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

that?”
    “Exactly! And why can’t my students write well? Napoléon ‘once said’? It’s not a fairy tale, it’s a historical essay! And what sources are they using for their research?”
    “The Internet, what else?” Verlaque suggested. “These kids don’t go to the library, and no one reads anymore. I see it all the time when I take the TGV up to Paris. Dimwits playing with their cell phones for three hours because they’ve forgotten how to read.” He had a sip of coffee and then added, “But, did Balzac really say that?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, was it written down? Or did someone just overhear himmumbling that, as he was waiting for, let’s say, the men’s room at the
opéra
? How can we know for sure?”
    “You’re a pain in the ass.”
    Verlaque smiled and pulled Marine down under the covers. “I am ze most powerful man in France,” he said, joking, in English.
    Marine laughed and threw back the covers.
    “And I am an overworked teacher who has grading to do.”
    “Ah, come on! You knew that this weekend was this ‘Verlaque and Bonnet minibreak’! Why did you even bring papers to grade? Is it because you feel guilty over your ten-week summer holiday, ten more days in early fall, two weeks at Christmas, two weeks to ski in February, and then, worn out as you teachers must be, two more weeks off in April?”
    Marine sighed. “You know that I work over those holidays, researching and publishing.”
    “Yes, you do, but I don’t see any of your colleagues doing the same.”
    Marine laughed. “How would
you
know? Oh, I can’t believe we are arguing about this, on, as you say, our Verlaque and Bonnet minibreak!” Marine made to get up, but Verlaque leaped up, grabbing her white blouse that was draped over an armchair and waving it about.
    “I’m sorry! I’m an idiot!”
    “Yes, you are,” Marine said.
    “Great, we agree on something. Wanna come wine tasting with an idiot?”
    “Antoine!” she cried. “We went wine tasting, and
buying
, yesterday!”
    “But I only bought one case of that Visan wine, and I can’t stop thinking about it. All of my favorite grapes, all in one wine—Syrah, Mourvèdre, Cinsault…”
    “Yeah, yeah. And Carignan and Grenache.”
    Verlaque stopped waving the blouse and looked at Marine, blinking. “You were paying attention! I sometimes think you have a photographic memory.”
    Marine smiled at his compliment. Several of her teachers in high school and university had made the same comment, but she was, in fact, falling in love with wine. Her parents had never had any interest in grapes; it was a hobby that they associated with less intellectual pursuits, or with people who voted conservative. Marine then thought of Verlaque’s antique Porsche, and the tiny thing that was a kind of half trunk.
    “You only bought one case because we already bought three in Châteauneuf-du-Pape and you have a small sports car. You need to buy a minivan.”
    “Did I just hear you correctly?” Verlaque asked, throwing the blouse on the bed. “A minivan? Me? Put your grading down and let’s go, or else we’ll stay in bed all morning, like yesterday. The maid was mad at us.”
    “Where are you going to put more wine?”
    “Delivery, my dear.” Verlaque walked over to the window and opened the heavy cotton drapes. “
Mon Dieu,
” he whispered.
    “What is it?” Marine asked.
    “Come over and look at our Provence,” he replied. Marine got out of the four-poster bed and shivered, running beside Verlaque, who put his arms around her. They both looked at the five-star view of the Luberon Mountains that were half-buried in fog, their tops, snowcapped, brilliantly lit up by the sun. The valley that ran between their hotel and the mountain was made up of thousands of mist-covered greens, the horizontals broken by the slim verticals of cypress trees.
    Just outside their door steam rose and danced around in theair, and both Marine and Verlaque took a few seconds to