The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “It’s mostly our wit that does that,” Connor said. “But, yes, sometimes our very presence can do it too.”

  “When Grace said we were eating al dente..." Windsor said, waving the two large lanterns in the air.

  “Windsor, that’s a term for spaghetti,” Grace laughed. “What you mean―-”

  “Look, whatever,” Windsor said to Maggie. “When Grace said we were eating outside in November, I knew we’d need these.”

  “You’re a godsend,” Maggie said. “All of you, come around back.” She took Grace’s hands in her own and the women kissed, once on both cheeks, and beamed happily at each other. “Where’s Taylor? I thought you were bringing Taylor?”

  Connor kissed Maggie on the cheek. Both his hands held bottles of wine. “That’s the sad part of tonight’s tale,” he said, smiling.

  “She stayed in Aix,” Grace said. “She wanted to.”

  “And we wanted her to,” Windsor added brightly, to general laugher.

  “Sometimes she gets so tired,” Grace said, “and the drive home is really exhausting for her and―”

  “And besides, her nanny has the night off and it’s murder finding a local babysitter,” Windsor said. “Is this the way, then?” He forged ahead, holding the unlit lanterns up and away from clinging reaches of the overgrown rose bushes that nearly blocked the garden path.

  “I love what you’ve not done with the place,” Connor said, bringing up the rear. “In fact, I agree that too much weeding, clipping, pruning and general tending just makes a place look, you know, natty. “ He gave a dramatic shudder.

  Laurent was standing by the table when they emerged from the gauntlet of shrubbery onto the terrace.

  “Bonsoir, Laurent!” the friends called out. Laurent smiled broadly and lifted a champagne glass and a bottle in their direction.

  “Oh, goody!” Grace dropped her purse in a chair, keeping her cashmere cardigan buttoned snugly to her chin. She picked up a champagne glass from the table and held it out to Laurent. “This is what I call a hello!”

  Windsor fiddled with the lanterns while Connor walked immediately to the centerpiece and clapped his hands together.

  “Yes! Yes! It’s wonderful!” he said, and Maggie felt her face flush with the warmth and delight of her new friends. We don’t have this many good friends back in Atlanta, she had told Laurent the night before. As usual, he hadn’t committed to an opinion one way or the other, but facts were facts. They rarely entertained back home, or if they did, the occasion was related to Maggie’s work and not for pleasure.

  Windsor’s efforts were finally rewarded by first one and then the other lantern sputtering to life, their brightness flooding the dining area. He adjusted the wicks and positioned the lamps at opposite ends of the large table. Laurent excused himself to check on his ratatouille, and Maggie bustled about making sure everyone was warm and comfy and had a full glass.

  Connor alternately teased her and praised her as she flitted about her hostess duties.

  “Will you just sit down?” He crossed his long legs in front of him, barring her from adjusting the tablecloth again. “You’re going to make me feel like I should go in and see if the big guy needs any help, and you wouldn’t want me to do that, would you? I’m so comfortable just sitting here.”

  Laurent appeared with a large blue china crock full of pâté. He thumped it down next to a baguette and a basket of sesame crackers on the little table in front of Grace and Windsor where they sat on a stone lover’s bench.

  “Voila,” he said, wiping his hands on a white kitchen towel hanging from his belt. "Pâté de grive."

  “God, I love this stuff,” Grace said spooning into the dark spread with a small knife. “It looks great, Laurent.”

  Satisfied, Laurent disappeared back into the house.

  “The joys of owning your own French chef,” Maggie said, bringing a couple of small plates to Windsor and Grace. “What is it? It’s not foie gras?"

  “No, no, it’s better. You don’t know grive?" Windsor scooped up a dollop onto a cracker and poised it at Maggie’s mouth. “It’s thrush.”

  Maggie deposited the plates on the tablecloth with a thump. “Thrush?” she said incredulously.

  Connor ambled over with his own plate.

  “You guys eating songbirds again? Leave some for me. Tweet-tweet.”

  Grace laughed. “Don’t be a goose, Maggie. Oh!” She turned to Windsor and laughed again. “Am I drunk already? I just made a joke.”

