The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Tell me about it, Maggie thought.

  “Her husband was dull.” Madame Dulcie shrugged as if the truth simply had to be said and sugarcoating the fact wasn’t possible. “He was, perhaps, a good man, I don’t know. He was polite, he smiled easily. He clearly loved his wife. But she sparkled and dazzled wherever she went. He was merely the setting to the bright jewel, you understand?”

  Maggie nodded. “And then Jennifer fell in love with Patrick?” she asked.

  “They were very discret...you understand? No one ever saw them together. Patrick was too, how do you say?...noble, yes?” Madame Dulcie’s eyes misted over.

  “Yeah, tell me about Patrick. What did he look like? Why was the whole world in love with him?”

  Madame Dulcie pushed her small, heavy, ceramic coffee cup away from her and reshifted in her seat. She tightened the loose skin of her throat with the back of her hand, almost as if to show Maggie that she too had once been young and attractive.

  “Patrick was married when he was a young man. Before the war...”

  “To Mireille, right?”

  “C’est vrai. Mireille. They were a love story, yes? Very much so. She was a local girl, the daughter of le charbonnier.” She wrung her hands to try to explain it. “For the fuel in the stoves, yes?”

  “He was the coal-man?”

  “Oui. The coal-man. So, Patrick and Mireille are married and they are happy. They have a daughter but no more children. The war is coming and Patrick must leave, must hide to fight with the other men. He leaves St-Buvard to protect the village from Nazi...how do you say?”

  “Reprisals?”

  “Exactement. But Mireille is proud to have him go even if she is enceinte...with their second child.”

  “Bummer.”

  “To answer your question, Madame Dernier, Patrick was a big man, with dark, brown hair, curly, too...as I remember it, although perhaps that is not right. His eyes were a light green, like seafoam. And they laughed and danced when he spoke. A handsome man. A man who cared about so much, so many.” She looked angrily at Maggie. “There is not a farm, not a shop, not a family in all of St-Buvard,” she said fiercely, “who has not received help or kindness from Patrick Alexandre. He was here for this village. To help us, to love us...” The woman stopped, overwhelmed with the emotion of her story.

  Maggie found herself wondering if Madame Dulcie had ever been the intimate recipient of some of Patrick Alexandre’s “kindness.”

  “What happened to Mireille?” she asked, gently.

  “Eh?”

  “Mireille. How did she die? I’ve seen her grave.”

  “Giving birth to a son who was stillborn. She died before Patrick returned from the war. Three years before.”

  “How awful.”

  “Oui,” the old woman said tiredly.

  “And then he took up with Jennifer Fitzpatrick?”

  “It was later. The Fitzpatricks came to St-Buvard from England after the war was over.” She looked directly at Maggie. “Patrick Alexandre was a passionate man,” she said. “A man of courage and good faith and strong love.”

  “You don’t think he killed the family.”

  “It is preposterous to think it,” Madame Dulcie replied, the conviction of the last forty-five years still strong in her voice.

  “Any ideas of who might have done it?”

  Madame Dulcie’s eyes became hooded and opaque. “I have an idea or two,” she said bitterly.

  After her morning with Madame Dulcie, Maggie returned to the graveyard of St-Buvard and stood watching the graveyard from the safety of her car door, even though Pedro was nowhere in sight. She could just see the gentle mound of Patrick’s grave on the other side of the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the old cemetery.

  Why had this noble, good man begun carrying on with a married woman in the first place? she wondered. And a foreigner, to boot―unthinkable in such a xenophobic village as St-Buvard.

  I don’t care if this Jennifer Fitzpatrick-person looked and acted like Grace Kelly, Maggie thought. Would noble, good, kind Patrick really betray the trust of his family and the village to take up with her? The man who had hidden from Nazis, lost comrades to SS torture, risked his life over and over again for the honor of his country―would he flush it all for the turn of a foreign ankle?

  Maggie sighed. Well, he was French, after all.

