The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Grace looked up at Laurent and smiled. “Have I mentioned how delicious this lamb is, Laurent? Your best effort. A Christmas Eve dinner to remember.” She picked up her water glass. “Let’s toast it, shall we? Christmas Eve among good friends? Expatriots...” she tipped her glass to Laurent, “...save one...at Christmas. I’d toast with what I’m sure is an absolutely scrumptious rosé but,” she turned and spoke emphatically to Windsor, “...I’m fully three months pregnant and I need to start taking care of myself. Cheers, darlings. I love you both.”

  The three of them drank the wine. Windsor sat and ate, his hand never reaching for his wine glass until he was reasonably sure he could not be mistaken as joining in on the proposed toast.

  “I think Jean-Luc Alexandre killed Connor,” Maggie said quietly as she replaced her wine glass next to her plate. She watched Laurent out of the corner of her eye and detected no reaction from him. He savored the wine and confronted his dinner plate.

  “Jean-Luc?” Windsor looked surprised. So did Grace.

  “That’s right,” Maggie said. “I’d mildly suspected him on and off for the last week but a conversation with Danielle Marceau this afternoon threw a few things into a different light for me.”

  “You saw Danielle?” Laurent looked up from his plate. “Quand?”

  “I spoke with her,” Maggie corrected. “On the phone. I wanted to wish her a Joyeux Noël and to tell her that I’d be stopping by on Christmas Day with a bowl of Texas chili...”

  “You are not sérieux.”

  “...and I wanted to be sure she’d be home.”

  “Texas chili?” Grace asked.

  “Anyway,” Maggie looked around the table. “Do you people want to hear what she told me to narrow my focus on the murder or do you want to obsess about Maggie bringing a French family chili on Christmas?”

  Laurent cleared his throat. “I, for one,” he said, “would like to hear more about this Texas chili.”

  Maggie ignored him. “We got to talking and she told me―” She looked at Laurent, “Did you know this? Domaine St-Buvard used to belong to Jean-Luc’s family?”

  Laurent shrugged as if to say he was aware of this fact and assumed most of the free world was too. He refilled Windsor’s and Maggie’s wineglasses, and then his own.

  “She said that the Alexandre’s prized their land above all else―”

  “Is that why they sold it off more than seventy years ago?” Laurent asked.

  “Are you telling me they don’t prize their land?”

  “You are trying to make a case that Jean-Luc would kill for my land―”

  “No, no, I’m not. It’s a part of the reason he killed. Not for your land. But if Connor was going to build his American museum...” She glanced at Windsor and Grace for confirmation on this part and they both nodded slowly. “...then, it’s bad enough that the parking lot runs parallel to Jean-Luc’s place, but if he used to actually own the property that’s now going to become a parking lot...” Maggie looked around the room with satisfaction.

  “And this is your motive for Jean-Luc’s killing Connor?” Windsor asked.

  “Windsor, you don’t understand how the French feel about land,” Maggie said with frustration. “It would kill Jean-Luc to see Domaine St-Buvard turned into a cement building full of abstract paintings and found-art sculptures and outside, big yellow lines drawn―on the very spot his family used to grow their precious vines―to tell people where to park their Jags and Peugots. Am I wrong, Laurent?” She looked defiantly at him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “It’s a better motive than one sees at first glance,” he admitted slowly.

  Windsor looked at Laurent. “You think the old guy did it too?” he asked with incredulity.

  “Non, non.” Laurent waved the idea away, but his rejection of the idea seemed halfhearted to Maggie.

  “There’s more,” Maggie said, reaching for her wine again.

  “More things Danielle told you?” Grace asked, her turquoise eyes sparkling with pleasure and anticipation.

  Maggie nodded. “She said Jean-Luc was always jealous of his older brother, Patrick. Adored him and wanted him all to himself but resented all the fuss that everyone always made over him.”

  “How does this tie in with Connor?” Windsor looked bewildered.

  “Maggie is simultaneously clearing up the other killing that took place on her doorstep,” Grace explained.

  “It’s more than that, Grace,” Maggie said. “Because if someone kills once, aren’t they the most likely candidate to kill again later? I mean, two murderers in St-Buvard is a little farfetched for a village of only, what, two hundred and fifty inhabitants?”

  “If that,” Grace agreed.

  “So you think Jean-Luc killed Connor and he killed the Fitzpatrick family fifty years earlier?” Windsor smiled and shook his head. “What have you got against the poor old guy?” He laughed but Laurent and Grace did not join him.

  “We found out that Jean-Luc was the one who discovered the bodies of the Fitzpatricks,” Grace said, watching Maggie carefully.

  Laurent frowned. “Vraiment?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” Maggie said. “He found the bodies and he had motive. Jealousy.”

  “How old would he have been then?” Grace asked.

  “About seventeen.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Laurent said, finally. “It was a long time ago.”

  Maggie turned to him quickly. “Blowing four people away in cold blood? Two of them children? I’d say it matters, Laurent. This is not dodging the draft or smoking dope in your foolish teen years.”

  He shrugged, unwilling to pursue the dispute.

  “How reliable is Danielle?” Grace asked, chewing slowly.

  “Good point,” Laurent said. “Eduard wants the land just as badly.”

  “And he hated Connor,” Windsor added. “The whole village knew that.”

  Maggie shook her head. “It can’t be Eduard,” she said, surprising them. “He didn’t even live in St-Buvard fifty years ago so he couldn’t have done the other crime...”

