The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Maggie stood up on tiptoes and kissed him firmly on the mouth. “I understand it, chéri,” she said. “I just don’t know what to do with it.”

  Laurent gave her another quick kiss and then turned away to deal with his leeks. She watched him slice the vegetables, and add the fish head and chopped onions to a heavy skillet of olive oil.

  “I talked to Madame Dulcie today,” she said, trying to fight the feeling of hopelessness that had begun in her heart. “Grace didn’t show.”

  “Ah, yes,” Laurent turned to look at her and gestured with a paring knife. “She called after you left to say she was feeling ill. I forgot to tell you.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Maggie said, as he turned back to his work. “I figured as much. Anyway, Madame Dulcie told me the inside scoop on Patrick Alexandre and the woman he killed. Really interesting stuff. Did you get around to listening to the tape from Madame Lasalle? The gypsy?”

  Laurent scattered fennel seeds in the skillet and then reached for the hand tape recorder sitting on a kitchen shelf.

  “I was listening to it just before Jean-Luc came over,” he said, snapping on the recorder. “Ecoutons-le ensemble, okay?” Let’s listen to it together. He filled the skillet with water and then covered it. “I still think it was dangerous, Maggie, for you to have gone there alone. The gypsies―”

  “Oh, speak French, would you, Laurent?”

  Laurent smiled and shook an admonishing finger at her. The voice of Madame Lasalle invaded the pleasant quiet of the kitchen.

  “I think this was the part where I was asking her about Gaston―”

  Laurent shushed her and listened while lifting the skillet lid to salt the water. He reached up and snapped off the tape recorder.

  “She said Gaston was a loving little boy, very helpful to his mother.”

  “Really?”

  “She said he was always very smart but that he would occasionally have l’attaque...seizures.”

  “You’re kidding? Gaston’s an epileptic?”

  Laurent shrugged and began quartering potatoes with swift movements of his knife.

  “It is not so unusual,” he said. “Gypsies.” He leaned over and turned the recorder back on. “Her husband died ten years ago,” he said, chopping potatoes. He listened to the tape. “On the night of the murders, she was sleeping in the family trailer when a young man came from the village to fetch her mother. It was about her father, Ricardo.”

  “Ricardo’s the one they hung, right?”

  Ignoring her, Laurent listened carefully to the tape. A full minute passed before he spoke again. “He had been making a delivery of anchovy bread to Domaine St-Buvard―something he did quite regularly, it seems―when he heard a lot of noise and screaming...”

  The voice on the recording imitated the sounds of gunshots and then shouted: “Au secours! Au secours!”

  “She says her father said he heard calls for help but that he...” Laurent listened in silence for a moment and then shook his head. “Merde,” he said.

  “What? What ‘merde’? What happened?”

  Laurent turned off the recorder again. “He ran away. Your gypsy woman says her father was afraid of trouble in the form of les gendarmes―and so he ran away from the house.”

  “Well, what’s so―?”

  “He left his delivery load of anchovy bread on the ground when he fled.”

  “Merde.”

  “Gypsies are not very smart.”

  “What else does she say?”

  Laurent turned the recorder back on.

  “Ricardo was taken to a cabin nearby and held for a few hours after the murders were discovered.” He poised his knife over the potato and waited, listening to the woman’s words on the recorder. Then, he leaned over and switched the recorder off again and continued chopping. “And we know what happened after that.”

  “Poor Ricardo,” Maggie said, looking at the recorder. “She told me the truth, then.” She glanced at Laurent. “I wasn’t sure she would. She didn’t have to, you know. She knew I wouldn’t have known the difference.”

  “A noble people,” Laurent said dryly as he added the potatoes to the boiling skillet.

  “But it’s weird,” Maggie said, “that Ricardo would be delivering bread there, and Jean-Luc, too? Oh! Did I mention that I told the village vicar we’d be stopping by for midnight Mass tonight?”

  “I am sure,” Laurent said with a shake of his head, “that no matter how well you speak my language, or I yours, I will never understand your sense of humor.”

