly woman, and a rich man’s suspicious construction project—what really makes Longworth’s books enjoyable are the atmosphere and details that she includes of the South of France.”

  —Seattle Post-Intelligencer

  “What follows is a lovely, almost cozy police procedural that deserves to be read with a glass of wine in hand. Longworth paints such a loving picture of Provence that it’s likely you’ll start planning a vacation trip to France the moment you set the book down.”

  —The Denver Post

  “This is an intelligently written police procedural with the warm comfort of a baguette with banon cheese.”

  —Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

  “Enjoyable . . . the book’s real strength is its evocation of place.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for Murder in the Rue Dumas

  “Fans of European sleuths with a taste for good food . . . will have fun.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “What really makes Longworth’s writing special is her deep knowledge of French history, landscape, cuisine, and even contemporary cafés and restaurants. This is that rare atmospheric mystery that is street-wise and café-canny.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Longworth’s gentle procedural succeeds on several levels, whether it’s for academic and literary allusions, police work, or armchair travel. With deftly shifting points of view, Longworth creates a beguiling read that will appeal to Louise Penny and Donna Leon fans.”

  —Library Journal

  “French-set mysteries have never been more popular [and] among the very best is a series set in Provence featuring Monsieur Verlaque, an examining magistrate, and his sometime girlfriend, law professor Marine Bonnet.”

  —The Denver Post

  Praise for Death at the Château Bremont

  “This first novel in a projected series has charm, wit, and Aix-en- Provence all going for it. Longworth’s voice is like a rich vintage of sparkling Dorothy Sayers and grounded Donna Leon . . . Longworth has lived in Aix since 1997, and her knowledge of the region is apparent on every page. Bon appétit.”

  —Booklist

  “A promising debut for Longworth, who shows there’s more to France than Paris and more to mystery than Maigret.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Mystery and romance served up with a hearty dose of French cuisine. I relished every word. Longworth does for Aix-en-Provence what Frances Mayes does for Tuscany: You want to be there—now!”

  —Barbara Fairchild, former editor in chief, Bon Appétit

  “Death at the Château Bremont is replete with romance, mystery, and a rich atmosphere that makes the south of France spring off the page in a manner reminiscent of Donna Leon’s Venice. A wonderful start to a series sure to gain a legion of fans.”

  —Tasha Alexander, author of the Lady Emily mysteries

  “Longworth has a good eye and a sharp wit, and this introduction to Verlaque and Bonnet holds promise for a terrific series.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Death at the Château Bremont offers charming French locales, vivid characters, and an intriguing whodunit.”

  —Kevin R. Kosar, author of Whiskey: A Global History

  “Here’s hoping the series lasts for years.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Your readers will eat this one up.”

  —Library Journal

  ALSO BY M. L. LONGWORTH

  Death at the Château Bremont

  Murder on the Rue Dumas

  Death in the Vines

  Murder on the Île Sordou

  The Mystery of the Lost Cézanne

  A PENGUIN MYSTERY

  The Curse of La Fontaine

  M. L. LONGWORTH has lived in Aix-en-Provence since 1997. She has written about the region for the Washington Post, the Times (UK), the Independent, and Bon Appétit magazine. In addition to the Verlaque and Bonnet mystery series, she is the author of a bilingual collection of essays, Une Américaine en Provence, published by Éditions de La Martinière in 2004. She divides her time between Aix, where she writes, and Paris, where she teaches writing at New York University.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  penguin.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary Lou Longworth

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101992715

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s ima
gination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design and illustration: Jaya Miceli

  Version_1

  For Laurence and Jacques

  Contents

  Praise for M. L. Longworth

  Also by M. L. Longworth

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue: Dei Corallini

  Chapter One: A Duke and His Garden

  Chapter Two: The World According to Philomène Joubert

  Chapter Three: The Dinner Party

  Chapter Four: Bear’s Problems Begin

  Chapter Five: L’Anchoïade

  Chapter Six: Lunch at La Fontaine

  Chapter Seven: A Toss of the Dice

  Chapter Eight: A Day in the Life

  Chapter Nine: Five Conversations

  Chapter Ten: Snooping Around for Bones

  Chapter Eleven: The Wayward Son

  Chapter Twelve: Sanary-sur-Mer

  Chapter Thirteen: Philomène Off on Her Rounds

  Chapter Fourteen: Verlaque Eats a Disappointing Lunch

  Chapter Fifteen: Trois Frères et Une Cousine

  Chapter Sixteen: La Fontaine Up and Running

  Chapter Seventeen: L’ANF

  Chapter Eighteen: The Story of Judge Joisson

  Chapter Nineteen: Paulik Thinks, “Welcome to the Real World”

