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 make 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.”
“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 who-done-it.”
—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 in the Rue Dumas
Death in the Vines
Murder on the Île Sordou
A PENGUIN MYSTERY
The Mystery of the Lost Cézanne
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 © 2015 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.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Longworth, M. L. (Mary Lou), 1963–
The mystery of the lost Cézanne : a Verlaque and Bonnet mystery / M. L. Longworth.
pages ; cm.—(Verlaque and Bonnet mysteries ; 5)
ISBN 978-0-698-19578-3
1. Art thefts—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.L596M97 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015004005
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are us
ed fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design and illustration by Jaya Miceli
Version_1
Praise for M. L. Longworth
Also by M. L. Longworth
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One: La Fête des Rois
Chapter Two: Pierre’s Request
Chapter Three: Manon
Chapter Four: A Short Story, a Photograph, and a Painting
Chapter Five: The Neighbors Make Tea
Chapter Six: Paul
Chapter Seven: Cézanne’s Apples and Pears
Chapter Eight: Dr. Anatole Bonnet Lends a Hand, and Eye
Chapter Nine: I Should Like to Astonish Paris with an Apple
Chapter Ten: Manon and Cézanne
Chapter Eleven: La Sale Peinture
Chapter Twelve: Antoine Verlaque Invites Officer Schoelcher for a Beer
Chapter Thirteen: Commissioner Paulik, Charmed
Chapter Fourteen: A Family of Three
Chapter Fifteen: Beauty Is a Complex Subject
Chapter Sixteen: Anatole Bonnet Drives—Very Slowly—to the Luberon
Chapter Seventeen: Le Mas des Lilas
Chapter Eighteen: Edmund Lydgate’s Prognosis
Chapter Nineteen: Dedans/Dehors
Chapter Twenty: Granet’s Bright Clouds
Chapter Twenty-one: A Game of Xs and Os
Chapter Twenty-two: At Home, on the Rue des Petits Pères
Chapter Twenty-three: Alain Flamant’s Frustration
Chapter Twenty-four: A Meeting in a Japanese Garden
Chapter Twenty-five: Teppanyaki
Chapter Twenty-six: A Visit to Cézanne’s Studio
Chapter Twenty-seven: Breakfast, Alone, in a Banquet Room
Chapter Twenty-eight: Cézanne Paints Manon
Chapter Twenty-nine: Visits to Two Well-Appointed Apartments
Chapter Thirty: M. Verlaque Senior Ventures Beyond the Place des Vosges
Chapter Thirty-one: Jamel à la Conduite
Chapter Thirty-two: Poring Over Amandine’s Notebooks
Chapter Thirty-three: Just Answer Yes or No
Chapter Thirty-four: Le Fou Is Identified
Chapter Thirty-five: Love and Loss
Chapter Thirty-six: Verlaque Visits Cézanne’s Grave
Pour Sophie et Philippe
Author’s Note
Paul Cézanne did have an affair “with a mysterious Aixoise” in 1885, a curiosity I first read in a New Yorker article, later confirmed when rereading Paul Cézanne: Letters, edited by John Rewald in 1976. Cézanne’s good friends Émile Zola and Philippe Solari did, of course, exist, but all the others have been invented by the author.
Chapter One
La Fête des Rois
January was his favorite month. He loved Provençal winters; they were cold and dry, often with bright-blue skies. The ancient plane trees—so essential in summer to block the sun—now, without their fat leaves, looked like tall knobby sculptures. But their winter bareness revealed the Cours Mirabeau’s soft golden architecture: mansions of the seventeenth century, now banks, law offices, cafés, and the twenty-first-century addition of American chain stores. But most of all, January meant that the commercialism and strain of Christmas was over, and the routine of work, cigar club, and being with Marine could begin anew. This year he would be a better boss, a better friend, a better lover. Or try to. Like hitting the refresh button on my computer, he thought.
Antoine Verlaque paused in the middle of the Cours, leaned against one of the trees—its multicolored gray and pale-green bark like army fatigues—and relit his cigar. He slowly puffed on his Partagas, and while he smoked he watched his fellow Aixois filing up and down the wide avenue. Three teenage girls—with identical haircuts and expensive, giant leather purses—walked arm in arm, speaking so quickly that it was near to impossible for him to eavesdrop. There was something about the trio that reminded Verlaque of his own youth, spent in Paris; perhaps it was their obvious wealth—always flaunted in Aix, and in certain arrondissements in Paris—or their easiness with one another, their self-assuredness. He had had friends just like these girls in high school, but their faces were now a blur. What remained were their names, names that reflected their parents’ good taste and education, or their Catholicism: Victoire, Mazarine, Josephine, Marie-Clothilde.
