The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Oh, Windsor!” Grace said in dismay. “You’re making a mess.” She looked up at Maggie and her eyes were unhappy and tired. “I’m sorry, Maggie. We’d probably better call it a night.”

  “That’s okay,” Maggie said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I guess it’s getting sort of late anyway.”

  “It’s only eleven o’clock!” Connor protested.

  Laurent was sitting back in his chair, his arm draped gracefully over the back of Maggie’s chair. He smoked and watched Connor.

  “Can’t we put him to bed somewhere?” Connor asked, looking at Maggie and raising his eyebrows. “Maybe? Or, hell, we could throw him in the backseat of the car...? Gracie?”

  “Don’t call me that, Connor, “ she said testily. “And I’m not throwing him in the backseat―”

  “Grace, if you want,” Maggie said, “he could take a little rest on the couch. It’s just in the living room...”

  “What a novel place to hide a couch.” Connor jumped up to catch Windsor under the arms in order to maneuver him into the other room. Maggie realized with surprise that, for no good reason that she could think of, she had been a little annoyed with Connor all night.

  “Laurent, can you help, please?” she asked.

  “I’ll take one side, Laurent,” Connor said. Maggie was struck by the fact that this was the first time she had ever heard Connor call Laurent by his name. They carried Windsor into the house. Grace watched with concern until the doors shut behind them. She sighed and lit up another cigarette. Laurent and Connor, after settling poor Windsor down on the couch, retired to the kitchen for Calvados. Maggie felt some relief and wondered why.

  “Don’t worry about him, Grace,” she said, smiling.

  Grace waved away a wisp of blue smoke and Maggie’s concern.

  “I’m not, I’m not,” she said. “He never does this sort of thing. Really.”

  Maggie pulled her chair closer to Grace’s and picked up a lighted cigarette from the ashtray.

  “You don’t smoke, do you?” Grace asked, frowning.

  “No, and I wish Laurent wouldn’t either.” Maggie held up the cigarette between two fingers and waved it as if she were about to bring it to her lips. “It can look sort of romantic though. When you do it, for example.”

  “I hate the things,” Grace said, looking at her own cigarette. “I’m incapable of quitting, though. I am sorry about tonight, Maggie.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Maggie looked at her with surprise. “Nothing happened.” she asked. “Windsor fell asleep...”

  “He got drunk.”

  “Sometimes Laurent does that,” Maggie lied.

  “I cannot imagine that.” Grace turned her glance briefly in the direction of the kitchen. “Monsieur Self-control? Not possible.”

  “Oh, he has his moments, believe me.” Maggie put down the cigarette. “You think Laurent is pretty flat, I guess, huh? Sort of, nonemotional?”

  “You could say that!” Grace laughed and touched Maggie’s arm. “But he’s gorgeous, Maggie, and that accent of his positively makes me damp, I am serious! Don’t you dare tell him I said that!”

  They both laughed. Grace’s annoyance with Windsor seemed to dissipate, the tension easing out of the moment like air escaping from a balloon.

  “Windsor and I are trying to get pregnant again,” Grace said, and sucked hard on her cigarette.

  “A sister or brother for Taylor?” Maggie asked cheerfully, not wanting to give away the game of already knowing.

  “Did you know Taylor plays the piano?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “No, I mean, she plays―like a miniature Mozart. She’s got a gift. God knows she didn’t get it from me or Win.” Grace stared out across the blackness that was Laurent’s vineyard. “She’s a brilliant musician and no one’s really sure how it happened.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow.” Grace shook herself out of her dreamy stare and smiled at Maggie. “Still a little pain in the butt too much of the time. But brilliant.”

  “So, you’re going for the rest of the orchestra, huh?”

  “We have gone through nearly three years of infertility, Maggie.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  “You don’t know what I mean, do you?”

  “I know it’s sometimes hard to conceive when you want to,” she said, pulling her demitasse toward her and pointing to the espresso pot.

  Grace shook her head. She crushed out her cigarette and shook the last one out of her pack. She twisted the empty package before lighting up.

