Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) by M.L. Longworth Read Free Book Online Page A

old.
    “I’ve been waiting forever!” she complained. “On my day off!My boss is dead—murdered—and here I am, not being told anything!”
    “You’ll be given information soon enough. For the time being…”
    “Murdered!” she cut in. “And it’s a school day on Monday, and with all the work I have to do…waiting for midterm grades to come in, certain professors—always the same ones—taking the longest and giving me their grades at the last possible minute! And then the students want their results immediately, naturally. With all that…”
    Verlaque kept his temper. “Please be quiet.” The woman looked up at him, openmouthed. He took this as an opportunity to continue. “As you said, your boss has just been murdered, so have some respect for the dead and keep quiet and do as you’re told.” For further effect Verlaque leaned down on her desk, pressing his big hands into the cheap wood. He thought of Paulik leaning down on Lémoine’s wheelchair, but he knew that he didn’t have the same effect as the six-foot-two former rugby player commissioner.
    “Yes sir,” she replied, barely audible, her sigh accompanied by a nonchalant shrug, as if she understood why she was being reprimanded but could care less. She then pretended to flip through some papers and ignored Verlaque, until he said, “I know that you’ve toured the office with the other policemen, but could you take me through again, Mlle…?”
    She sighed again, flipped through a few more papers—of extreme importance, no doubt—and got up from her desk, silently making her way to Moutte’s office door.
    “Mlle Zacharie, Audrey,” she finally answered. She took a deep breath. “Nothing was taken, as I told the commissioner. The Gallé vase is the object of most value, and it’s still here.”
    “You’re sure it’s the same one?” he asked.
    The secretary laughed. “Yes, of course! And besides,” she added, rolling her eyes and placing her hands on her hips, “Gallé vases aren’t worth so much money that a thief would pay to have it replaced with a phony.” She added, uninvited, “I studied art history.”
    Verlaque said nothing, because he had no idea what a Gallé was worth. He did remember seeing Gallé vases at the Petit Palais in Paris, but would someone go to the effort of reproducing one? He thought,
au contraire
, that they were worth a lot of money.
    “Were you at this party last night?” Verlaque asked.
    “
Bien sûr
, as I told the commissioner, and I gave him the guest list.”
    “How long did you stay?”
    Mlle Zacharie put her hands on her hips.
    “Me? I left around 11:00 p.m.” Her voice had slightly wavered when she had answered Verlaque, and he registered it immediately. It could be nervousness, or guilt.
    “Did you go straight home?”
    “No. I met my boyfriend at the Bar Zola. We were there well past midnight, and then we went home.” Again, her voice cracked and she added, “We left the bar around 2:00 a.m., you can ask anyone who works there.”
    “And the doyen’s post…how long is it for? Four, five years?” Verlaque asked.
    Mlle Zacharie laughed. “Life. But I wouldn’t think that he was killed for…”
    “Good-bye.” Verlaque said with a note of severity. Not thanking her, he walked as slowly as he could out of her office. He couldn’t stand being in the presence of Mlle Zacharie any longer, and they would have some answers, hopefully, tomorrow morning.
    He then turned back and said, “Get my officer a coffee, with one sugar.”
    She opened her mouth to protest and he added, “Now. And for tomorrow’s meeting, I’d like you to make a list of the faculty, staff, and graduate students’ contact information—photographs of them would be a big help—and get class schedules.”
    Mlle Zacharie banged a book on her desk, causing the young policeman in the hallway to grin from ear to ear. What a snob! she thought to herself. It was obvious to her that the judge saw her as a lowly