“The fact is,” Windsor said, as he pushed aside the small saucer of wedge-cut limes on the coffee table, “the kind of project Connor was talking about creating would have destroyed St-Buvard.” He looked over at Grace. “At least,” he added, “the St-Buvard we all know and love. What with parking lots and advertising and widening the roads and all―”
“He was going to build it on Domaine St-Buvard,” Maggie said, watching Windsor closely.
“Where else?” Windsor replied, leaning back into the couch that faced Maggie. “We were all told the new owner of Domaine St-Buvard was going to sell―at least, eventually. And it’s good land.” His eyes flicked again to Grace. “It’s much in demand,” he said. He looked back to Maggie. “What did you think? That Connor was going to somehow force you and Laurent off your own land?” He grinned at the absurdity of the thought.
Maggie shook her head and looked down tiredly at her drink.
“It’s just that Connor liked to flap his gums, you know?” Windsor continued. “And he flapped them in the direction of Eduard Marceau and half a dozen other villagers as they’d be sitting out at Le Canard or someplace until he was sure he’d stirred up a real hornet’s nest.”
“Why?” Maggie didn’t want to think of Connor this way.
Windsor’s look was mild. “Why would you say, my dear?” He turned to his wife.
Grace sighed and looked at Maggie with a weary smile. “Connor was just Connor,” she said enigmatically. “A scoundrel, a pain in the ass, a dear boy and a good friend.” She shrugged.
“What about Lydie and Connor’s will?”
Grace laughed. “And here I thought that woman had no imagination.”
“So you don’t think Connor put her in his will?”
“I guess he might have told her he had,” Grace admitted.
“But it’s bullshit.”
“Gee, Maggie, what do you think?”
All three of them laughed, the relief and pleasure of which was cut off by the ringing of the phone.
“God,” Grace said, getting up to answer it. “I hope Taylor hasn’t bitten anybody or tried to fry the cat again.”
She picked up the phone and listened, her face breaking into a smile before turning to look at Maggie.
“Well, I know someone who’ll be very happy to hear that, Laurent,” she said, gesturing for Maggie to come to the phone.
6
It was fantastic, really. Maggie hugged herself as she drove home.
Laurent was not only safe and sound, but home whipping up dinner and whistling a merry tune. He’d even asked her to stop by the village for cigarettes and bread on her way home. Maggie patted the little dog in her lap absently as she drove down the main street of St-Buvard and wondered how changed it would all have been if Connor had built his museum.
Windsor was probably correct, she thought. The village and its aloof charm would have been destroyed. It occurred to Maggie as she parked the car in front of the village tabac, that Windsor and Grace had a small stake, at least, in the museum not being built. Their half million dollar country retreat wouldn’t be much of a retreat after the traffic started to back up on the M-40 and was rerouted by their bedroom window.
The tabac was empty except for a pudgy, tattered Kris Kringle lookalike who was flipping through a Nice-Matin under the scowling eye of the proprietor―a dark-faced, little ferret of a man, possibly Algerian, thought Maggie. She reached the counter and asked for the cigarettes when she noticed a third person in the shop. Gaston Lasalle saw her as well and abruptly dropped the newspaper he’d been scanning behind the cartes postales carousel and slipped out the front door. Maggie noticed he limped, and a heavy bandage protected his right ear.
She bought the cigarettes and took her time getting the money out of her coin purse―to the annoyance of the tabac owner―in order to give Lasalle plenty of time to vacate the area. When she emerged onto the street, he was nowhere to be seen. Wondering if the remainder of her year was going to consist of trying to avoid Lasalle in public places, Maggie made her way down the narrow village street to the bakery. As usual, Madame Renoir had a generous exhibit of cakes and sugar-varnished buns in the window. Little fruit tarts and custard pies sat on wooden tiers, looking like luncheon-food for fairies. Beyond the array of sugary goodies, Maggie could see the big baker herself behind the counter. As usual, Madame Renoir’s face was florid, and she beckoned Maggie into the shop with what looked like not a little urgency.