  Windsor reclaimed his cracker. “How is it you don’t have a problem with goose liver, Maggie, but you do with thrush? Thrush is―”

  “Oh, it’s revolting!” Maggie said to hoots of laugher from the others.

  Laurent poked his head out of the French doors, a glass of champagne in his hand. “I see Maggie has sampled the pâté, n’est-ce pas?" This set them off even more.

  “Hilarious, y’all, just really―” Maggie said, smiling good-naturedly.

  “My God! It’s true!” Connor grabbed at his heart as if it had suddenly stopped. “She really does say ‘y’all’!”

  “Why did we invite these people here, Laurent?” Maggie turned to Laurent still standing in the doorway.

  He smiled. “They have not had enough champagne, is the problem,” he said.

  “God, I love a Frenchman’s answer to everything, you know?” Connor got up to get the champagne bottle from the table and refilled everyone’s glass. “The answer―no matter what the question―is almost always ‘more champagne.’ A charming country, really.”

  Laurent joined them on the terrace. “Maggie thinks so,” he said, allowing Connor to fill his glass. “She enjoys the charm of the people of St-Buvard so much, she calls them ‘peasants.’“

  “No!” Connor whirled on Maggie, a grin across his face.

  “Is that wrong?” Maggie looked at Windsor and Grace. “Oh, dear. Is saying ‘villagers’ better?”

  Connor nodded thoughtfully. “You mean like: ‘the villagers tracked the monster to the river...’”

  Everyone laughed.

  “All right, all right, I get the point...” Maggie said, grinning.

  Connor took a sip of his champagne and winked at Laurent. “Hey, Maggie, I’m not sure, but I think I know now why making friends in town has been a little slow for you...”

  “Ha ha, très funny.”

  Laurent put his arm around Maggie and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. Maggie was wearing an oversized blue silk blouse cinched at the waist over black linen slacks. Her hair draped down her back with a section of curls caught up in a silver barrette.

  “Oh, not to tease poor Maggie,” Laurent said. “She is being wonderful. Her French is much improved, do you not think so?”

  Connor settled himself on the arm of an old wooden deck chair. “Say something, Maggie,” he urged.

  “Buzz-ay off-ay,” she replied sweetly.

  “No, come on, Maggie,” Connor wheedled. “We’re your friends and we’re just trying to help you.”

  “Parles! Parles!" Windsor and Grace began to chant. Speak! Speak! Connor joined in.

  Maggie turned to Laurent. “Thank you, darling. A very much lot, okay? Don’t you have sauces to burn in la cuisine?"

  "Il n’est pas trop diffiçile!" Connor said, polishing off his wine and eyeing the bottle again.

  “Yeah, well if I had a pot of money that let me do nothing but study French all day long, I guess my French would be pretty good too―”

  “It’s true,” Connor said, his eyes crinkled in a grin. “And that’s just what I do all day long too.”

  Again, everyone laughed.

  “You know, Connor,” Maggie said, “speaking of what you do? I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Shoot, O Curious One.”

  “No, in the kitchen.” She smiled at him with challenge and mischief in her eyes. “Laurent, is there something we can do for you in there? Toss the salad? Put pickles on a plate?”

  Laurent looked
at his watch and seemed to be calculating the timing of his courses. “I suppose if you promised not to touch anything. That would be a help,” he said.

  Maggie ushered Connor through the French doors and into the living room.

  “Wow,” he said, looking around the huge room. “Square dancing next time? Or is shuffleboard your game?”

  “I know,” she said, still prodding him onward. “It’s huge, isn’t it?”

  Connor sighed and allowed himself to be directed. “That’s what all the girls say,” he said, as he walked through the living room to the warm glow of the kitchen.

  “God, do you ever let up?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Once in the kitchen, Maggie reached for another bottle of champagne and handed it to Connor.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s all this about you getting a local girl pregnant?”

