“What, bad, you mean she’s a brat?”
He wiped his mouth and reached for a cigarette. “Oui, a brat.”
“Poor Grace and Windsor. I wondered how come we hadn’t met the little darling yet. God, I hope she behaves on Thursday.”
“Not to worry, chérie,” Laurent said. “We have ferocious Petit-Four to make her mind!” Laurent growled for emphasis. Maggie grinned and then disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve the coffee and the apple tarts.
5
Jean-Luc picked up the knife and let it fall casually between his legs. It pierced the wooden chair beneath him. His rough and worn hand grasped the handle loosely and then flicked it again between his legs with a satisfying thunk.
“Must you do that?” Eduard Marceau said from where he stood on the large, shaded verandah at the front of his house. “Those benches came from Paris. If you don’t mind.”
Jean-Luc grunted and pulled the knife out of the wood. He held the knife between forefinger and thumb and looked at Marceau.
Eduard kept his eyes directed out to his fields and beyond. It was too cold to be really comfortable on the verandah, he knew, but he hated to bring the voleur Alexandre into his home with his wife if it could be avoided. He noticed the line of olive trees that separated his house from his vineyard. One of the olive trees was badly damaged from the fierce mistral wind that had visited them last week. Jean-Luc, noticing the destruction, had suggested that it had not been the mistral at all but just a bad wind blowing from the south. The man was un idiot. Eduard’s eyes turned, as they had for so many years now, to the land that adjoined his.
“Do you not want to know how much I offered him?” Jean-Luc asked as he pocketed the knife and brought out a tattered pack of Gauloises. “It was a serious offer.”
“If he refused it,” Marceau said, “it was not taken seriously.”
“Dernier insists he wants to run the place for a year.”
Marceau turned to watch Jean-Luc as the man blew out a great cloud of blue smoke. Jean-Luc wore his usual uniform of blue trousers and stained, dark blue shirt. His leather boots, although dusty, looked new.
“Does your offer expire at midnight?” Marceau asked sarcastically. “Can we not wait a year after so long?”
“He turned me down, Eduard,” Jean-Luc said flatly, smoking slowly, watching his companion through hooded eyes.
Marceau looked back out to the fields of his neighbor. “So, either he does not want to sell,” he said, “or he does not want to sell to you. Or the offer was not what he was hoping for.”
A thin vein of smoke wafted over to Marceau.
“I think he intends to stay,” Jean-Luc said. “I offered him more than I can pay. More than I know you are willing to pay.”
Marceau looked at him with disgust.
“And still,” Jean-Luc continued, sucking in his tobacco smoke until the small cigarette seemed to shrivel into a tube of empty paper. “Still, he refused.”
“He cannot stay,” Marceau said grimly, watching the smoke rise from the Dernier fireplace beyond the abutting vineyards of dark grays and heavier purples, the jutting forms of the depleted vines and their hanging wires ghostly and forbidding. They reminded him of the concentration camp, so many years ago. “He cannot be allowed to stay,” he said.
6
The next morning, Maggie got up early. She made a quick inspection of Petit-Four’s cardboard box at the foot of their bed to make sure there had been no mishaps during the night. She scooped up the little dog and settled it on their bed―to the mildly disapproving grunts of Laurent who was still in it. The poodle, a ball of gray and downy white fur, sat between their pillows, looking from Maggie to Laurent and back again.
“She likes you,” Maggie said, scratching the animal behind its ears.
“I am so pleased,” Laurent murmured to his pillow.
“And pretty soon, Petit,” she said, whispering close to its furry face, “you will be out of that nasty box and sleeping on the bed with us, yes? Comprends-tu, puppy?” She gave Laurent a mischievous look and he rewarded her by opening one eye for effect. She laughed, picked up the dog and left the bedroom to inspect the guest room.
She rearranged the bowl of fresh flowers and lavender by the bedside table, on what she hoped would be her mother’s side. Is it funny not to know on what side your mother and father sleep in bed? she wondered as she fluffed the bed pillows. She remembered early mornings of slipping into bed with both of them when she was a little girl. Perhaps they switched around as she and Laurent sometimes did? She felt herself blush to be comparing her and her lover’s sleeping habits with those of her parents. She plumped the stark white cotton duvet and settled the lace pillows into place and left the room.
