Read Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) for Free Online

realize that the steam was coming from the blue heated lap pool.
    Marine looked at Verlaque and asked, “Fancy a quick dip?”
    “It’s November.”
    “Yes, but it isn’t raining like yesterday. And the pool’s heated. We could have a quick swim, come back in here and have a quick you-know-what, and then I’ll agree to go wine tasting with you, as long as we can visit the Roman ruins in Vaison.”
    “Yes to the swim, yes to the you-know-what, no to Roman ruins.”
    “What? Don’t you enjoy Roman ruins?” Marine asked.
    “Not really, no. I always find myself yawning, which makes me feel guilty. I understand their importance, but I can never see the beauty, or imagine the beauty, in a few knocked-over columns lying on their side.”
    “Wow, you’ve never told me that before. Can I visit the ruins and you visit the medieval church? It’s Romanesque, if I remember correctly. My mother did a research paper on it once.”
    “Romanesque? It’s a deal. Then we’ll meet in that lovely square and have a coffee and recount our discoveries, having not been together for two hours.”
    They spent breakfast reading and slowly eating the restaurant’s home-baked bread and jams. Verlaque was rereading Hemingway’s
A Moveable Feast
, smiling at the writer’s descriptions of an obnoxious Gertrude Stein, the sort of middle-aged woman that he often observed at Monoprix or at the post office, who jumped the queue or gave her opinions loudly. His grandmother Emmeline had referred to their kind as “Miss Doggetts,” the name of a character in one of her favorite books. He had always meant to ask her what the book was.
    “How many times have you read that book?” Marine asked. Verlaque looked up over his reading glasses.
    “About a dozen, I would guess. I just bought this new edition when I was up in Paris last weekend.”
    “How was Paris, by the way? Did you see your parents?”
    “No,” Verlaque replied. Marine thought he had ended the conversation with that comment, but he continued, “I did see Sébastien.” Marine smiled and nodded, saddened by the fact that he would visit his real estate mogul brother but not his aged parents. She did not understand, but knew, from experience, not to ask. She made a mental note to call her parents later in the day—they had just returned from a two-week trek across Sardinia, their sole luxury being the rustic hikers’ auberges they were sleeping in instead of their usual tent camping. She looked around the hotel’s dining room—the pressed white linens and bouquets of fresh flowers—and was sure that her parents had probably never set foot in such a hotel.
    “I’ve finished my chapter and can’t drink any more coffee,” Verlaque said. “How about you?” Marine folded her copy of
Le Monde
and put it in her purse. Verlaque leaned forward and took the newspaper from her, seeing that she had marked certain passages with her blue pen. He laughed and said, “Do you always do this?”
    “Yes! It’s for my students. I like to bring up interesting, newsworthy topics in class, even if it’s off topic. I think that’s one of our roles as university professors. I only wish I could smoke and make great jokes in class as JP did.” Verlaque laughed, knowing how much Marine admired Jean-Paul Sartre, but also how much she detested cigarettes.
    “He was one in a million,” Verlaque said as he reached across and took her hand.
    They left the dining room hand in hand, passing in the hallway a wealthy American entering his room and then saying good morning to a maid, who smiled shyly. As they walked into their room, Verlaque had a sudden longing to be gone from that hotel and to be alone.
    Marine, too, suddenly wanted to be out of the hotel. She felt guilty, guessing that the room probably cost per night what many people in the village paid in rent per month. She could feel that Verlaque, too, was suddenly elsewhere, and she was a little peeved at him. When he had said that Sartre