  But to kill the object of his desire? And her two little boys? Is that what the war had done to Patrick? Made killing easier―as Eduard Marceau had hinted at once―turned him into a machine that destroyed once disappointed? once foiled? Was it the war that made him do it? The inability―so necessary in wartime―to accept defeat, the talent for fighting back against all odds, for never acknowledging you were down and the cause was dead. Maggie tried to imagine the long years of hiding in the woods, the abandoned cottages and caves. She tried to envision Patrick and his compatriots keeping the faith against the odds of disease and hunger and betrayal and their numbers diminishing―violently―every day. How does one reconcile that? she wondered. And Patrick had left a beautiful young bride, his Mireille, in order to live in mortal fear in the countryside of France. Perhaps, she thought, like some of America’s Vietnam vets, the experience hadn’t make Patrick stronger and more the hero. Perhaps the years of hiding and killing and terror had damaged Patrick in a way that one would not immediately see behind his medals of honor, his broad and brave chest, his dancing blue eyes.

  The two men stood watching the static fields, a long knee-high wall separated them from the row upon row of grapevines. Where the old wall stopped, at the southern most point of the vineyard as it dead-ended into the village road that lead to St-Buvard, an unkempt but healthy hedge surged on ahead until the whole of the forty hectares of Laurent’s vineyard was completely enclosed.

  Laurent kept his eyes on the horizon as he inhaled the scents of woodsmoke and sun-bleached hay. He waited patiently for the old man to continue talking.

  Jean-Luc was dressed in a muddy-blue smock, dark trousers, with a black cap settled on the back of his gray head. His hands were pushed deeply into the pockets of his smock. He cleared his throat. “I don’t feel good about asking you this,” he said, his guttural French only lightly dusted with the patois of the area.

  Then don’t ask, Laurent thought coldly. But he said nothing.

  “I’ve been authorized, you see...” Jean-Luc paused and looked out toward Laurent’s land.

  It was clear to Laurent that the old man was an unwilling messenger this afternoon. Or was that simply the impression Jean-Luc wished to convey?

  “Laurent, shall we not go inside? To discuss our business?”

  “I enjoy looking at my vineyard,” Laurent said pointedly, not looking away from the vines or the horizon.

  Jean-Luc nodded miserably next to him and let the moment pass. “It is a little cold for an old man’s bones,” he said as he rubbed his arms with his hands.

  Finally, Laurent looked down at him. He had liked this old fellow from the beginning. Had trusted his judgment, been grateful for his help and attention in harvesting Laurent’s grapes and in turning the grapes into a decent wine. Jean-Luc had seemed part brother, part uncle to Laurent, who had not had the luxury or the opportunity to enjoy such a relationship when he was a boy. Laurent reflected that even Maggie’s father was more friend to him than advisor or father. And, of course, John Newberry wasn’t French.

  “You’re right,” Laurent said. “It is a cold day. Come inside. There’s a fire in the hearth.” He turned and led the way back into the house.

  Once inside, Laurent scooped up Maggie’s little dog, who had been watching them intently from the doors that led to the garden and deposited her on the couch facing the fireplace.

  Jean-Luc stood before the fire, its flames active and warming. He held out his hands to the small but fierce blaze and stared into its depths.

  Laurent disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two large glasses of pastis. He handed one
to Jean-Luc, who hesitated before accepting it.

  “Merci,” the old farmer said solemnly.

  “You were saying that you were authorized?” Laurent said, trying to keep the taunt out of his voice. His betrayal by Jean-Luc was about to be complete, he knew.

  “Laurent, I don’t want to ask you this,” Jean-Luc repeated. Laurent felt himself angered by Jean-Luc’s reluctance as well as by what he knew the old farmer had to say.

  “You mentioned that,” Laurent said dryly, draping one arm on the mantle of the fireplace and facing his guest.

  “I have been authorized to ask you what, exactly, it would take...rather how much money you would require....” Jean-Luc’s words trailed away as he stared into the fire.

  “You can’t even look at me, Jean-Luc.”