Laurent was still shaving when she came in to take her shower. They had finally agreed that Laurent would pick up her parents and Nicole at the Marseille airport while Maggie stayed to attend to last minute details in preparation for their visit. She still hadn’t swept any of the rooms or beaten the few small rugs that would go in her parents’ room or made the positively prehistoric guest bathroom look like something other than a medieval chamber of hoses and nozzles and weird contraptions that drained instead of flushed.
She wanted everything to be perfect. Down to the welcoming bottle of iced Dom Perignon and the difficult little truffle pies that she had decided in a mad moment to make. Even Laurent had raised an eyebrow at that.
“Cassoulet au truffes?” he had said. “Pourquoi? It is not even truffle season.”
But it was too late now. She had imagined the picture of her folks entering the massive front door―golden light streaming into the side bar windows onto the yellow stones of the foyer―and her there, waiting, with a lace-cloth table display of china plates full of little miniature tartlets―all buttery brown on top―each with a mouthwatering nugget of truffle hidden inside.
She decided she was almost certainly mad.
As soon as she’d kissed Laurent good-bye, Maggie set about preparing her truffle tarts, figuring these, of everything else to be cooked, would be the most prone to accident or failure. It didn’t help her anxiety that Laurent had pointed out that, as a result of the large truffle per pastry, each tart cost just a little less than ten dollars a piece. Maggie cleaned and chopped the Chanterelles, distributed them evenly into six small earthenware dishes with butter and then wedged the precious truffle squarely in the middle of all of it. Petit-Four curled up contentedly on an old shirt of Laurent’s in a corner of the kitchen where she could keep her eye on Maggie and enjoy the smells of the kitchen.
Why are my nerves so bad? Maggie wondered, as she rolled out the puff pastry onto a large floured wooden board. Is it truffle-phobia? Or nervous anticipation? Carefully, she topped each of the little truffle dishes with a lid of rolled pastry and sealed the rims. Standing back from the cookie sheet upon which sat the six completed, unbaked tarts, she made a small sigh of relief. So far so good. She looked at the little dog, whose bright eyes smiled back at her immediately. She tossed it a piece of cheese Laurent had left from his breakfast.
The phone rang as Maggie was trying to decide what to do next―tackle the bathroom or start whacking rugs? It was Grace.
“Maggie, I’m about to wring the neck of one of God’s living creatures and I’m calling you for interference.”
Maggie laughed. “Oh, Grace, don’t tell me the dog’s not working out.”
“That woman deliberately gave me the bad one.” Maggie heard her speak away from the phone: “Mignon, stop it! Stop it!”
“Maybe it’s just high spirits―”
“I don’t care if it’s deep psychological miswiring. I don’t care if it’s grade one schizophrenia, why do I have to deal with it?”
“Does Taylor like it?”
There was a brief pause. “Well, actually, yes. Sort of. I think she respects the little monster. It’s kind of, like, she found something that’ll torment her worse than she can torment it, you know?”
“
Is that good?”
“Speaking as a harassed parent? Yes, that’s good.”
Maggie laughed again. “What did Windsor think of the dog when you brought it home?”
“He wept with real joy.”
“Really?”
“No. It was all I could do to get him not to have me rushed to Avignon for psychological testing. This is a wild animal here, Maggie. We’re not talking docile, little perfect puffball like you’ve got.”
Maggie looked down at Petit-Four, who had followed her quietly into the living room and was now settled at her feet.
“You know, Grace,” she said. “Some people really can’t stand to have a calm life. Did you ever think you might be one of those people?”
“Oh, for that I’m going to bring the dog as well as the child to dinner tomorrow. No mercy for you, pal!”
Maggie laughed, and after a few minutes, and a more precise determination of what Grace would be bringing to Thanksgiving dinner, they rang off. Maggie went upstairs to drag the rugs outside, the little dog scurrying to keep up with her. She reminded herself with a glance at the foyer clock that she would need some time to fix her hair and dress.
