Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth

the crap.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” Clément replied, straightening his back. “I think I knew quite well what I was doing back then.”
    â€œReally?” Verlaque asked. “You were one hundred percent sure that law school was for you? And that you’d enjoy being a lawyer?”
    â€œI think so . . .”
    â€œAnd you were sure you’d marry, and have children? And you were confident in the fact that the earth was a safe place to be; that there’d never be anything like global warming, or tidal waves, or maniacs driving airplanes into the World Trade Center?” Verlaque began to remember the things that had frustrated him about Viale all those years ago: his smugness, the smugness that came from their elite backgrounds and schools.
    â€œNobody could have known those things,” Viale suggested.
    â€œBut I think that’s what Antoine means about naivety in the young,” Marine said. “We don’t know yet, and don’t even want to know, that evil exists. We all saw it in that young waitress this evening.”
    â€œAt that age I was just into getting drunk and laid,” Sylvie Grassi said. Verlaque laughed and the Viales looked on, Clément with a strained grin and Delphine with a look of disgust.
    â€œFancy Alain Denis being one of the guests this week,” Delphine Viale said in an awkward attempt to change the conversation.
    â€œHe was the only person not laughing this evening at dinner,” Marine said.
    â€œReally?” Verlaque asked.
    Marine nodded. “I think it’s because that waitress stole the show.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Sylvie said. “An aging actor, once having worked with the most famous Italian and French directors of his day, now selling eyeglasses and dog food. He shows up to a small exclusive resort and expects people to be fawning over him, and then at dinner no one gives him the time of day and the gaff of a young waitress steals our hearts.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” Clément said, turning to his wife. “Delphine asked for his autograph this afternoon, didn’t you
chérie?
”
    â€œIt was for Mother,” Mme Viale replied, pursing her lips and glaring at her husband.
    â€œOh, my mother loved him too,” Marine said, smiling, in an attempt to lighten the strained atmosphere between the Viales.
    â€œPoor guy; we should stop speaking of Denis in the past tense,” Sylvie said, finishing her whiskey. “Well, I’m off to bed; the boatman has promised to take me . . . um . . . rowing . . . tomorrow.” Verlaque and Clément Viale laughed, and Delphine glared at her husband. Sylvie stood up and pulled down her dress, which had risen up while she had been sitting.
    â€œI’ll come too,” Marine said. “It’s been a long day.”
    â€œWell, I’m not going to be the only woman here, listening to Antoine and Clément relive their glory days,” Delphine Viale said. She got up, taking with her a small Fendi clutch bag that Sylvie had been eyeing with interest.
    â€œSleep tight, ladies,” Viale said, saluting them with his right hand.
    The men watched the women leave the bar and the minute they were out of the room Clément called over to Serge Canzano, ordering two more whiskies. Viale then sighed, leaning back in the armchair and closing his eyes for a few seconds.
    â€œGoing through a bad patch?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œOnly for about the last ten years,” Viale said. “No, six years. Things started going downhill after the birth of our third child.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œYou’ve never married, have you?” Viale asked.
    â€œNo.”
    Serge Canzano set two more whiskies down on the table and cleared away the empty glasses. When Canzano was out of earshot, Viale went on. “I’m having financial problems too. That’s the