The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  "He was too afraid. I told him he didn't have to tell 'em and he said he didn't want to. If you tell 'em, I'll deny it and call you a filthy liar." She pointed her cigarette at Maggie as if for punctuation.

  Charming. Maggie gathered up her purse and stood up.

  "Well, I'm sorry for all the trouble."

  The woman said nothing. Her too-red lips gripped the cigarette and puffed out an angry cloud of smoke.

  "Anyway, thanks for talking with me." Realizing that the woman was not going to see her to the door, Maggie let herself out.

  5

  "Your father changed the time for me to come, ainsi it is tonight and not this afternoon. I love you, cherie.

  Laurent"

  Maggie sat on the couch with her feet resting on the coffee table with a chilled glass of Sauvignion Blanc in her hand. Laurent's note remained stuck to the refrigerator door where he'd placed it. She was disappointed and sorry she hadn't called him in the afternoon after all. He could have accompanied her on her not very fruitful investigations. As it was, she longed to tell him of her discoveries, to see his thoughtful face as he listened to her theories and revelations. He would help her make sense of what she learned today.

  The little apartment smelled of sautéed garlic and onions although the galley kitchen was tidied to a shine with not a pot nor a dribble of olive oil to be seen. She imagined her Frenchman whipping up his--presumably quite involved--lunch several hours earlier and she smiled. Although it was true that she'd never read in any of the questionnaires or articles in Cosmopolitan magazine that smiling all the time was a sure sign of compatibility, she assumed it was on the right track.

  Had Elise been hateful to Alfie? Maggie shifted on the couch, set her wine glass down and then got up to adjust the venetian blinds. It was dark now and she didn't enjoy the thought of Peachtree Street traffic peeking in her living room window. Maybe Elise had begun withdrawal and had been really testy? Maybe she hadn’t realized that Alfie was mentally handicapped?

  She resettled herself back on the couch and took a sip of her wine. And where does all this lead? Did Alfie kill Elise? She tried to imagine the soft, lumbering man-child angry enough to kill somebody. She tried to imagine him chasing Elise down the hallway with a wire outstretched in his chubby fists. She closed her eyes and willed the image away. It was too soon. Too soon to think of Elise's terror in her last moments alive. Too soon to imagine it all happening. And where was Maggie then? In a late meeting at the office, laughing and joking with Gerry and Dierdre.

  Maggie set her wine down and went over to the stereo system sitting on an old etagere she'd found in a garage sale. She selected a CD of Laurent's and popped it in. The music was sweet but complicated. It was French. She picked up the CD jewel box and tried to read some of the lyrics printed on the insert. She tossed the cover back down. Impossible. She returned to her chair and her wine.

  She wouldn't be able to say that she and Elise had been close, exactly. Growing up, Elise--although the younger in years--was always the eldest in everything else. People often mistook Elise for Maggie's older sister because of her knowing, carefully groomed affect, her studied sophistication. They were about the same height too. Or Maybe it was Maggie's edgy lack of savoir faire that had people reshuffling their ages.

  She remembered a time when she was thirteen and Elise was eleven. Elise had already begun her menstrual periods--at about the same time that Maggie had--and was well on her way to developing a singular, projectionable impression of wisdom and careless angst. The family had been on vacation in Hilton Head, South Carolina, and were spending a wet week starting at a soggy beach. Everyone had been disappointed, Maggie remembered. Everyone except Elise, who was rapt with the gloomy romance of it all. One afternoon, while Maggie, her parents and her older brother, Ben were busy playing long bouts of "Scrabble" and "Monopoly", Elise excused herself to walk to the head cottage in the group of resort bungalows to get a Coke from one of the vending machines.

  She was gone for twenty-four hours.

  The rainy ennui was replaced by frantic visits to the police station, a thorough community-organized combing of the beach--in a full, torrential downpour, as Maggie recalled--and a good deal of tears.

  Maggie took a sip of wine. This evening's rain had stopped and left fat, glabulous droplets hanging by glittering threads from the small magnolia bush outside her living room window. She could see the branches, black and slick with the raindrops, tremble in what looked like a reasonable effort to dislodge them.