As she mounted the stairs, she mentally ticked off tomorrow’s guest list and menu. Thirteen for dinner, twelve if Jean-Luc bowed out as Laurent predicted he would. Then another dozen were invited after dinner for the dégustation of Laurent’s new wine. She knew he was a little nervous about it, probably all the more so after her own tepid response to the wine last night.
She scolded herself for not being more supportive. She knew the wine-tasting was important to Laurent, because, in his mind, it would help establish his reputation in the region as a wine producer. She wasn’t sure what the point was if they were only going to play wine makers for just another ten and a half months.
Maggie gathered up the rugs off the floor in her parents’ room and hurried back downstairs with them in her arms. She stepped out the French doors, careful not to let the puppy out. Petit-Four whimpered softly as it sat inside and watched her through the door pane.
As she stepped onto the terrace, Laurent’s two dogs greeted her enthusiastically, barking and jumping up on her legs. Nasty brutes are destroying our hedges, Maggie thought sourly as the dogs continued to jump up on her. She had left a heavy wooden stick which she used to beat rugs on one of the stone tables in the terrace the day before. But the bat wasn’t there now.
“Get down, you clods!” she said, pushing the dogs away with her hands and the rolled-up rugs. The nearly full-grown dogs were a mixed breed with long, curly brown hair. “Go!” she said ineffectively. “Sit!” They licked her hands and stepped on her feet. One dog crowded her knees until she thought she was going to fall backwards into the French door. “Damn it, dogs, buzz off!”
She could hear the sudden, fierce yapping of Petit-Four directly behind her. Struggling to push past the two hunting dogs, she turned to dump her armload of rugs onto the stone bench beside the terrace door. She caught her breath in a sudden, painful intake. Sitting on the bench was Gaston Lasalle. The missing club lay across his lap.
Chapter Six
1
The strong scents of rosemary, woodsmoke and lavender filled the air in the back garden. Maggie stood with her back to the French doors. Gaston Lasalle held the heavy stick in his large, capable hands. His face was flushed and angry, his small, lively eyes, boring straight through her.
The dogs loped off to the hole in the hedge of the garden that led to the vineyards.
“Get out of here,” Maggie said.
“Or what, you stupid bitch?” Lasalle sneered, lifting the stick threateningly. Maggie backed away against the French doors. She was aware of Petit-Four’s frantic yapping and scraping on the other side of the door. “You will be telling your husband?” he taunted. His English was pocked with hard ‘g’s ending most words.
“He will be very angry. We have no more work for you,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “You must go away now.”
“Oh, yes?” Gaston tossed the stick down on the stone table and casually sat down. “Your husband was not angry before, hein?" The dark gypsy made an obscene cupping motion to remind Maggie of their earlier run-in. “He still shakes my hand in the street, Madame,” he said. “Perhaps he will thank Gaston to make love with you, eh?” He stood up and leaned toward Maggie. “Perhaps he will pay me to do it?”
“If you touch me, you will go to jail for a very long time, maybe forever,” she said. “I am an American citizen. My consulate will see you get the guillotine!” Maggie turned and grabbed the door handle behind her. Gaston leaped up and slammed his hand against the door before she could open it.
Maggie kept her hand on the door handle. “I know who you are,” she blurted out. Instantly, she wasn’t sure whether that had been a wise thing to say. Lasalle’s face hardened and he leaned against the door, putting her face between his arms and almost touching her nose with his.
“I am who, Madame?” His voice was soft, nearly gentle. “A gitane, oui? A gypsy who your husband has invited to share wine with his family tomorrow. An honored guest of yours, Madame.”
“You’re lying,” she croaked, intimidated and stunned.
"Non."
“My hus...he would not have you in our house.”
“Non?" The gypsy pushed himself off the door and away from Maggie. Watching her as he backed away, he picked up the stick again and, in one quick swing, smashed to pieces the two small terra-cotta pots of geraniums that Maggie had set on the low garden wall. She retreated inside and locked the doors behind her.
“Until then, Madame,” Lasalle shouted to her through the windows. He tossed down the stick and hopped easily over the low stonewall. Maggie watched him disappear into the mist.