An old woman came in the opposite direction. She appeared to be wearing her slippers and bathrobe. Verlaque felt his chest tighten in sadness; when she got closer he was relieved to see that she was wearing a winter coat, albeit flimsy and weather-beaten. But she was indeed wearing her slippers.
She stopped to take a rest, and leaning on her cane she looked up at the judge and smiled. “Bonne journée, monsieur,” she said slowly and carefully. Her accent was Parisian, educated.
“Bonne journée, madame,” Verlaque answered, smiling and slightly bowing in respect.
The woman took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. “Blue, and clear,” she said.
“The only blue sky in France today,” Verlaque answered. “I looked at the weather report earlier this morning.” He stopped himself from adding “on my computer.” Verlaque imagined she had an old boxy television in the corner of a room, the kind with a rabbit-ear antenna.
“Humph,” she replied, clicking her teeth. She readjusted her cane to get ready to walk on. “And Christmas is finally over.”
Verlaque laughed out loud. “Thankfully.”
She nodded in lieu of saying good-bye, and walked away. Verlaque turned to watch her go, and he wondered where she lived. Was her apartment a small, squalid bed-sit? Or was she an eccentric noblewoman, who lived with too many cats in a grand bourgeois hôtel particulier? One thing was clear to him, though: she lived alone. At least his parents still had each other—even if they rarely spoke—and a team of servants to look after them.
He walked on, heading south on the cobblestoned side of the Cours, toward his favorite pâtisserie. A couple walked toward him and he tried not to frown. They were the sort of Aixois couple he despised: she, too thin, too made-up, and sporting the same haircut and expensive bag as the teenage girls. She walked on impossibly high heels, and pushed a baby buggy almost as big as his 1961 Porsche. Verlaque couldn’t imagine how she interacted with the infant inside; it was an accessory. He realized he was probably being unfair. Try to be a better person, Antoine.
Usually he looked in peoples’ eyes to grasp something of their character, but husband and wife both wore enormous sunglasses, the kind that made the wearer look like a fly. Dolce & Gabbana. They both had the same colored, streaked hair (or was it possible to have natural hair with a dozen shades of red and blond?), and he wore a leather motorcycle jacket that was covered in brand names and insignias. Verlaque tried not to be angered by their obvious posing; he knew that Marine hardly noticed others around her. He took a drag of his cigar and vowed to be more inward thinking, like Marine.
“Another damn resolution,” he mumbled. And then he saw the queue. “What the—?”
A lineup, at least twenty people long, flowed out of Michaud’s and onto the sidewalk. Verlaque pulled out his cell phone and checked the date. “Merde!” The phone then rang and he answered it, almost yelling. “Oui!”
“Good morning, sir. Am I interrupting you?”
“No, no,” Verlaque answered. “Sorry, Bruno. I’m standing on the Cours, hungry, in front of Michaud’s, and forgot that it was Jan
uary sixth.”
Aix-en-Provence’s commissioner laughed and then coughed. “Sorry, sir. Are people queuing up to buy their galettes des rois?”
“Of course they are!” Verlaque said as he got in line. “Do people actually like those things?”
Bruno Paulik coughed again. “Well,” he said, “yeah.”
“I just want a brioche; I didn’t have time for breakfast,” Verlaque said. “I’ll be a while getting back.”
“Sir,” Paulik began, “since you’re in the queue—”
“You want a brioche, too? No problem.”
“No, actually,” Paulik said, “I’d promised Hélène and Léa that I’d buy them a galette, for this evening.”
“Oh mon dieu,” Verlaque said.
“A medium-size one will do,” Paulik said, ignoring Verlaque’s comment. “Don’t forget the paper crown,” he continued. “Léa will go berserk if there isn’t the crown.”
“I know about the crown, Bruno,” Verlaque said, inching forward toward the shop’s front door. He stepped up onto the first step of the shop and set his cigar on the window ledge, planning on picking it up on his way out. The smell of butter and warm sugar made his stomach growl. “I can’t remember the last time I had a galette des rois. I’ve never cared for almond paste—”
“In fact,” Paulik continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word, “we’re having a Fête des Rois this afternoon at the Palais de Justice; I forgot to tell you.”
Verlaque held his cell phone away from his ear and looked at it, bewildered at his rugby-playing commissioner’s enthusiasm.
Paulik continued, “And Léa asked me this morning if you and Marine could come to our place tonight to celebrate.”
Verlaque smiled, touched by Léa’s earnest invitation. But the thought of having to eat an almond paste pie, twice in one day, turned his stomach over. “We’d love to come,” he found himself answering, thinking of Léa Paulik’s bright ten-year-old face. “I have my cigar club tonight, but I can show up late.”