  Jean-Luc tore his eyes away from the flames and looked directly at Laurent. His face was creased with sadness, testimony to the heavy weight he was carrying. He doesn’t want to do this, Laurent thought again, a small hope welling up in him that the friendship could still be saved.

  “We can pay whatever is necessary to buy the property,” Jean-Luc said.

  Laurent didn’t reply.

  “Name your price, we will get the financing to cover it. Within...within reason, of course.”

  “You mean, ten million francs would not be considered reasonable?” Laurent asked.

  Laurent watched Jean-Luc blanch immediately.

  “Ten mill...million...?” Jean-Luc stuttered. “You cannot be serious.”

  Laurent turned away from Jean-Luc and drained the rest of his drink. “I’m not serious,” he said grimly. “It was a joke, old friend.” Without looking at him, he could feel the man relax somewhat next to him. “I have not been entirely honest with you, Jean-Luc,” Laurent continued, still looking into the fire. “Mostly because I wasn’t sure, myself, what I wanted. It wasn’t my intention to string you along.”

  The two men faced each other again.

  “You don’t wish to sell,” Jean-Luc said.

  “Not at any price.” Laurent set his pastis glass down on the mantle with a smart smack. “Tell Marceau that. The property is not for sale. Laurent Dernier is not leaving St-Buvard. “

  “I see,” Jean-Luc said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Laurent turned behind him to see Maggie, her arms full of grocery bags, her hair, like a rumpled curtain of black velvet, laying in a windswept tangle around her shoulders. She stood watching the two men from the front hall.

  Chapter Sixteen

  1

  Grace adjusted the softly hissing teakettle on the gas ring. She thought with amazement of Taylor’s nanny...Beatrice, wasn’t it, this week?...who had actually volunteered to take Taylor to the show in Avignon this morning. Grace shook her head with wonder tinged with guilt. Not only did Taylor seem to like this sweet, shy au pair, the child was actually beginning to respond in kind. Grace reflected on their breakfast together earlier that morning and thought of the look on Taylor’s face as she reached across the table for the honey toast and then stopped to get visual approval from Beatrice first. The idea that Taylor would consult someone, anyone, before she barged ahead with her own schedule of wants was a new one for Grace. Yes, Taylor certainly seemed to like slim, unexciting Bea...maybe she even loved her, Grace thought with surprise. She poured the boiling water into the china teapot and found herself thinking that now the whole world could finally see that Taylor wasn’t just a difficult child, but rather, a child with endless, loving possibilities―with difficult parents.

  And aren’t you a self-centered pig to think of it that way? She gave the grounds a quick stir and then buried the teapot under an enormous quilted cozy. Her stomach rumbled from hunger and she put a quick hand over it, reminded―as if she needed that―of the presence of the baby. Yes, they’d been lousy parents to Taylor, she thought. She hadn’t been Shirley Temple and they hadn’t been Ward and June Cleaver either. Or Roseanne and Dan Conner, for that matter. Oh, they’d gone through the motions, of course. But there had been a good deal of equity in supporting the Taylor-As-The-Bad-Child story. They’d received all kinds of condolences― sometimes even commiseration―and they’d never had to be held accountable for their less than understanding attitude toward the poor kid.

  Grace found tears springing to her eyes. She wiped them away quickly and then heard Windsor stirring upstairs. Whether he would be speaking to her this morning was anyone’s guess, but somehow she didn’t think it wise to break the ice with her terrible revelations on the raising of their firstborn. She touched her stomach again. Oh, little one, she thought. What in the world am I getting you into?

  2

  “Exactly when were you going to let me in on this?” Maggie stood in the kitchen, her arms crossed in front of her, her mouth set in a grim line.

  Laurent picked up a large haddock and began rinsing it carefully under the tap.

  “Laurent?”

  He sighed and shook the wet fish before laying it out on his clean chopping board.

  “There is nothing to tell, Maggie,” he said tiredly. He looked up at her and smiled weakly. “Because I told Jean-Luc I would not sell, does not mean we will stay.”