  “God! What is the man cooking?” Connor held the champagne bottle tightly between two thumbs to force the cork out while he craned his neck to see inside the unlidded pots bubbling away on the stove. “It smells like heaven on a plate. Like ambrosia from the gods, like―”

  “Yes, yes, very tasty. Now, seriously, Connor, I know we don’t know each other very―”

  “Don’t know each other?” The champagne bottle made a muted pop as he eased the cork out of it. Maggie held out two champagne glasses. “We’re fellow Americans, right?” he said. “We’re both from the eastern seaboard, right?”

  “Okay, well, then, what is all this about―”

  “God, Grace cannot keep her mouth shut, you know? I love her to death but the woman must broadcast.” He poured both their glasses and looked at her.

  “Well, you know, Connor, it was Lydie that really started the beans slipping out of the jar.”

  He set the champagne bottle down and sighed. Both he and Maggie could hear the sounds of more laughter coming from the terrace. Maggie wondered who was being witty.

  “It was just one of those things, you know?”

  “Babette was, you mean?”

  Connor took a long drink and then nodded. “She’s cute as a button, have you seen her?”

  “Connor, you said yourself. This sort of thing just isn’t on in a town of this size, out here in the hinterlands.”

  “I know, I know.” He wiped a pearl of condensation from his glass. “I feel bad about it.” He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Jesus, Maggie, you’re not suggesting I marry the girl?”

  “I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” Maggie said truthfully. She regarded Connor carefully. “Have you talked to her?” she asked.

  “I’ve offered her money, I’ve offered to take her to Aix to have an abortion, I’ve...I’ve even offered to talk to her father, although, I must say, I thought that was above and beyond.”

  “You’d rather pay her off.”

  “And I feel bad about that!” Connor held up his hands, his champagne glass held in one. “But what can I do? I mean, she’s a nice girl and all and I feel like a rat, okay? Putting her in this spot. But what can I do?"

  Maggie frowned. “You have a responsibility, Connor.”

  “I very much care about this. I do.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I care about my actions,” he said. “And about what you and Laurent think of me.”

  “We like you,” she said.

  “I’m glad. I like you guys, too.” He grinned and reached for the champagne bottle. She declined, indicating her full glass.

  “What’s really awful,” Connor said, “is Grace knowing about this, what with what’s happening with her and Windsor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought she might have told you. She adores you.”

  “I think she’s wonderful, too.”

  “Well, about me getting Babette pregnant and all when she and Win are trying everything they can to get pregnant.”

  Maggie stood watching him.

  “She hadn’t said anything to you?” Connor asked.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “Yeah, it’s kinda tough.” Connor leaned against the counter and sighed. “I got my information from Windsor, not Grace. It’s been really hard on both of them.”

  “Do they know what the problem is?”

  “I guess all the tests say that there is no problem. She’s normal, he’s normal...”

  “And they can obviously produce children, right? I mean, there’s Taylor.”

  “One would assume. Listen, if you’ve finished grilling me about the fair Babette…?” He motioned toward the terrace with his champagne glass and smiled winningly. “Only, muss up your hair a little, will you? It’s my reputation, you see...”

  “Get outta here.” Maggie pushed past him good-naturedly and led the way back to the group outside.

  “Laurent won’t mind,” Connor protested. “He’s French. He expects this sort of thing to go on in his own kitchen.”

  “What has gone on in my kitchen? You touched nothing?” Laurent said as he met them in the living room on his way back into the kitchen. He wagged a big finger at the both of them.

  “Oh, Laurent, I’m sorry,” Maggie said, patting his arm as she walked on through. “We just added a wee bit of Worcestershire sauce to the roue. We both agreed it’s much improved.”

  “And I doctored up those little puff-ball things you had sittin’ there,” Connor added happily. “You’d left the grape jelly out, big guy. Easy mistake to make.”

  Laurent rolled his eyes at them both and turned back toward the kitchen as Maggie and Connor rejoined Grace and Windsor on the terrace. Once outside, Connor immediately went over to Grace and nestled beside her.

  “Have a nice little chat, did you?” Grace said, eyeing them both curiously.

