The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne

Antoine Verlaque paused in the middle of the Cours, leaned against one of the trees its multicolored gray and pale-green bark like army fatigues and relit his cigar. He slowly puffed on his Partagas, and while he smoked he watched his fellow Aixois filing up and down the wide avenue. Three teenage girls with identical haircuts and expensive, giant leather purses walked arm in arm, speaking so quickly that it was near to impossible for him to eavesdrop. There was something about the trio that reminded Verlaque of his own youth, spent in Paris; perhaps it was their obvious wealth always flaunted in Aix, and in certain arrondissements in Paris or their easiness with one another, their self-assuredness. He had had friends just like these girls in high school, but their faces were now a blur. What remained were their names, names that reflected their parents good taste and education, or their Catholicism: Victoire, Mazarine, Josephine, Marie-Clothilde.

An old woman came in the opposite direction. She appeared to be wearing her slippers and bathrobe. Verlaque felt his chest tighten in sadness; when she got closer he was relieved to see that she was wearing a winter coat, albeit flimsy and weather-beaten. But she was indeed wearing her slippers.

She stopped to take a rest, and leaning on her cane she looked up at the judge and smiled. Bonne journée, monsieur, she said slowly and carefully. Her accent was Parisian, educated.

Bonne journée, madame, Verlaque answered, smiling and slightly bowing in respect.

The woman took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. Blue, and clear, she said.

The only blue sky in France today, Verlaque answered. I looked at the weather report earlier this morning. He stopped himself from adding on my computer. Verlaque imagined she had an old boxy television in the corner of a room, the kind with a rabbit-ear antenna.

Humph, she replied, clicking her teeth. She readjusted her cane to get ready to walk on. And Christmas is finally over.

Verlaque laughed out loud. Thankfully.

She nodded in lieu of saying good-bye, and walked away. Verlaque turned to watch her go, and he wondered where she lived. Was her apartment a small, squalid bed-sit? Or was she an eccentric noblewoman, who lived with too many cats in a grand bourgeois hôtel particulier? One thing was clear to him, though: she lived alone. At least his parents still had each other even if t

series is that they are as much about lifestyle in the south of France as they are about a legal tangle, a disappearance or a murder. . . . By this third [novel] in the series, Longworth, shows the reader why those who love Donna Leon s Brunetti and Martin Walker s Bruno take up her novels with enthusiasm.   Kings River Life Magazine

Longworth s maritime version of a country-house cozy offers genuine pleasures.   Kirkus Reviews