  3

  Windsor dusted imaginary flecks of dandruff from the shoulders of his cashmere jacket. He stood facing the full- length mirror in the downstairs hallway and pushed his chin out of the way of the collar of his turtleneck sweater to better see the effect of the sweater’s burgundy color against the dark gray jacket. He smoothed back the sides of his neatly trimmed hair. Pretty good, he decided. He jerked downward lightly on both lapels of his jacket and flicked an offending dog hair off his sweater front. He could hear the sounds of Grace’s last- minute touches upstairs. She padded lightly from bed to dresser to bathroom on the creaking ancient floorboards overhead.

  He wished he could feel differently about things. He wished he could feel the way he had a mere six weeks ago― before Connor died, before all of this mess happened. The reflection in the mirror began to sag just a little. Then, an evening out―especially Christmas Eve―would’ve involved the prospect of laughter and good company. Then, whether it was the result of being the husband of the beautiful and witty Grace Van Sant (it had never occurred to him that Laurent or Connor or Jean-Luc, for that matter, didn’t desire her madly) or whether as a result of some witticism he would inevitably deliver during the course of the night, the preparations for the evening would have been filled with anticipation and excitement. He stared dismally at his reflection in the mirror.

  He turned away from the mirror and walked into the expansive parlor. It was six o’clock and the outside light was long gone. Somebody―perhaps the new nanny?―had pulled the heavy drapes closed, and the room looked serious, a little somber even, as if one might expect to find a coffin propped up and on display in some corner. Windsor moved to a small mahogany bar and made himself a strong gin and tonic. Now he could hear Grace on the staircase. She was actually humming as she descended. He took a long sip from his drink and waited for her to appear in the doorway.

  “Win?” Grace entered the parlor and glanced left and then right searching for him.

  She looked sensational, he had to admit. Her hair was draped casually around her shoulders, without her trademark curls, giving her a sleeker, more mysterious air. Her forehead was high and proud, her cheekbones a model’s envy. Her eyes were rimmed in charcoal-gray mascara and she wore a turquoise blue sweater set in cashmere over dark gray slacks. The diamond bracelet he had given her two anniversaries ago sparkled brilliantly on her wrist.

  “Over here,” he said, quietly. He took another sip of his drink and watched her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her tone friendly. “Are you about ready to go?”

  “Just waiting on you.”

  “Well, I’m ready.”

  He finished his drink and left the empty glass on the bar for someone else to deal with.

  “I don’t want a late night,” he said, knowing he wanted to upset her, to take the happy flush from her cheeks, the brightness from her eyes.

  “What’s a late night?” She frowned at him as she put on her earrings―long dangling affairs studded with diamonds like a cluster of stars. “You mean after two a.m.?”

  “I mean, I don’t want to be out late. Tomorrow’s Christmas Day, in case you’ve forgotten, and I want to be conscious when Taylor opens her presents.”

  “God, Win, I imagine some of the dead in St-Buvard Cemetery will become suddenly conscious when Taylor opens her presents. I really wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I know you wouldn’t,” he said as he moved toward the
couch where he had tossed his overcoat. “But I care that she has a good Christmas.”

  “Oh, I see,” Grace smiled prettily, careful not to stain her teeth with her lipstick. “And I don’t, I guess?”

  “Let’s go,” he said evenly, pulling on his coat and scooping up his fur-lined leather gloves. He smacked the gloves together for emphasis.

  “Are you sure?” Grace asked. “Perhaps we’d better stay home and watch her while she sleeps to make sure those sugarplum fairies do their job, you know?”

  “You’re a great mother, Grace.”

  “Kiss my ass, you bastard.”

  He’d done it. She was furious. Her makeup was pulled in opposite directions with her scowl and the pretty flush she’d come downstairs with was now an unattractive rouge.

  “Tell me, exactly, how one Christmas Eve out with friends makes me a bad mother?” She was pulling at the rings on her fingers in frustration and anger. “And while you’re at it, let’s hear what a great father you are, huh, Windsor? Such a loving daddy to make sure Taylor has only the best people taking care of her and loving her since he never has time to spend with her.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Ask Taylor if it’s a lie.”