  “What it means is a lot of tests and shots and drugs and trips to the doctor. It means wanting to kill yourself every time your period rolls around and, instead of morning sickness, you’re in bed with cramps again. It means having sex with your husband on a schedule―not when you feel like it. It means crying every time you see a pregnant woman or a little baby. And panicking instead of celebrating every birthday and not taking vacations because you’re afraid to miss a cycle of treatment.”

  Grace took a big breath and Maggie could see her hand was shaking. “Anyway,” she said, looking up at Maggie and smiling, “today’s the day, you know?”

  “‘The day’?”

  “I ovulated today. It’s my window of opportunity. Lucky me, n’est-ce pas?"

  “Oh.” And Windsor is passed out drunk on the couch in my living room. “Oh, Grace,” Maggie said, “is the window really that small?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Grace said bitterly, watching the glowing ember on the tip of her cigarette.

  Chapter Five

  1

  Late November came to St-Buvard in the form of a rude stretch of icy weather. Mornings left a halo of cold fog over the vineyards, the mist rising up in clouds as if the ground itself were gasping. The barking of far-off farm dogs would break the frigid air and echo down the valley away from the hilltop village. There was a definite scent of decay in the air that mingled with the thin curls of blue smoke from the village chimneys.

  Maggie had spent the two weeks since the dinner party concentrating on preparations for the Thanksgiving visit of her parents and niece, who were due to arrive in two days. Consumed with decorating their large, and now, it had become evident, drafty, mas, she had seen very little of Grace or Windsor or Connor. Except for almost daily phone calls and the occasional hurried lunch at Le Canard, Maggie had seen more of Madame Renoir at the boulangerie than she had of Grace.

  Laurent was earnestly involved in the production of his own wine label. More than a few times, Maggie had brought a plate of sandwiches down to him and Jean-Luc in the cave where they spent their afternoons conferring and testing the young wine.

  The afternoon was cold and wet, the sky a wash of bleakest slate-gray, as Maggie made ham and cheese sandwiches with fresh, fragrant slices of Madame Renoir’s excellent bread and aîoli, the area’s rich garlic spread. She heard Laurent and Jean-Luc’s heavy boots on the old wooden stairs as they ascended to the kitchen from the cave. Maggie wiped her hands against her jeans and checked her makeup.

  “Oh, chérie,” Laurent said, his eyes brightening when he saw her. “We will come to the table like civilized men, hein?” His dark blue pullover strained against his broad chest as he ran a hand through his hair.

  Jean-Luc removed his rag cap and nodded at Maggie. He smiled his ruined smile and tucked his big, farmer’s hands under his armpits as if sorry he’d brought them along.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said.

  “Finished for the day?” Maggie asked hopefully as Laurent pulled a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the cupboard above her head.

  “Mais, non, Madame!” Jean-Luc said, clucking his tongue as if Maggie had made a bad joke. “There is much to making a good wine, yes? Only the best grapes are employed.”

  Maggie carried the plate of sandwiches to the table while Laurent brought the bottle and three glasses.

  “You are hand
-sorting through a hundred bushels of grapes?” She thumped the sandwiches down on the table and looked at Laurent with incredulity.

  He shook his head. “No, but mon oncle has planted several different varieties, n’est-ce pas?”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “Non, non, not bad,” Jean-Luc said, seating himself at the table. “It will make for a wine formidable!” He kissed two of his fingers. “Grenache et Cinsault et―-”

  “Grenache?” Maggie accepted a glass of wine from Laurent. “You mean like that pink stuff you won’t allow in the house back home?”

  “C’est différent, Maggie, “ Laurent said, a smile edging his full lips.

  “God, don’t tell me you’re going to embarrass me to my friends back home.” She affected an imaginary conversation, “Oh, the wine we make? I guess you could say it’s sort of a French Mad-Dog 20-20.”

  “‘Mad Dog’?” Jean-Luc looked up questioning to Laurent who shook his head at the older man.

  “Ce ne fait rien,” Laurent said to him. “L’humour américain.”

  “I understood that!” Maggie gave Laurent a playful jab.