As Maggie entered the shop, she could see that Madame Renoir was towering over young Babette, whose pregnancy, it seemed to Maggie, had lately begun to show. Babette sat huddled on a wooden chair against one wall of the shop, her hair draping down her face like a ragged curtain. She was crying.
Maggie suddenly wished bread hadn’t been on her list this evening. She didn’t want to become embroiled in whatever was happening between the two women. Madame Renoir gestured for Maggie to come closer.
“Oh, Madame Dernier!” Madame Renoir said unhappily, looking down at Babette, whose face was puffy and ugly with her tears. The baker patted the frail shoulders of the girl, raising vague puffs of flour in the air as she did so. The old baker looked woefully at Maggie. “The police have arrested Babette’s father.”
Chapter Eleven
1
Maggie nearly dropped her purse on the floor. Babette’s father killed Connor? She approached the two carefully.
“When did this happen?” she asked Madame Renoir.
Madame Renoir ignored the question.
“Poor Babette!” she said, shaking her gray head. “She loves her father very much.”
At this point, Babette began to screech: “Bâtard! Bâtard!” and shake her small, balled fists in the air in front of her, thoroughly upsetting poor Madame Renoir and unnerving Maggie.
As Maggie watched the fit progress and the screams of “bastard!” rise and fall and rise again in the small bakery, it occurred to Maggie that she wasn’t sure precisely to whom Babette was referring: Connor, Detective Bedard? Or her beloved papa?
“Madame Renoir,” Maggie spoke to Madame Renoir as she watched Babette. “What evidence do they have? Did he... he didn’t confess?”
Instantly, Babette leaped up and confronted Maggie.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she screamed.
Madame Renoir gathered the red-faced girl into her beefy arms and lifted Babette off her feet. Without a word to Maggie, Madame Renoir carried the limp Babette, sobbing anew, to the back room.
Within seconds, she returned and closed the backroom door behind her. She shook her head at Maggie and looked as if she were quite disappointed in Maggie’s behavior.
“Babette has the terrible shock,” she said, as if speaking to a bad child. “Her papa is in jail―”
“Oui, Madame, je sais,” Maggie said impatiently. “But if he really did it then that is where he should be, n’est-ce pas?” She knew it sounded harsh, surprising even herself at her lack of sympathy.
Madame Renoir opened and closed her large owl-like eyes and shook her head morosely at Maggie. Babette was her employee, her charge, perhaps even her friend, although Maggie had never seen much evidence of that before today. In fact, up until Bernard Delacore was dragged off in handcuffs, Madame Renoir had lately acted quite sourly toward young Babette. Maggie had assumed this had been an attempt to register her disappointment over the girl’s disgraceful condition.
“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, Madame Dernier?” What would you like, Madame? The baker spoke formally, moving once more behind her counter and smoothing her large apron down over her round tummy.
Oh, great. Now I’ve pissed off the old dear. “Tiens, Madame,” Maggie said. “I don’t mean to upset you. If there’s anything I can do to help Babette. Anything Monsieur Dernier or I can do...”
“Merci, Maggie,” Madame Renoir said, reaching out to pat her hand. “It is Babette’s father who needs our prayers and our aid maintenant.”
2
“They’ve arrested Bernard,” she said, no expression creasing her bland features.
Eduard looked up, blinking, trying to assimilate this twist of events. “Bernard?” he asked, looking out the large picture window in the dining room that gave the best view of his vineyards. His eyes rested, unseeingly, on the bleak, spindly rows of depleted grapevines.
“Madame Dulcie said they came for him today.” Danielle reseated herself at the opposite end of the table from her husband. She wore a simple countrywoman’s uniform of gray pleated wool skirt and a pullover sweater. As Eduard would often tell her, one never knew when one might be entertaining a visitor. One should always be prepared. Danielle would rather be in work pants and a cardigan.
“Bernard is a hothead,” he said, still staring out at his fields.