  Chapter Twenty: L’Esmérelda

  Chapter Twenty-one: Blowup

  Chapter Twenty-two: The Duke Confesses

  Chapter Twenty-three: Suspicion of Murder

  Chapter Twenty-four: Suzette’s Ginger Shrimp

  Chapter Twenty-five: Goldman

  Chapter Twenty-six: Gabriella de La Serna

  Chapter Twenty-seven: The Curse of La Fontaine

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Trailblazers

  Epilogue: The Last Photograph

  Author’s Note

  There are many fountains, and restaurants, in Aix-en-Provence, but the two in this story have been invented by the author.

  Prologue

  Dei Corallini

  A ntoine Verlaque liked dei Corallini so much he almost regretted that his wedding was going to be so small. The Baroque beauty had been built in the seventeenth century with money earned from coral fished out of the Mediterranean. The local fishermen, thankful for their riches, funded the church’s construction, and the artisans who worked on it had been just as proud, elaborately sculpting every bit of stone they could get their hands on. But the end result wasn’t overdone or kitsch. The color of the stone was a subtle ivory, its elegance matched by the remaining smooth spaces of the façade that were painted in pale shades of yellow, pink, and green.

  He imagined that Marine’s parents would have preferred a large wedding at their parish church, Saint-Jean de Malte, but Verlaque felt that he was too old for such a traditional wedding. He had insisted on Italy because it was a love that he shared with Marine, but he knew, deep down, that he had wanted to avoid a wedding in Aix-en-Provence. Aix was where he lived and worked, and although it was a stunning city he didn’t think it suited the occasion. He wanted their marriage to be a secret affair, hidden away in a small Ligurian village, away from the prying eyes of his fellow Aixois. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe his good luck and didn’t want to risk having someone run up the aisle loudly objecting to their union. Until he met Marine—at a dinner party arranged by a fellow lawyer friend who had since moved to Paris—he had never thought of himself as a marrying man. Other people got married, other people were happy, never him.

  The pastel-colored church was slightly curved, looming over the cobbled square, facing out toward the sea as if protecting it. Sailors would have been able to see dei Corallini from far away, perched on its hill. Verlaque looked up, trying to focus on the various statues that sat in niches carved into the façade and not on what would be happening inside the church later that morning. Cars and scooters whizzed by down below on the road that joined all of the seaside towns leading to and from Imperia. Someone in the village called “Dario! Dario!” and a door slammed. Verlaque thought it extraordinary that it was just another Saturday for the villager and Dario but such an enormous day for him.

  He smiled and walked on, continuing toward the restaurant, planning the seating arrangement in his head as he walked. They had invited Marine’s parents, Anatole Bonnet, a general practitioner, and Florence Bonnet, a retired professor of theology; Sylvie, Marine’s best friend, and her eleven-year-old daughter, Charlotte; Jean-Marc Sauvat, a mutual friend; Bruno Paulik, the police commissioner of Aix, and his wife, Hélène, and their daughter, Léa, also eleven years old; Verlaque’s father, Gabriel, and his girlfriend, Rebecca Schultz; and Sébastien, Verlaque’s brother. Marine had Sylvie as her maid of honor and he had Sébastien, for whatever good that would do—he and his brother were seldom in contact. Sébastien found Parisian real estate as exciting as Verlaque found it dull.

  After the legal—and obligatory—wedding at Aix’s Hôtel de Ville two weeks previously, Marine and Verlaque had arranged with the manager of their favorite café on the Cours Mirabeau to have an outdoor aperitif, an occasion where they could invite friends and colleagues from Aix. Flutes of champagne and plates of cold cuts were passed around, and locals and tourists alike walked down the narrow street smiling at what looked like an impromptu party.