  “Maggie wanted to make sure I wasn’t a total cretin by getting the baker girl pregnant,” Connor said, poking a finger into the empty pâté crock.

  “And did he convince you?” Grace asked brightly, turning in Maggie’s direction.

  “Well, yes, actually he did,” Maggie said, as she settled down on a small stone bench opposite the three. “And I agree, a small wedding service will be best under the circumstances. Nothing too noisy that might call too much attention to―”

  “You’re kidding.” Grace’s mouth fell open. Maggie struggled to keep her own face serious.

  “Windsor, take this woman home,” Connor said, jabbing Windsor on the shoulder. “She’s hopelessly drunk.”

  “You are kidding,” Grace said, her face falling into a sheepish grin.

  “She’s kidding,” Connor said, smiling. “So listen, what’s happening on the dinner front?” He leaned over and snaked a cigarette from a pack that Grace had placed beside her on the bench. “Je suis starving, you-all.”

  “You are a man of many appetites,” Windsor said cryptically.

  “God, Windsor, you sounded just like Peter Lorre from Casablanca when you said that.” Connor lit his cigarette and twisted in his seat to look at Windsor. “And Grace said you had no talents.” He took a quick drag off his stolen cigarette and blew the smoke high in the air over everyone’s heads.

  “You’re feeling your Cheerios tonight, aren’t you?” Grace smiled at Connor but Maggie noticed something a little cool under the smile.

  “We’re all hungry,” Maggie said as she hopped up. “Let me see how close we are to the first course.” Windsor stood up to refill everyone’s wine glasses as Maggie went to join Laurent in the kitchen.

  She stood at the open door of the kitchen and watched her lover’s broad back as he worked deftly at the range. Quickly, he ladled up ratatouille into five small blue ramekins, then turned and saw Maggie watching him.

  “Bon," he said. “You can bring out the first bowls.”

  “Can I bring in the first kiss first?” she said stepping up to him, careful not to entangle with any whisks, spoons or other kitchen apparatus he might be connected to. She noticed the single bead of sweat marking
a line down his brow as he leaned over to kiss her fully on the mouth.

  The French, she thought with amusement, as he pulled away to resume his preparations. They don’t do anything half way when it comes to cooking or kissing.

  “We didn’t really put grape jelly in the d’agneau en croûte, “ she said as she carefully lifted the tray of steaming bowls.

  Laurent looked up from the bottle of Côtes du Rhône he was in the process of opening. “Je sais, chérie, " he said. I know. “Connor is a funny man, no?”

  “Pretty funny,” she said, watching his face closely.

  “But there is something not very funny under the joke, n’est-ce pas?" Laurent brought the cork out and held it up like an ill-shapen tooth extracted by a proud dentist. “Monsieur MacKenzie has, I think, a not very funny secret or two.” He turned his back on her to attend a bubbling pot. “Vas y, Maggie,” he said over his shoulder. “The stew is served hot tonight. Veuillez, vite, vite!"

  Maggie turned and hurried across the polished wooden floor of the living room to the glowing lights and laughter of the terrace. As she walked, she could hear Grace’s laugh, high and musical, floating in from among the hollyhocks and towering apple trees.

  “You’re kidding? You can afford a whole, complete house in Westwood? As in Westwood, Los Angeles? That’s where your other house is in the States?” Maggie pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and stood up over the table searching for a potholder.

  “Well, we’re rich,” Windsor said drunkenly.

  “Oh, Win, shut up.” Grace gave him a playful slap. “We are not rich.”

  “We are, too.” He looked sleepily up at Maggie who used the potholder to cover the heated handle on the espresso pot and was pouring their coffees.

  Dinner had taken a relaxing three hours to consume, punctuated with laughter and conversation that grew fuzzier yet somehow more interesting as the wine continued to pour. “At least, then, we’re really, really, really, really...” He looked at Grace with a dull, glazed expression “...comfortable.”

  “You certainly are, that’s clear,” Connor said sarcastically, regarding his friend’s inebriated state just as Windsor’s elbow refused to hold up his chin, which collapsed into the remnants of his créme brulée.