  “You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, Grace.”

  “No, dear, you must be referring to my wedding day.”

  “Classy all the way. Wonder what our friends would think if they could see how classy you really are?”

  “I don’t imagine anyone would have too much style left at this stage of the game, Windsor.” She turned and walked to the hall closet. He followed her.

  “We’re talking fitness as a mother here,” he said.

  “You already pushed that button,” she shot back as she pulled on a vivid blue cape lined in red velvet. She studied her appearance in the hall mirror and pulled some strands of hair out of her collar. She turned to glare at him. “Are you saying you don’t want to go to Maggie and Laurent’s tonight? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Windsor shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just don’t want a late night,” he said stubbornly.

  “Fine.” Grace snatched up her evening bag from the marble-top foyer table and marched to the front door. “We’ll take two cars.”

  4

  Laurent had finally produced the fir tree. At a little over nine feet, it stood large and majestic against the long wall that opened up into the garden. He’d dragged it in earlier that afternoon, stamping the cold from his leather athletic shoes and presenting it to Maggie as proudly as if he’d planted the seed for it himself. It was a magnificent tree, she had to admit, its boughs stretched out like hungry fingers. Maggie had dressed it simply, sparingly, with one row of tiny white lights and just a few glass ornaments she’d found in Paris and Aix. The resulting look was regal and dignified. The tree was so big it actually fit their bowling-alley sized living room. Now that the tree is here, Maggie thought happily, it’s finally Christmas.

  She turned to survey the room, all in ready for their dinner party. She had gathered fir boughs from the ground outside to add to those that Laurent had clipped from the Christmas tree, and then arranged them on the mantle over the fireplace. Then she stuck fat white candles amongst the sweet-smelling pine boughs and dimmed the lamps in the room. The gentle, nostalgic scent of pine mingled with Laurent’s usual kitchen magic to produce a powerful delight. Maggie felt the same tiny bubble of excitement she used to feel as a child at this time of year. A feeling of expectation, of hope. Something was about to happen.

  The music of Enya came floating gently through the mas, sounding more like Christmas carols, Maggie thought, than the real thing. She heard the sound of two car doors slamming and hurried to the kitchen, where Laurent was checking on last minute sauces and cooking times. “They’re here,” she said, smiling happily.

  “You are like une petite fille,” he said fondly. “So excited. So beautiful.”

  Maggie was dressed in an amber velvet catsuit. She had her hair in a ponytail down her back and fastened with a gold clasp. Her ears revealed his last birthday present to her: diamond studs.

  “Tu es très belle aussi,” she said, breathlessly, not much caring in her anticipation of the evening if she got her verbs and adjectives right.

  “Beau,” he corrected her.

  But she was already at the door to greet their guests, a small vapor of Eternity perfume and pine seeming to hover in her wake.

  The stew was excellent, to no one’s surprise. Maggie’s fears that it was a trifle inelegant to serve at Christmas Eve supper were assuaged by the fact that the casualness of the meal helped to ease the tension between their two guests. There was obviously something going on between Grace and Windsor tonight. Something not good.

  Laurent made several huge bottles of a diabolical alcoholic concoction called nectar des dieux. Made with spices, white wine and vodka and left to sit for a month, the stuff was tangy, warming and lethal. Windsor had already had four glasses of nectar des dieux. Grace, to Maggie’s surprise, abstained.

  By the time Laurent rolled out the third and final course before coffee and dessert, Windsor had loosened the tight wiring in his spine just enough to ease the tension in all of them.

  “So, Maggie,” Windsor said, twirling yet another glass of the nectar in practiced fingers. “Grace says you’ve nailed Connor’s killer?”

  Maggie glanced at Grace who did not return her look but continued to concentrate on buttering a crusty bread roll.

  “Well, yes and no,” Maggie said slowly.

  “She is so modest, n’est-ce pas?” Laurent entered the dining room with hot plates which were piled with thick slices of rosy lamb tucked in a layer of pastry. “She has her theories, bien sûr. And they are good ones.”

