Guy made occasional commentary. “Yadda, yadda, yadda, usual pro forma investigation stuff. Student goes missing, special flag on his file, they call the embassy, the embassy calls State, State calls FBI. FBI investigates.”
“They talk with Marcus. This is weird. They took Marcus to the hospital to get a semen sample — out of his ass. I guess that time you saw them together wasn’t the only time Stephenson and Marcus got it on. It says here that Marcus was murdered. And Stephenson was suspected to be at the hospital at the same time. Your lovers seemed to have been troubled.”
Alex protested, “I’m not buying it. Those two met every day at a bench on campus. While they were sufficiently reserved, no one doubted they were in love.”
“Hang on, it looks like Marcus was getting it on with half the campus. They found twelve guys semen up his ass.”
“I admit I was pretty far out of the mainstream of gay life at school, but there is no way Mr. Marcus was getting porked by half the campus.”
“It does seem hard to believe you were the only one at the college not up that guy’s butt. Still the lab results were conclusive. Damn. Hey, here is your testimony, Alex. You gave them the substantive link between Marcus and Stephenson. I take back all I said about citizens and their testimony.”
Guy exclaimed, “Wait a minute. I think I know this one, Thibaud. I told you I spent my summers at my grandparent’s place in Provence. Well my best friend — now don’t look at me like that, I was not screwing around as a child — my best friend was Thibaud. He was a good looking kid, always up to some kind of trouble. We had a marvelous time. Yes, it lists his permanent address. That’s him. I wonder how he turned out. Look, read this. It’s definitely the Thibaud I knew, thumbing his nose at the authorities. What a hoot. Apparently he knew Cal Stephenson himself, very well. Still, what he said only opens more questions. Not much doubt about what Cal and Thibaud did together, but why all the way up in Vermont? It sounds like a nearby motel would have served the purpose.”
“You can see the case just winding down. The full dragnet search turns up nobody, not Stephenson, not the student, Samir. No proof of who killed Marcus. A fair amount of screaming from the embassy, the State Department, some guy named Worthington…”
“He’s the college president. A real asshole. He was just there to squeeze alumni and parents for more money. It was rumored that he had ‘connections’ whatever that meant. Funny, I used to get those alumni donation flyers from him all the time and they don’t come around anymore. I would probably toss a few bucks that way if it weren’t for him. I wonder why he was bitching at the FBI. The Provost was the one who ran the whole show. I would definitely donate if he asked.”
“So that’s it, a murder and two missing persons and no answers. You were right there in the middle of it all, Alex. I’m half sorry I got the case files. It’s left more questions than answers. I hope you’re not upset by what we’ve learned. Especially about Marcus begin murdered.”
“I’m more curious than upset. It would be good to get some answers. Mr. Marcus deserves that. How wild is it that you know someone I went to college with and he was involved, too.”
“I have an idea” Guy suggests. “I’ve always wanted to go back to where I spent my summers. We both have vacation time. I’d love to show you that part of my life. My grandparents are gone now, but they and those summers are a big part of who I am. And we can see if Thibaud is around and remembers either one of us.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thibaud had responded to Alex’s email in minutes. Of course he remembered Guy. They had spent summers together throughout their childhood and teen years. He remembered Alex, too, as that elusive Economics major with the shy smile and cute ass. He insisted that they stay with him and his lover, Henri, when in the area. They would be welcome for as long as they liked. Guy would remember place, the big house above the village.
Guy did indeed remember the place, it was a chateau that sat high among sloping vineyards, dominating the village tucked in the valley below. It had always been owned by one of the grand families, but so much had changed in the world, perhaps it had been sold. As children, they had been terrified to even step foot onto the manicured grounds and none had ever been closer than the woods that came near the back gardens. It had been a place of fantasy for them, wondering if a king and queen lived there. Now it was Thibaud and Henri.
Alex and Guy planned to spend their two-week vacation wandering about the South of France, following their fancy with a few specific stops of historical, architectural, and culinary significance. Still, Alex was eager to talk with Thibaud, since he had been implicated in the case. What would he add to their knowledge of what had happened? He had to be their first destination.
It was a pleasant drive from the airport in Nice, Guy taking the wheel. He was undaunted at the winding lanes, the erratic driving of everyone else on the road, even the occasional donkey or flock of geese on the road. They went further and further into the countryside.
“It is just the same as when I was a boy” Guy explained as he turned off the secondary road onto a rural lane along a quiet river. Tall trees overhung the road on both sides, it was like driving in a tunnel. Dappled light reflected off the river glittered on the road ahead. They went up a rise and emerged into a village square, surrounded on three sides by buildings of the soft yellow stone used throughout Provence. The cliché fountain occupied the center of the square, two cafes were in friendly rivalry across the square, old men played petanc and poured from a bottle of wine.
“Nothing changes here” Guy was nostalgic. He parked the car and led to one of the cafes. The buxom proprietress came to the table with a bottle of red wine and baguette. She asked only ‘cassoulet?’ They greedily agreed. “This is Wednesday, so of course they will have the cassoulet. It has been this way since Charlemagne and maybe before.” Alex smiled at the growing French influence in Guy’s speech. He’s such an American, it’s easy to forget his close ties to this area.
When the proprietress brought out the steaming bowls, Guy caught her eye. “A question?”
“Oui.”
“The chateau above the village. Has it a new owner?” He translated for my benefit.
“Non.” Chatty bunch these French.
“Monsieur Henri?”
“Oui, he is the master.”
“Merci.”
“De rien.”
Guy smiled broadly. “So, Thibaud has caught a big fish. Henri is the head of the family that owns not only the Chateau, but most of the South of France. And you thought he wasn’t a serious person, just dedicated to flirtations and fun. He must have worked very hard for this score.”
“The Thibaud I remember spent class time disconcerting the professor — male or female — with silly questions and sensual looks on his handsome face. I don’t know how he passed the classes, though as an exchange student, maybe they gave him some slack.”