Without taking her eyes off the garden where Lasalle had stood only seconds before, Maggie knelt to the floor and took the still-yapping puppy into her arms. As she soothed the dog and allowed it, with its licking and nuzzling, to soothe her, her eyes fell on the orange shards of broken terra-cotta. The black soil was scattered like a freshly dug grave, the geranium stems and blooms shooting out from it at unnatural angles.
What had Lasalle wanted? she wondered in bewilderment. Had Laurent really invited him to the dégustation tomorrow after their family Thanksgiving Day dinner? She ran her fingers through the small dog’s fur, combing it as if to straighten each curl. She continued to stare out the French door as if expecting Lasalle to reappear. She could see where the door panel was smudged and foggy from Petit-Four’s earlier protestations.
Was he trying to scare her? She looked at little Petit-Four who was staring up at her with large eyes. Why? she asked herself. Why me?
She took a deep breath, kissed the dog on its topknot of curls and placed it on the couch. She stood up and walked to the phone. Carefully, she picked up the receiver, wondering what kind of police response a village the size of St-Buvard would have. Surely, it didn’t rate its own gendarmerie? But even if it did, was she willing to ruin her parent’s visit by having a squad of the local fuzz sitting around munching truffle pie and asking her to describe her assailant? No, this wasn’t a matter for the police, she decided, as she dialed.
By the time Grace answered on the third ring, Maggie had convinced herself that it hadn’t really been much of an assault at all.
2
Elspeth Newberry looked like she belonged in the sunniest part of Provence, the part where the light was brilliant. Artists would love the gentle planes of her face, Maggie thought, as she sat opposite her mother. Elspeth’s hazel eyes were intelligent and knowing. Her thick, auburn hair, cut just to her ears, framed her face exquisitely. To be this beautiful at seventy-three, Maggie knew, was a legacy of her mother’s family. Her older sister, Elise, had rivaled their mother’s beauty. If Elise had lived, Maggie found herself thinking with surprise, she would be like Mother. Surprising, Maggie thought as she watched her beautiful, poised mother, because Elspeth and Elise were c
ompletely antipodal in nature.
Her parents had arrived before Maggie had time to sufficiently blow dry her long hair, so she had tucked two combs on either side of her face and let it dry down her back. After all the initial flurry of kisses and hugs and good-natured reminders to one another that they’d just seen each other less than two months ago, Maggie ushered the group into the living room while Laurent carried their bags upstairs. Nicole, Elise’s daughter, seemed particularly delighted to be in France.
“It’s wonderful, Aunt Maggie,” the little girl said. “We ate hot chocolate and croissants and jam and then Poppa let me see the movie and play with the headphones...”
“Was it a good flight?” Maggie asked her parents as she wrapped her arms around her enthusiastic niece. “This one enjoyed it, I think.”
John Newberry took his wife’s hand from where he was seated on the couch and nodded his head. “She slept most of the time,” he said, a playful smile tugging at his lips.
“I did not!” Nicole pulled back from Maggie and shook a finger at her grandfather. “Poppa, you know I didn’t!”
“Oh, maybe it was me who slept most of the time,” John said.
“Your house is wonderful, Laurent,” Elspeth said as Laurent reappeared. “Quite the château!"
Laurent shrugged but Maggie could see he was pleased. “It is only a farmhouse,” he said, waving his hand toward the rough plastered stonewalls. “A mas."
“And Maggie, you’ve really made it a home,” Elspeth said as she examined one of the original watercolors Maggie had picked up with Grace at an art festival in Arles. Tall oak bookcases flanked the French doors. Maggie had filled them with books and momentos from Atlanta and her week in Paris with Laurent before they had arrived in St-Buvard. A Sheffield candlestick, found by Grace in one of their Saturday morning trips to the Avignon flea market, had been turned into a lamp. Four heavy chairs, mismatched in damask and cotton fabrics of blue and rose and ochre, crowded the large couch that faced the enormous fireplace. Maggie had piled pillows from Lyons and Paris in all the chairs, pillows in colorful cottons, braided and tasseled and fringed. Every side table and coffee table held at least one vase of flowers from the Aix flower market―roses, petunias, zinnias, sunflowers. A worn, but still regal, Oriental rug stretched from the kitchen to the French doors.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 41