  “Laurent thinks I’m full of crap,” Maggie said.

  Laurent set the plates down and affected an exaggeratedly hurt look as if to say: Moi?

  The rest of them laughed and Grace said: “Yeah, we know, Laurent, pas du tout! Pas du tout!”

  The closeness of the friendship between the couples seemed to raise above the muck of misunderstanding and subjects too-hot-to-handle, and settled once more on a pleasantly enjoyable plane.

  “My God, Maggie,” Grace said, staring at her plate. “How in the world do you fit through normal, room-size doors?”

  “Well, gee, thanks a lot, Grace. Now I know where you got your name.”

  “Stop it, you know what I mean. I’m going to need a wheelbarrow for my stomach to leave here tonight and I’m only three months pregnant!”

  Maggie noticed Grace’s joke was stopped by a nervous glance in Windsor’s direction. This was puzzling.

  Doesn’t Windsor know she’s pregnant?

  “So what do you say, Maggie?” Windsor cut into his gigot d’agneau en croûte and smiled at her. “Who did it?”

  “Did what?” Maggie looked at him in confusion.

  “Killed Connor. Who killed Connor?”

  “Oh! Well, I have a couple of theories. Grace told you I’ve been investigating?”

  Windsor nodded without glancing at Grace, and Maggie felt a vague wash of sadness come over her. Whatever was wrong between them seemed to be deep and serious. It hurt her to see them so distant.

  Laurent returned with another bottle of rosé from the cellar and poured each of their glasses.

  “Elle est l’inspectrice Poirot, n’est-ce pas? Faisant furtivement magnifique.”

  Grace frowned as she chewed. “Huh?”

  “He says I’m a good sneak,” Maggie said.

  “Hey, that’s great, Maggie!” Windsor said encouragingly, nodding. “I’m impressed.”

  “That I’m a good sneak?”

  “No, that your French is starting to come along.”

  “It isn’t, really. He’s said that to me before.” Maggie’s eyes met Laurent’s and his were pleased.

  “She suspects Gaston Lasalle,” Grace said. “Laurent, this lamb is exquisite, c’e
st extrordinaire!”

  “Yeah, Laurent, it’s great,” Windsor said, smiling at his host and then looking back at Maggie. “Gaston, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed him.”

  “Well,” Maggie said, “the idea is that he had an emotional motive for revenge against all foreigners―”

  “You mean the gypsy thing? You-all killed my Pop-po now I’m-a gonna get back at you?”

  “I don’t think gypsies have Italian accents, Windsor,” Maggie said playfully.

  “The ones in Italy do,” he replied. “It’s kind of a weak motive, though.”

  “Depends on how weak you think revenge is for a motive.”

  Windsor reacted as if he’d been insulted. He stiffened in his seat and his handsome face colored darkly.

  “He’s certainly loathsome enough to be a murderer,” Grace offered.

  “Well that observation’s a great piece of detective-work,” Windsor said to his wife with a sneer.

  Maggie saw Laurent frown at the exchange between their friends.

  “Well, anyway,” Maggie said quickly. “I worked the Gaston angle a long time and I really thought he could’ve done it, you know?” She wasn’t sure she was ready to announce to the world who she was now leaning toward as the killer of St-Buvard. She looked at Laurent again as he carefully cut up his lamb. She particularly wasn’t sure she was ready to announce her suspicions to Laurent.

  “Yes? Well?” Windsor prodded. “Come on, Maggie, quit baiting us. Who done it?”

  “It’s not a game, Windsor,” she said. “I mean, if Bernard has gone to prison for a crime he didn’t commit...and there’s somebody roaming around who’s killed―”

  “Yeah, yeah, terrible misjustice,” Windsor said in a bored voice―his best imitation of Connor MacKenzie. “I promise not to tell the rest of the village.”

  “As if they’d listen,” Grace said.

  “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” he said icily.

  I don’t believe this. They’re going to have a row right in front of us on Christmas Eve. Maggie looked at Laurent with dismay. He was watching Windsor.