Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth Read Free Book Online

smiling.
    â€œI’ll have the soup,” Marine said.
    â€œSo will I,” Sylvie added.
    â€œStacked vegetables for me,” Verlaque said.
    Marie-Thérèse nodded. “Okay. And to follow?”
    â€œThe sea bream,” Marine said.
    â€œLamb chops,” Sylvie said.
    â€œAnother lamb here,” Verlaque said, raising his hand.
    â€œThank you,” Marie-Thérèse said, turning quickly on her heel to go. “Oh, here’s the wine menu!” she added, handing Verlaque a thick white book.
    â€œImpressive!” Verlaque said. “Small food menu, and big wine menu, just the way it should be.”
    Marie-Thérèse nodded, but looked baffled. “I’ll be right back!” she said.
    â€œTake your time,” Marine said, smiling. “My friend will be a while looking at your wine list.”
    â€œWe’ll need a red and a white,” Sylvie said. “Marine ordered the fish.”
    â€œOh, I like red with fish—”
    â€œYes, definitely two bottles,” Verlaque cut in, putting his reading glasses on to read the menu. He read the list, whistling softly as he turned the pages. “White from Cassis?”
    â€œNo,” both women said in unison.
    â€œToo close to home?” Verlaque asked. “Okay then, a Nuragus di Cagliari from Sardinia. And a red from . . . Sicily?”
    â€œPerfect,” Sylvie said, having no idea what a Nuragus was. But if Antoine liked it, it would be good. She looked around the room. “Alain Denis and his wife are here without the teenager.”
    â€œPoor boy,” Marine said. “Does he have to eat alone, in his room?”
    â€œIt would appear so,” Sylvie said. “They were arguing about him this afternoon.”
    â€œThat must be the new couple, who arrived here on the later boat,” Marine said as she saw Sylvie looking across the room at an elegantly dressed couple in their late thirties or early forties who sat in silence.
    â€œParisians,” Sylvie said. “Obviously.”
    Verlaque ignored the women as he continued to read the wine menu, which for him was as interesting as a novel. He turned to the last page to see what kind of Armagnacs and whiskies they offered.
    â€œI hope this place isn’t going to feel like a retreat,” Sylvie said. “With half of the guests not getting along, and the rest of us watching each other.”
    â€œYou’re the one who’s watching,” Verlaque said, looking at Sylvie over his reading glasses.
    â€œI can’t help it,” Sylvie said. “And there’s that man, eating by himself.”
    â€œHe’s a French literature teacher, from Aix,” Marine said. “I’d say he looks happy enough. Perhaps another night we’ll ask him to join us.”
    â€œSee what I mean?” Sylvie said. “This
does
feel like some camp. Next you’ll suggest that we each change seats every dinner, so we all get to know each other.”
    Marine laughed. “That would be fun . . .”
    â€œClément!” Verlaque called out.
    Marine and Sylvie stared at each other.
    â€œClément Viale!” he continued. Verlaque got up and set his napkin on the table. “Clément Viale is over there. We went to law school together.” Verlaque excused himself and began to walk across the dining room.
    Viale saw his old friend and cried, “Dough Boy!”
    Verlaque and Viale embraced, and Viale led Verlaque over to his table, where he was introduced to Clément’s wife of twelve years, and mother of his three children, Delphine. Marine saw Verlaque turn and point to her, and she was about to get up when Verlaque came back.
    â€œWe’re meeting them after dinner, for a drink in the bar,” Verlaque said, sitting down.
    â€œDough Boy?” Sylvie asked, winking at Marine.
    â€œI was thinner then, believe it or not,” Verlaque said. “But the