  “The Grenache we make will be totalement différent,” Laurent said as he reached for a sandwich.

  “Well, why’s it taking so long? You’ve got crushers and stuff, right? Just squeeze all the juice out―”

  “And we will have le bon jus de raisin,” Laurent said, matter-of-factly.

  “Grape juice,” Maggie said.

  “Very good, chérie!” Laurent patted her hand.

  “The juice, she is squeezed.” Jean-Luc pressed his hands together, crumbs clinging to his mustache. “This is already done.”

  Maggie nibbled at her own sandwich and smiled politely at Jean-Luc. “And now?” she asked. “Now that the juice, she is squeezed?”

  “Maggie.” Laurent’s voice was low and admonishing. She didn’t look at him.

  “It must be fermented, bien sûr,” the older man said, as if every one must surely know this.

  “Will we or won’t we have our own wine to serve when my parents get here?” Maggie asked Laurent.

  “Bien sûr,” he responded. “We still have to acquire more bottles, eh?” He looked at Jean-Luc, who nodded solemnly. “The heavy, dark ones,” he explained to Maggie. “They are the best. And more wooden wine racks, although Bernard said he would make some at a reasonable price for us. And we don’t have enough corks. The cork is very important, tu sais. Did you know that Jean-Luc has wine in his cave over a hundred years old? Wine of his father. These sandwiches are really very good, Maggie. Ainsi,” he said, “we have some ready to drink for Thanksgiving, yes. And some that are, even now, maturing in the vats below.”

  “Those are the best ones, right?” Maggie asked.

  “We shall see,” Laurent said, pouring himself another glass of the Cabernet. “Peut-être.“

  “What about your own wine, Jean-Luc?” Maggie asked, pushing the platter of sandwiches toward him when she saw he’d easily finished the two on his plate. “Are they all finished?”

  “Ahh, Madame,” Jean-Luc said, eagerly accepting two more sandwiches. “I am with the cave co-op, n’est-ce pas? The wine is being made now.”

  “What, exactly, is this co-op?” Maggie leaned back in her chair with her wine glass. “Like, all the grapes from everyone are all bunged into a big vat together? And whatever wine is made, is everybody’s wine?”

  “Exactement.” Jean-Luc chewed happily.

  “Wow, so, it really is sort of special that you make your own wine.” Maggie directed this to Laurent.

  “I have been trying to tell you this,” Laurent said. “Fini, Jean-Luc?” he asked, as he stood up.

  “Laurent, you can see that he’s not.”

  Jean-Luc stood up with Laurent, his mouth bulging with one sandwich, the other clutched in a weathered, red hand.

  “C’est magnifique, Madame. Merci,” Jean-Luc said in a muffled voice.

  “You’re welcome, Jean-Luc,” Maggie said with a sigh. “Je vous en prie. “

  “Très bien, Madame!” Jean-Luc said enthusiastically at hearing her French. Then, he and Laurent headed for the kitchen and the basement door.

  “You are going out, chérie?” Laurent called over his shoulder to her.

  Maggie followed them out of the dining room, aware that her lover had not waited for her answer. When the narrow kitchen door leading to the basement and its collection of fermenting liquids and calmly maturing wine had slammed solemnly shut behind them, she gathered up the empty glasses and dishes onto a tray and carried it back to the kitchen.

  “It’s not that I’m bored, exactly, that’s not it at all,” Maggie said into the phone receiver as she pulled a wool afghan closer around her. The fire in the massive living room fireplace was still alive, but barely. From where she sat on the couch, she could see the wind slapping the bare branches of the apple tree outside against the French doors. “I mean, my folks will be here in two days and I haven’t even begun cleaning the place. And I still haven’t got a confirmation on the turkey―”

  “You sure I can’t do anything to help? I’m really good at this sort of thing, Maggie. Organizing and buying things.” Grace laughed merrily on the other end of the line.

  “No, I know you’re busy right now, Grace, besides―”

  “I’m not that busy, darling! Really. Let me―”

  “I mean, he’s down there in the dark fiddling with his grapes and foamy vats and stuff like some bloody mole― coming up only to eat sandwiches and I’m running all over a thirteenth century village trying to find cranberry sauce!”

