Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth Page A

one thing I never thought I’d have. So I guess you were right before; when I was a student I didn’t think unhappiness, or failure, was possible. Cheers,” he said, holding up his glass.
    Verlaque lifted his glass and had a small sip; he didn’t feel like drinking anymore but wanted to keep Viale company.
    â€œDo you have a course of action?” Verlaque asked. “I mean, is there any way to straighten out your financial problems?
    Viale made a sweeping gesture around the room.
    â€œHere?”
    â€œI’m an investor in Sordou,” Viale said. “It’s the last of my family money. The rest I lost; who was to know that Alcatel-Lucent would take a dive in the stock market?”
    Verlaque said, “It’s a good idea, Clément. This is a beautiful place, from what I’ve seen so far. You’ll make back your investment.” Verlaque took another sip of whiskey; he knew all too well how risky the hotel and restaurant business was. And this one was set on a remote island. “It must be a coup having Alain Denis here. Has someone called
Paris Match
and arranged for some paparazzi to come?”
    â€œNiki Darcette is supposed to be working on that, and Denis himself promised to call some journalist contacts, but so far, nothing. He’s a prick, actually.” Viale finished his whiskey with one final big gulp and set his glass down.
    Verlaque smiled; anyone who at sixtysomething tried to look as he did at twentysomething was sure to be a prick. “Speak of the devil,” Verlaque whispered. Viale turned around to see not Alain Denis but Emmanuelle, his wife, enter the room, wearing what looked like a long white silk housecoat but was actually a dress, split up the front to her midthigh.
    â€œI’m glad to see there are still some men awake in this hotel,” she said to no one in particular as she walked to the bar and ordered a glass of champagne.
    Verlaque couldn’t take his eyes off of her; not because she was beautiful, but because she was so odd looking. Emmanuelle Denis was of average height and had long blond hair piled in an elaborate bun on top of her head. She was outrageously thin but had very large breasts, a look that always seemed imbalanced to him. She was tanned, and well groomed, right down to the French manicured toenails. He smiled to himself, having overheard Marine trying to paint her own toenails, every second word a “
merde!
”
    Mme Denis had obviously paid a lot of money, and taken much effort, to look the way she did, and yet she looked like a half human. He glanced across at Clément, who was also staring at her, but with a look, it seemed to Antoine, of admiration.
    Emmanuelle Denis was used to receiving the attention of men and slunk off her bar stool, expertly maneuvering between the bar’s small tables in her evening gown and high heels, and carrying a full glass of champagne. “Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.
    â€œNot at all,” Verlaque said, rising. “But I was just headed off to bed.”
    Clément Viale also got up and pulled out an armchair, the same one Delphine Viale had been sitting in, and motioned for Emmanuelle to sit down. “I’ll have another whiskey, please,” he called over to Canzano. Serge Canzano grabbed the Lagavulin and gave the Parisian a double hit; maybe it would knock him out and Serge could close the bar at least before 2 a.m.
    â€œWhat a shame,” Mme Denis said to Verlaque. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” She liked his look and guessed that he was a powerful man. A surgeon, or politician . . .
    â€œQuite sure,” Verlaque said. “Good night, madame. Good night, Clément. See you tomorrow.”
    Verlaque walked through the quiet, marble-floored hallways, up a flight of stairs to their room. He quietly opened the door and walked through the room, looking at the sleeping figure of Marine, lit up by the moon.