Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth

didn’t last.”
    But Max had an old friend from Bordeaux who convinced the Le Bons, and the bank manager, that they could get by with an old-style modem to run the hotel’s computer. And Cat-Cat did research on successful hotels around the world that
didn’t
have cell phone reception or Internet for their clients and were doing quite well. “It’s the twenty-first century,” Max had argued at the bank. “Wealthy people want to get
away
from their families and businesses and the press.” Cat-Cat looked at the screen and tried to block out the bank manager’s high-pitched voice, still protesting down to the last minute, but finally giving in and signing their loan papers.
    â€œ
Coucou, Mme Le Bon
,” Marie-Thérèse said, sliding into the office with a tray balanced on her hip. “I brought you an afternoon tea.”
    â€œHow lovely,” Cat-Cat said, turning toward the girl. “Thank you.” She sighed.
    Marie-Thérèse saw the computer lit up on the reservations page. She bit her lip and then said, “Don’t worry, madame.”
    Cat-Cat tried to smile. “I wish I could.”
    â€œToday is Sunday . . .”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWe’ll fill up. Couples will have spoken over the weekend about trips they want to take,” Marie-Thérèse explained. “And so tonight, or tomorrow, when they get into the office, they’ll book here. At Sordou. You’ll see.”
    â€œHave you always been such an optimist?”
    â€œYes, I think so,” Marie-Thérèse replied, shrugging. “I’ve never really thought about it before.”
    â€œI used to be too.”
    â€œYou still are. This hotel will work, I’m sure of it.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œBecause you love it so much.”
    Cat-Cat’s eyes filled with tears.
    Marie-Thérèse went on, “And because you love it, and work so hard, it will work.
Voilà!
”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œAnother dinner alone,” Eric Monnier wrote in his Moleskine. He crossed it out and wrote “Dining Alone,” and began a poem. As he always did when writing a poem, he wrote down key words in the margin: words that filled his head, words that described what he was looking at or feeling. He began with colors, and at Sordou they were always the same: “white,” “blue,” “green.”
He
then tried to remember what other clients or guests had said to him that day, as he enjoyed putting other people’s words in his poems. But it was only their second day on the island, and he had stuck to himself. Surely someone had said something to him? Oh yes, the bartender. Monnier chuckled and wrote down “The usual?” The waitress must have spoken to him at lunch; and he had passed the hotel’s owner, Mme Le Bon, standing on the terrace looking out to sea. He had commented on the fine weather. “Cooler than in Aix,” he had said. And what had she replied? He couldn’t remember, so wrote down an image instead: “the worried owner and the cheerful waitress.”
    Monnier took a sip of white wine and looked around the room. He wrote down what the waitress said at the Amercian’s table, “
Petits supions au Vin Blanc.
”
    â€œPardon?” the wife had asked.
    â€œLittle squid, Shirley,” her husband answered.
    â€œVery good translation,” the cigar smoker named Antoine said, leaning over his table to congratulate the American gentleman, who shrugged and laughed, amazed that he knew the translation. Eric liked the words better in English, and quickly wrote them down before he forgot them. “Little squid, Shirley.” He went back up to the top of the page and put a line through “Dining Alone” and replaced it with “Little squid, Shirley.” He sat back, smiling, and pushed his book aside when the waitress came with his first