  Elise had been discovered about the time the resort was deciding to drag the bottom of the small two-acre lake the families had spent the last seven summers water-skiing on. Maggie's parents had been so relieved to see Elise alive that any punitive action dissolved immediately from their minds. Elise was allowed to resume her place at the "Scrabble" board as if nothing had happened. In Elise's mind, Maggie knew, certainly nothing much had. It seemed that her sister had spent the bulk of her escaped time with a teenage boy named Dillon who, along with his very pleasant family of a mother, father and two younger sisters, had been assured by Elise that she was nearly 16 and traveling alone. Without calling her own parents, perhaps without even thinking of them, Elise had spent a day and a night with these friendly folk from Tennessee, eating with them, sleeping on their couch, snuggling with their strapping young son, and enjoying her freedom in a manner and style that had aged Elspeth an easy ten years.

  Maggie finished off her wine and glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. She was glad Laurent was getting to know her dad, but she'd have to ask her father what it was all about.

  When the phone rang, Maggie frowned, assuming it was Laurent calling to say he'd be even later. She picked up the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  The voice rasped into her ear like a jar full of wasps.

  "How 'bout if you're next on the list, bitch?"

  Chapter Twelve

  1

  "Do you have to talk about the price of mangos in Auckland?" Darla squirmed in the passenger seat of Gerry’s BMW and rearranged her headband in the car visor mirror. "I mean, let's just be normal guests for a change, what do you say?"

  Gerry smiled over at his wife. She looked good. She seemed happier, more relaxed. Did he imagine it?

  "Maggie knows we're planning to move to New Zealand, Darla. I've been discussing it with her all week."

  "I'm surprised she hasn't called me yet to suggest some good prices on a semi-private at a good mental hospital."

  "She supports me in this, Darla." Gerry switched on his turn indicator and pulled into the parking lot at the Parthenon. "Something you would do well to--"

  "Oh, stop it! Just shut up, okay? She doesn't have to live with it. She doesn't have to wake up to your 'G'day, mates' and hear the price of kiwi fruit as it rises and falls in the world market. We are not moving to New Zealand, for crying out loud, and you are making us both look like idiots!"

  Maybe he'd rushed that assessment about her happiness. Come to think of it, he thought, she looked bloody tense.

  "I won't mention mangoes," he said, pulling into a parking spot.

  "Thank you."

  "Then maybe Maggie won't mention her latest obsession."

  "What are you talking about? I thought Laurent was going to be having dinner with us?"

  "I'm talking about her other obsession. The one she's developed about tracking down her sister's killer. It's all she talks about anymore.”

  "Well, it gives her a sense that she's doing something. I know she must feel pretty helpless." Darla pulled down the sun visor and checked her hair.

  "I know how she feels."

  "Yeah, well, in that case you could probably suggest to her that she do something more constructive than tracking down Elise's killer. Like, say, moving to the Antipodes, instead."

  "Very amusing, Darla. I hope you're going to be a little less riotous during dinner."

  Maggie removed the candles from the fireplace mantle and placed them on the tabl
e. She flattened the heavy cotton napkins out with her hands and placed them to the left of the four forks at each place setting.

  "You know, I still can't get over the lack of interest the police showed in that obscene phone call," she said. "You know? I mean, if it wasn’t the killer himself -- and I don’t know why they don’t think it wasn’t -- then it was some kind of real low-life, and all cops did was--"

  "Magggee." Laurent appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing a stiff, white apron. His eyes looked tired and he smiled at her with effort. He held a dripping wooden spoon in one hand.

  "I know, I know," she said sulkily. "No one wants to hear about this stuff."

  "It is not that. But it has been almost one week since the phone call and--"

  "Yes, yes, old news, I know. Boring stuff, rehashed, ho-hum. Sorry, sorry."

  "Maggeee, you will stop it now, s'il te plâit." He shook his big head at her and wagged a finger too. She remembered the first time he had done that, how sweet and sexy and possessive it had seemed to her.

  "I love you, Laurent," she said.

  Caught in a half-turn on his way back into the maw of the steamy kitchen, Laurent stopped and faced her again.

  "Je t'aime, aussi, cherie," he said, a smile creeping across his face.