  They both hated the idea of a destination wedding, but the Ligurian village was only a three-hour drive from Aix, where most of the guests lived. And it wasn’t as if they were making the whole wedding party travel to a Caribbean island; a colleague of Marine’s had described a cousin’s wedding at a resort in Barbados, which had forced the guests, including two elderly grandmothers, to take a fourteen-hour flight to a place that had no meaning for them or the bride and groom. Besides, Marine and her parents had been coming to Paradiso—her nickname for the village—since she was small, staying in a small rented apartment in the lower section of the village, near the beach, and she had brought Antoine there when she knew she loved him. She and Antoine always stayed in the old upper village and walked down hundreds of steps each morning to the sea, where they would dive into the water off the flat rocks that extended out beyond the sandy beach.

  It was already warm, despite it being early April, and still early in the morning. The village was always humid and Verlaque hoped he wouldn’t get too hot. He had almost gone barefoot in his black Weston loafers, and Marine had laughed when he walked out of the bathroom of their hotel earlier, dressed in a cobalt-blue suit but minus socks. “Don’t you think you should wear socks?” she asked. “That’s kind of a Guido look, and I’m not sure it’s your style.”

  He looked down at his bare ankles. “Maybe you’re right. Aren’t you getting dressed?” he asked, seeing that she was still in her bathrobe.

  “In Sylvie and Charlotte’s room,” Marine answered. “You’re to have breakfast downstairs with my parents. I want my dress to be a surprise.”

  Verlaque rubbed his hands together. “Does it have cleavage? A bare back?”

  Marine smiled, got up, and held the door open for him. “See you later.” She kissed him and said, “You look wonderful, by the way. I love that color on you.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Yes. I’m nervous and happy but oddly calm, as if I’m floating. And you?”

  “I’m nervous about the pasta tonight,” Verlaque replied. “I hope they use a thick-enough noodle. One that will really pick up the sauce.”

  Marine stared at her husband and gave a wry laugh. “To think that in a few hours I’m going to be married to you.”

  “We’re so lucky,” h
e said, kissing her. “I’ll go down and have breakfast with your adorable father and surly mother, and then I’m popping over to the restaurant to make sure I like the wineglasses.”

  She stared at him, knowing that he was serious. “Good luck, then.”

  “See you at the church!”

  Marine closed the door and walked over to the dresser, where she had put her dress, wrapped in tissue paper, in the bottom drawer. She took it out and laid it on the bed and went to the bathroom to shower. Sylvie had promised to do Marine’s hair, and since Charlotte would be present Marine had invited Léa, knowing that inviting one eleven-year-old girl but excluding the other would have been unfair, even cruel. For the same reason she had decided not to have a flower girl.

  The priest, Piero, was an easygoing fifty-year-old who obviously loved his job and wore his happiness on his smiling round face. They had known Piero for two years, thanks to one summer evening when their favorite restaurant had been overbooked and they had been placed at his table. He spoke excellent French and was impressed by Marine’s Italian. They sent him a handwritten letter asking him to perform the marriage, in French if possible, and had included a photograph in case he hadn’t remembered them. But he remembered his tablemates and was proud to be asked to preside over the wedding of such a charming Giudice and Professoressa. The priest’s only stipulation was that the wedding would have to be in the morning, as Saturday afternoons were booked eighteen months ahead. They immediately agreed, knowing that their wedding would be small. Without late-night dancing and a DJ, a morning wedding followed by lunch would suit them fine. Piero had delicately suggested that, given their small wedding party, the ceremony take place in one of the church’s chapels.

  Verlaque walked through the medieval streets that were about two meters wide and paved with round, smooth river stones, the center of the street lined with red bricks. Despite their love of Paradiso they had never found the villagers overtly friendly—except for Piero and the restaurant team—and the villagers, who this morning seemed to be mostly old women, watched him now, their narrow gazes fixed on him, then looked away, unsmiling. Their unfriendliness sent a shiver up his back despite the heat. For the first time in months he felt uneasy about the wedding. Was it the wedding or the marriage? Marine Bonnet was perfect, and he knew it. But he was far from perfect. He was arrogant and bossy—looking back on it, he guiltily remembered insisting that they marry here in Liguria and not in Aix. Marine had quickly agreed, but had he even given her a choice? Their friends and family all seemed thrilled by the engagement, but now he heard their voices saying “You are so lucky, Antoine,” and not the other way around. He was lucky to have Marine’s hand in marriage, but perhaps she was getting the short end of the stick.