The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Read Free Page B

New York.”
    â€œNew York?” Mme Chazeau asked. “How was that?”
    â€œExpensive,” Eric Legendre flatly replied.
    â€œSo I’ve heard,” Mme Chazeau replied. “Welcome to Aix. If you have any questions about the city, I’m always available.”
    â€œThank you,” Françoise Legendre quietly replied, looking at her husband and smiling.
    Mme Chazeau picked up a pen. She would act as secretary that night. “First on the agenda is the hall and stairway cleaning. The price is going up fifteen euros a month. Does everyone approve this?”
    â€œWhat choice do we have?” Dr. Pitavy asked.
    â€œChange companies,” Mme Chazeau said. “Which means interviewing them. And I’ve already looked into it. The one we’re using is still the cheapest, even if they raise the fee.”
    â€œIn that case, I approve,” Mme Joubert said, raising her hand.
    â€œSo does M. Staelens,” Mme Chazeau said. “We went over this evening’s agenda on the telephone.” She looked at the Legendres and explained, “Jan Staelens owns a large apartment on the third floor. He uses it for vacations. What do you think about the cleaning fees?”
    Eric Legendre looked at his wife and shrugged. “We approve, I guess.”
    â€œSo do I,” Dr. Pitavy said, sighing.
    â€œM. Rouquet?” Mme Chazeau asked.
    René Rouquet looked up. He had been twirling his hat in his hands, thinking of other things. More important things.
    â€œWe were voting on the fee increase for cleaning the building’s common areas,” Mme Chazeau reminded him. “Everyone has approved it.”
    â€œOh, okay, then,” Rouquet said.
    Mme Chazeau tapped her pen on the table.
    â€œI approve,” René said.
    â€œThank you,” Mme Chazeau replied, taking notes. She had expected more of a fight from René Rouquet, who wasnotoriously cheap. He usually paid more attention. “Second on the agenda—”
    â€œThe mysterious storage room,” Dr. Pitavy interjected.
    â€œYes—”
    â€œI’m willing to pay rent for its use,” Dr. Pitavy went on. “It’s right across the hall from my office. I have equipment I need to store, and paperwork that the tax man and medical fraternity insist we keep for ten years. If I don’t have somewhere to put all of that I’ll have to move my office. And, as you all know, it’s quite nice having a quiet podiatrist downstairs, instead of a dentist, who’s drilling, or—horror of horrors—a snack shop, frying meats . . .”
    â€œWho
is
using the
débarras
?” Philomène Joubert asked. “One of my students, the one who’s renting the smaller flat, asked if she could put her bicycle in it.” Mme Joubert loved renting her two apartments on rue Boulegon to students—always female—and she treated them like family (especially the ones who went to Mass). She no longer had to list the apartments at the university; they passed down through friends, sisters, and cousins by word of mouth.
    â€œThe clothing store at 21 Boulegon,” Dr. Pitavy answered.
    Mme Chazeau sighed and set down her pen. It seemed that the podiatrist had taken over the meeting.
    â€œThey use it to store extra stock,” Dr. Pitavy continued. “And they won’t say who they’re renting it from!”
    â€œM. Rouquet,” Mme Chazeau carefully said, looking at René. “Since the subject of the ground-floor storage room has never before been an issue, only today did I look at the deeds, and I discovered that it belongs to you. Would you be willing to rent it out to Dr. Pitavy?”
    René Rouquet looked at her, surprised, and then glared atPierre. He grabbed his coat and got up, knocking over a chair in the process, mumbling as he opened the door. Eric and Françoise Legendre looked at Mme Chazeau, bewildered. Philomène Joubert