“He helped pick the grapes at Domaine St-Buvard, didn’t he?”
Eduard looked quickly at his wife. “What does that matter?” he asked sharply. “Half the town picked Domaine St-Buvard.”
“I just thought...I...” Danielle folded her hands tightly into her lap and looked at her husband. She knew he wasn’t really waiting for a response to his question.
“So he picked the grapes at Dernier’s, so what? Bof!” Eduard scooped viciously into the large cassoulet between them, watching the steam pour out as he broke the crusty surface.
“Nothing, dear,” Danielle said, her eyes concentrating on her wine glass.
“Bernard is a passionate man,” Eduard continued, calming down somewhat. “Even when we were children, he was always ready for a fight. This time it’s gotten him into big trouble.”
“Paulette needs our help,” Danielle said.
“Help?” Eduard looked blankly at her.
“Eduard, he is your brother,” she said. “His family needs our―”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Eduard nodded his head vigorously. “Of course, my dear,” he said, forcing a smile for her. “Of course, we will see that Paulette and Babette are taken care of in his absence.” He scooped up a large spoonful of the white beans and petite Toulouse sausages from the cassoulet onto his plate. “There will be a long prison term, I imagine,” he said. “I cannot say that I am surprised. Bernard always was a wild one.”
“Perhaps he is not guilty,” Danielle said, serving herself from the casserole.
“Perhaps not,” Eduard agreed expansively. “Of course, we will get him a good lawyer. But, in the event he is convicted, he will be happy to know that his wife and child are cared for.” He poured himself a full wine bowl of Gigondas and poised the bottle over his wife’s glass. “My dear?”
She shook her head.
“No, thank you, Eduard,” she said.
3
“I’m sorry, Laurent. I know you liked him.”
Laurent stared moodily out the window, a cigarette dangling from his full lips.
“I guess he was a lot of help in the beginning.” Maggie said. She walked to the French doors to watch the two large hunting dogs frolic and chase each other. Those two never wind down, she decided.
Her reunion with Laurent earlier that evening had been passionate and satisfying. To see him again after a day of fear and worry, mixing and stirring and chopping in their cuisine, was a balm to all the bad feelings Maggie had experienced since Thanksgiving Day. The police had questioned him and released him. Perfunctorily, really, Laurent told her. He had seen Bernard Delacore dragged into the interrogation room in leg irons and handcuffs. Laurent only had time to exchange a brief look with the man. And the look he’d received in exchange was one full of misery and resignation.
“Is there anything we can do to help Bernard?” Maggie asked, settling into Laurent’s lap as he sat in a large chair by the fire, and resting her head against his shoulder.
Laurent didn’t answer.
“Well, did you see him go into the basement that night?”
“Oh, Maggie, hush.”
Maggie lifted her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “You think you can incriminate him, don’t you?”
Laurent looked away and stared out the window.
“Laurent, you saw him go downstairs, didn’t you?”
“Maggie―”
“Did he really fight with Babette’s mother? Or was that all―”
“Non, non.” Laurent looked back at her and shook his head. “He fought with her. They left angry, but together.”
“But you did see him go downstairs.”
“I sent him there,” he said. “I asked him to collect more wine.”
“Where was Connor?”
Laurent shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“But he could’ve been down there too? He might have gone down―”
“Maggie,” Laurent said a little roughly. “I do not know. Comprends?”
“Okay, okay.” Maggie settled back against him and they were both quiet for a moment with their separate thoughts.
Finally, Laurent spoke. “How was Grace?”
“Fine.” Maggie picked a long dark hair from Laurent’s collar and released it to fall upon the floor. “They tell so many awful stories about Taylor that you have to wonder why they’re trying so hard to get pregnant again. It must be awful.”
“Trying to get pregnant is awful?” Laurent smiled impishly.
“Yeah, right,” Maggie said, giving him a little push on the shoulder. “That’s what the world thinks. Hubba-hubba! But I guess sex isn’t much fun when it’s under the gun like this.”