  Maggie moved to him and gave him a tight hug.

  "And I'll stop talking about death for at least the duration of our dinner party with the Parkers. Je promis," she whispered.

  "Merci." He kissed her softly on both her closed eyes and stroked her cheek with his large hand.

  "Your roue is roiling," she said sweetly.

  "Merde." He released her and returned to his stove to snatch up the bubbling paste from one of the gas burners.

  "You know, Gerry’s probably going to be on this Kiwi kick of his. I want you to be patient, okay?"

  "I am toujours very patient." He lifted a ladle of the roue and plunged it into the hot broth in another pot on the stove.

  "I know you are, dearest. I count on it, in fact. Oh, there they are now." A sturdy knock at the door brought Maggie around the dining room table and into the foyer. She gave her plum-colored tunic a quick pull, smoothed it over her capri pants, and then opened the door.

  Darla looked gorgeous as usual. She wore a blue sheath of shimmering satin laced with dancing crystal beads that spun and flew at the ends of their gossamer tethers whenever she moved. Everything the woman wore took on a new dimension of sexiness, it seemed to Maggie--even baggy corduroys and tent dresses---yet Darla always looked as fresh and sweet as if she'd just caught a bus from the Sisters of Mercy convent. Her hair settled about her shoulders in a golden penumbra of loose curls. Her facial features were fine and delicate except for a large full mouth. Crow's feet were already developing around her eyes--testimony to the intense concentration Darla tended to give even the mundane facets of her life. All in all, it was an intelligent face, Maggie thought. And a beautiful one.

  "Darla! Ages!" Maggie squealed. "Long time no!" They kissed and hugged, holding onto each other's elbows as they pulled back to get a better look.

  "You look wonderful, Maggie, and again, I'm so sorry about your sister."

  "Thanks, Darla, thank you. Hey, Gar."

  Gerry wore plain khaki slacks with a black knit polo shirt. Maggie found herself wondering with surprise how he was able to sport the tan that he did working the hours that he did. She'd never really noticed it before.

  "Where is he?" Gerry peered around the corner toward the kitchen.

  "Oh, God, you're not going to be a jerk tonight, are you?" Maggie turned to Darla, "He's not going to be a jerk tonight, is he?"

  "Don't be silly. Gerry? A jerk?" Darla feigned disbelief. "But seriously, Maggie, where is he?"

  "Not you too? He's in the kitchen." She leaned against the wall and raised her voice: "Laurent! Do you have a breaking point?"

  "You mean he hasn't found that with you yet?" Gerry’s eyes danced.

  Maggie rolled her eyes at him.

  "Laurent?" she called again.

  "Une moment, cherie."

  "Ohhhh, Maggie! You lucky creature! He calls you 'Cherie'!"

  "Oh, you girls are disgusting." Gerry put his hands in his pockets. "Can I just go in or are you going to make us get our hands stamped first?"

  "Yes, yes. Come in. He's in the kitchen doing tricky things with flour and beef juice and stuff."

  Maggie led the way to the dining room as Laurent was coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of white wine and four glasses in his hands.

  Gerry stuck out his hand, realized the impossibility of this, and, instead, shook Laurent's free elbow.

  "Hi, I'm Gerry. I guess you've heard a lot about me."

  "Enchantez," Laurent said, his eyes going quickly to Darla as he put the wine bottle down and reached for her hand. He smiled broadly. "Enchantez, Madame," he repeated to her.

  "Ooooh, me too, thank you. I'm Darla." Darla stretched out her hand to receive the glass of wine Laurent was pouring.

  Gerry appeared to be less impressed with Laurent than did Darla. He took his wine from Laurent and nodded his acceptance.

  "So, Maggie," he said, turning his back on the Frenchman, "how goes the police investigation?"

  "Not good." She ignored Laurent's look of disapproval and ushered their guests into the living room. "Come on in and sit down and I'll tell you a little about it. Are you just about finished in the kitchen, Laurent?" she called over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.

  They settled themselves in Maggie's tiny living room with its crazy-quilt collection of colored toss pillows and miniature hanging tapestries. The effect was still somehow clean, even spare, because of the frugality that Maggie had used in the number of wall hangings--and her determination to keep the walls unpainted and stark.