  She threw up her arms melodramatically and stomped to the other side of the small kitchen.

  “Do you mind not playing word games with me?” she said. “I mean, at least until we’re both proficient in the same language?”

  Laurent tossed down his large butcher knife.

  “Peut-être aimeras-tu me parler dans ma langue―pour une fois?” he asked bitingly. He watched her face flush with anger and confusion.

  “Speak English,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, always I am to speak English, n’est-ce pas?” He placed his hands on his hips. “But we have been here three months and you are not bothering to learn my language.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sakes,” she said, a little unsure of herself now.

  “We live in France today.” He waved a broad swath in the air to encompass the kitchen and all of France. “We are not on Peachtree Street.” He turned and jabbed a large finger at the fish on the cutting board. “We eat French food here― oh, but, that Maggie does not like!” He made a face as if to mimic her distaste. “Maggie misses Johnny Rockets! Maggie wants her microwave popcorn and her diet Coca-Colas. Maggie wants everyone to be speaking English or she will ignore them...”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is true!”

  “I hate you, Laurent, I really do.”

  “Tell me in French.” He turned away and began chopping up the fish.

  “Who ever heard of making fish stew for Christmas Eve supper?” she said suddenly after a long pause.

  He said nothing, but turned and gave the soaking mussels a perfunctory stir with a wooden spoon. He opened the refrigerator and took out the leeks, giving Maggie a sidelong glance at the same time. She was staring at the floor, miserable, tears rimming her eyes.

  He was about to drop the leeks in the sink and put his arms around her to tell her it wasn’t important, none of it was important, when she looked up at him and said haughtily: “Faire le pot au feu de poissons pour le soir de Noël est ridicule.” Making fish stew for Christmas is ridiculous.

  Laurent burst out laughing and did take her into his arms. “I love you, Maggie,” he said.

  “Speak French, you lout,” she said, but kissed his ear. “Go ahead, make yourself miserable. We have trouble enough communicating, but if that’s what you want....”

  “Perhaps we could take it slowly, hein?” He smiled at her. “A little each day, oui?”

  She laid her head against his chest. “I’m sorry, Laurent,” she said. “Je m’excuse. I know I haven’t been trying to learn. I know I’ve resisted getting into the swing of things.”

  “Je ne m’en porte pas plus mal,” he said, kissing the top of her head. It hasn’t bothered me too much.

  “It’s so hard to hear the person you love and not be able t
o understand him,” she said.

  “How do you think men have felt about women for years, eh?”

  “Très amusant,” she said, looking up at him. “I’m calm now. Can you tell me what all of that was about with Jean-Luc?”

  He ran his hand down the length of her long, dark hair. He loved her hair, loved how it lay in satiny sheets of jet black like an Oriental doll’s hair, how it swung when she moved. He gently pulled her hair back from her face and touched her chin with his thumb.

  “Maggie, I want to stay. You must know that.” He watched her eyes fill with fear and resignation. “But,” he continued. “I will not stay if it is not what you want. What I told Jean-Luc is the truth, I will not sell to him or Eduard or anyone else. Domaine St-Buvard is mine now and if I never work another week of its fields, myself, it will be mine to give to my son someday. Comprends-tu?”

  “I understand,” she said, softly.

  “I will sublease it to a farmer to work it, to care for it. But I will not sell it.”

  “Why is it so important to you?” she asked.

  Laurent held her tightly as he looked past her shoulder through the French doors and out to his fields, where row after row of vines were lovingly wired and taped, trimmed and pruned.

  “What have I done with my life?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Where have I been and what have I done? Domaine St-Buvard is my castle, my place of rest and my triumph.”

  “You mean it’s home.”

  “Yes, home,” he said, looking into her sea-blue eyes for a positive response, a mutual understanding. He pointed toward the fields. “I own this, Maggie. This land is mine. Perhaps only another Frenchman would understand how... necessary that feels.”