“Qui sais,” Laurent said absently.
“Once, when Windsor left the room to do something, Grace told me that she didn’t think she could take going another year without a conception. I mean, she doesn’t look it, you know? But she says she’s at the end of her rope.”
“Vraiment?”
“Yeah, I guess it really depletes you emotionally. There are times in the last few months when I’ve seen Grace and she’s been lower than a snake’s tennis shoe. I guess that’s right after her period’s come―”
“Maggie!” Laurent frowned. “Such talk about Grace to me is not good.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It is very embarrassing to hear of another man’s wife’s....” He waved his hands as if to pluck the words from the air. “Enough, yes?”
“Okay, okay.” Maggie patted his shoulder. “The point is, she’s got a lot on her shoulders right now, what with Connor dying and this infertility business.”
“She has her husband,” Laurent said. “He will take care of her unhappiness.”
Maggie laughed. “God, you’re from the Dark Ages!” She kissed him on the temple and then spoke soberly: “I’m not sure how well Windsor can help Grace when it comes to being happy.”
“They are not happy together?” Again, Laurent seemed more interested in the leaping shenanigans of his dogs outside than in Maggie’s answer.
“I don’t know,” she said, chewing her bottom lip.
There was another long pause.
“Dinner was good tonight,” Maggie said.
“De rien,” Laurent said absently. “Roger Bentley is coming for a short visit tomorrow,” he added casually, his eyes watching the cavorting dogs.
Maggie sat straight up and twisted in his lap to face him. “What?”
Laurent looked at her with surprise. “What?” he asked.
“Roger Bentley is coming here? To St-Buvard? What for?”
Laurent frowned. “He is a friend―”
“Laurent, what does he want? Why is he coming?”
Laurent stood up from his chair. Maggie slipped from his lap to the seat cushion.
“He is a friend coming for a visit, c’est tout,” he said, almost coldly. “I expect you will behave with some friendliness toward him.” Laurent reached for his jacket on the couch.
“Where are you going?” Maggie said, standing up too. “You can’t just drop this bombshell and then go take an evening stro
ll. Laurent, please.”
“Maggie,” he said with a fatigue in his voice and face that she hadn’t noticed before. “Roger is not coming to...what?… lure Laurent away from you. He is coming as a friend comes.”
“You want to see him.” Maggie tried to keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Bien sûr,” Laurent said. “He is a friend.” He pointed a finger at her. “A friend to you as well, chérie. He brought us together, n’est-ce pas? He found Nicole for your family, n’est-ce pas?”
Maggie grabbed his jacket sleeve. “‘Found Nicole?’“ she repeated, staring at him in anger. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. He found an abused waif in a French ghetto and palmed her off to my family for twenty thousand dollars as their long-lost granddaughter. That’s not being a friend, Laurent. In my country, people go to prison for that sort of thing!”
Laurent’s face clouded with anger. “And is Nicole happy?” he asked. “Are your parents happy?”
“That’s not the point! Roger is a crook! He’s probably coming here to give you a piece of some action in Cannes or Marseille that’ll make sure you never get your green card...”
“Oh, so that is what this is all about.”
“Do not dare to even think about patronizing me, Laurent.” Maggie released his cuff with a petulant fling. “What this is about is you re-connecting with a known felon. An underworld hoodlum who would like nothing better than to get you sucked back up into all his dubious dealings and schemes―”
“I am going for a walk,” Laurent said, moving to the door.
“Take a walk!” Maggie yelled after him. “Take a walk into the Rhône, why don’t you?” She turned and stomped out of the room, aware that Petit-Four had take refuge under the couch, and aware of the sound of the French doors slamming shut behind her.
4
Grace tossed Petit-Four a sliver of her omelette au Broccio and watched with pleasure as the little dog wolfed it down.
“I can see why you take her everywhere,” she said to Maggie. “She’s a perfect lady. Mignon is more into bullying than begging.” She looked at her lunch companion and smiled brilliantly. “More dignity that way, you know?”
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 51