  Grace laughed. “Listen, Maggie, I absolutely insist you stop being Madame Must-Do-It-All-Herself and let me pick you up and take you to Aix today. We’ll find a turkey, we’ll find cranberry relish, we’ll have a tall glass of something wicked, and we’ll leave the moles in the basement to their grape-squishing. Yeah?”

  “You’re a peach, Grace.”

  “Yeah. C’est moi. Une pêche. Pick you up in an hour.”

  2

  The girl arched her back, the swell of her tummy protruding, not unattractively, it seemed to Connor, as he stood by the window and watched her. Babette was completely nude and appeared to be unashamed of it―even in contrast to the fact that Connor was fully clothed. It was cold and wet outside but the renovated and luxurious farmhouse was cozy and snug. For as much time as he spent out of his clothes, Connor thought with a smile, central heating was imperative.

  He continued to watch Babette as she stretched. Her breasts were heavy against her thin rib cage, the veins prominent and blue like rivers on a road map. Her hair hung reddish-gold to her waist. She pushed it over her shoulder to expose even more of her breasts.

  Connor sighed. She wouldn’t age well, he feared. Already, the harsh lines of frowning marked her lovely face. That pert nose will grow too, he decided, no matter how many years she keeps it upturned in that haughty glower of hers. Why do I always pick mean-spirited women? he wondered, as he directed his gaze back to the mound of unshapen clay on his stand.

  “Dépêche-toi,” Babette said, her brows knitted together in a fierce look of petulance. She rubbed the sides of her arms as if she were chilled.

  “I can’t hurry, my love,” Connor said, poking tentatively at the three-foot form of clay. “This sort of thing takes time.” He smiled at her almost fondly. “You understood that concept well enough an hour ago.”

  “Don’t be dirty,” Babette said, jumping up from the rumpled bed and grabbing her robe.

  “Oh, Babette, what are you...?” He watched with disappointment as she tied her robe firmly around her.

  “I will go,” she said as she picked up her shoes and skirt from the inlaid tile floor.

  “Why?” Connor dropped his hands to his side in exasperation. “Because I don’t want to spend all day lolling around in bed?”

  “You are a pig,” she said, roughly pulling on her dark stockings. “My father says he will cut
your heart out and bake it for his casse-croûte! “

  “I guess that means you’ve broken the happy news.” Connor tossed down his sculpting implements and walked over to her. He tried to take her hands in his but she pushed him away.

  “Why won’t you let me help you?” he asked. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “And how could it be?” She looked up at him and he caught a fleeting, painful flash of a little girl looking back at him. Nineteen years old going on twelve, he thought to himself.

  She recovered quickly.

  “I will kill the baby, and then you and I will continue to make love. But my father will live with this shame for always. Toujours.

  “You didn’t have to tell him, you know.” Connor ran a hand through his hair. “We could’ve taken care of this,” he pointed at her stomach. “And gone on like nothing―”

  “And your whore, Lydie?” The girl jumped up and pulled her heavy sweater on over her head. “And the little school girl, Denise? I have seen you with her near l’école des filles. She is not even sixteen years old.”

  Connor licked his lips. “You knew about Lydie before you came today,” he reminded her. “It didn’t seem to stand much in your way an hour ago―”

  “Don’t forget petite Denise,” Babette said with a sneer.

  “Look, what do you want from me? Huh? Money?” He jumped up and strode to the desk tucked under the eaves in his small bedroom. He snatched up his wallet and pulled out a five hundred franc note. “Is this enough? More?” He wagged the note in the air.

  Babette stared at him for a moment, then smoothed out the creases in her snug, turquoise-colored skirt. She approached him, her eyes constantly on his own, and carefully took the money from his hand. She tucked the note into the wrist of her pullover.

  “It’s a start, mon cher, “ she said, her lips curling away from her small, already yellowing teeth. “From now on, when you want Babette, you must pay.”

  Connor almost felt like laughing. And shall the price go up, my sweet? he felt like asking, when there is soon more of you to love? The girl must be loony!