  "Okay," Maggie said. "I'll be brief because it's turning into a less-than-welcome subject in the house."

  "Oh?" Darla frowned. "How come?"

  "Oh, you know, it's sort of a depressing topic."

  Laurent entered the room, a glass of wine in his hand, but did not sit down. Instead, he leaned against the archway of the door leading into the living room. Gerry was aware that the man's decision to stand made him feel a little uncomfortable.

  "Maggie becomes unhappy when she is thinking of her sister's death," he said, watching Maggie with eyes full of care and protection.

  "It depresses me," Maggie agreed. "But I can't not do it, you know?"

  Darla nodded sympathetically.

  "I mean, I have to find out what happened and the police aren't doing anything--"

  "This is not true," Laurent protested.

  "All right, they're not doing enough for me." She shrugged and took a sip of her wine.

  "Gerry said you got a bad phone call last week, maybe from the killer?" Darla leaned forward on the couch toward Maggie.

  Maggie searched Laurent's face for any sign of irritation. There was none.

  "Yes, yes, I did. And I was so blown away by it that I didn't try to keep him on the phone or hear whatever else he had to say. I just hung up on him."

  "What did the cops say?" Gerry watched Laurent retreat into the kitchen.

  "Nothing, really. They asked me to describe his voice and what time he called and all, but that's it."

  "What did he say to you?" Darla asked.

  "Well, he, in essence... he told me I was next on his list, or how would I like to be next on his list? Something to that effect. I don't even remember exactly now. It freaked me out so much at the time."

  "But the police, they say it could be somebody who is simplement pretending." Laurent stood in the doorway once more. He looked at Darla for confirmation on his word choice. She nodded encouragingly. "Pretending to be the killer of Elise," he said. "Et maintenant, dinner," he finished, "she is served,"

  "Oh, yum." As Darla hopped up, the loose crystal beads of her dress danced wildly all in one movement, like an ocean wave crashing over her body. The beads made a shuss
hing noise like a beaded curtain in a clairvoyant's parlor.

  "So, it might not have been the killer who called you?" Gerry moved into the dining room with the others.

  "Well, it might not have been. That's true. Elise’s murder did get a fairly extensive write-up in the paper. The cops say that always attracts people to call up and say cheerful things to the surviving family. Sweet, huh? Please, sit, sit." Maggie indicated the empty chairs at the dining table and they all took their seats. She caught Laurent's eye as he approached from the kitchen carrying their dinner and he smiled at her. Lovingly, forgivingly.

  Gerry pushed his plate away and addressed Maggie.

  "Not bad. You're improving."

  She gave him a warning look.

  "I didn't make it. Laurent did."

  "Oh? My compliments to the chef." He smiled stiffly at Laurent.

  "Don't be an ass, Gerry," Darla said, her mouth full of Boeuf en Daube Provençale. "You knew Laurent cooked it. Dee-lish beef casserole, Laurent," she said to her host.

  "Je t’en prie," Laurent said simply, smiling at Darla.

  "And that soup!" Darla scooped up another spoonful of her Boeuf en Daube. "I need the recipe for that, although I'm sure it's impossibly hard. Can you microwave it? You know, make it up early and then freeze it?"

  "'Freeze it?" Laurent asked uncertainly.

  "Oh, never mind, keep it a secret from me. It makes it taste better."

  Laurent replenished all the wine glasses and then got up and returned moments later from the kitchen with a tray of sausage, cheeses, salad and thin slices of crespaou, a cold vegetable omelet smothered in tomato sauce and herbs.

  "Well, finally," Gerry said when Laurent set the tray down. "I was wondering when you people were going to finish feeding us."

  Darla gave him an amused look.

  "Yes, well..." Maggie laughed. "The French have definitely got the endless-food-thing under control. I told Laurent, I'm going to look like a German hausfrau very soon now. He thinks I'm joking."

  "Speaking of joking..." Darla slid a slice of crespaou onto her plate and helped herself to a thick wedge of Brie. "Has Gerry mentioned his plans to emigrate to the South Pacific?"