  “And who ever killed Connor has to be the same one who killed the Fitzpatricks?” Laurent was smiling now.

  “It’d be nice, don’t you think?” Grace said.

  “Tidy, anyway,” Windsor said.

  “Well, what are you going to do next?” Windsor asked. “Go to the cops? Free Bernard?”

  “Perhaps a little more evidence would be good,” Laurent said, still smiling, as he replenished their wine glasses once more.

  “A confession would be nice,” Windsor suggested. “Perhaps Jean-Luc can be talked into spilling his guts? After all, that’s a long time he’s been carrying around the dastdardly deed. Not only massacring a family of four but betraying the beloved older brother on top of it. I bet he’s about ready to talk about it.”

  “Well, you’re all very hilarious,” Maggie said, smiling.

  “It wasn’t moi, Maggie,” Grace reminded her. “I believe your theories.”

  “Thank you, Grace, but our two pooh-poohing mates here―”

  “‘Pooh-poohing’?” Laurent frowned.

  “It’s not what it sounds like, sport,” Windsor reassured him.

  “―can make whatever jokes they want.” Maggie continued. She put her hand to her heart and spoke with mock drama: “I will continue my work to free Bernard.”

  “And make the world a better place,” Grace whispered. “You left that out.”

  “Ça va de soi,” Laurent said rising from his chair. “Dessert, yes?”

  “It is ready, yes,” Maggie said, collecting dinner plates.

  “Did I tell you about Babette?” Grace said to Maggie.

  “Something new about Babette?”

  “I stopped in at the boulangerie this afternoon and Madame Renoir was in a state. Seems our village darling has quit her job―”

  “I couldn’t really see her content with sweeping up flour and powdered sugar for too terribly lo
ng,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah, but get this. She’s shacked up with some biker-guy over in Toulaud.”

  “Really?”

  “Madame Renoir was literally sobbing in the beignets.”

  “Poor old dear,” Maggie said as she exited into the kitchen. “Any idea how Paulette took it?”

  Laurent shook out a cigarette and lit up. “She is too tired to care,” he said.

  Grace looked at him in surprise. “You knew about Babette?”

  “He visits with Paulette from time to time,” Maggie said as she returned with the apricot mousse.

  Grace picked up her spoon and poised it over her bowl. “This looks delicious, Maggie.”

  “Mousse d’abricots avec un coulis de framboise,” Maggie said. “Apricot mousse with raspberry sauce.”

  “You know, now that you mention it...” Windsor said, as he stared into space, “I think you must have said something that’s triggered a memory that I...” His face was flushed with excitement. “In fact,” he said in a tone of some bewilderment. “...I’m sure of it...I did see Jean-Luc go down to the basement...I saw him go down...” He paused and looked at the three stunned faces at the table with him. “Just after I saw Connor go down there.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  1

  Maggie gazed out the living room window and watched a light snow come down. A lively fire blazed in the fireplace. It was a little after eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve.

  “Snow for Christmas morning,” Grace said from behind her. “Taylor will have to be sedated she’ll be so bonkers.”

  “It’s really sort of magic, isn’t it?” Maggie said. “I feel the same as Taylor. Listen, you still want to go to Mass tonight? It’ll be sort of a mess getting there now.”

  “Are you kidding?” Grace leaned against the cold window jamb. “It’ll be even better now.”

  “What do you think about what Windsor said at dinner?” Maggie asked.

  “You mean, about seeing Jean-Luc go down into the basement with Connor?” Grace shook her head. “It’s news to me. If he says he saw it, I guess he did.”

  “I wonder if it’s enough to go to the police with,” Maggie chewed the lipstick on her bottom lip.

  Grace didn’t respond. From where they stood they could hear the men talking in the kitchen. Laurent had whipped up a batch of vin cuit just for this evening and although he swore that the alcohol content was such that even a baby could safely drink it, Grace and Maggie had both declined. Windsor, however, was well on his way to becoming totally incapacitated, Maggie noted, and a little cooked wine probably wouldn’t do any noticeable harm to his condition. She wondered, idly and for the first time, if Windsor might not have a drinking problem.

  “Can I ask what’s wrong between you and Windsor?”

  Grace looked away as if she were hunting for her cigarettes. She hadn’t smoked all evening.

  “It’s nothing, really,” Grace said. “He discovered some unpleasant information recently that...” She took in a large draft of air and sighed audibly. “...that unfortunately puts― he believes―the paternity of the child I’m carrying into some doubt. Maybe I will have just a thimbleful of that mulled wine. How about you?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Kidding? No. Well, about what part?”

  “Windsor’s not sure he’s the father of the baby?”

  “Right. He’s not sure.”

  “And he...and there’s some...” Maggie sought the words.

  “What Maggie? There’s some basis to his fears? Some doubt? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I know that’s ridiculous.”

  “You do?” Grace threw back her head and laughed joylessly. Maggie remembered the little silver bell of a laugh that she hadn’t heard in weeks now. Hearing it now, it reminded her of a good imitation, like a fourth generation tape recording.

  “God, I love you, Maggie. You believe in me, you trust me...” Grace touched Maggie’s shoulder gently, forcing Maggie to look at her. “And you forgive my many, many weaknesses.”

  “You had an affair.”

  “More like a one-night stand.”

  “Oh, Grace.” Maggie winced. “How did Windsor find out?” She glanced nervously into the kitchen but Windsor was talking loudly, drunkenly to Laurent.

  “Well, he overheard me talking to my mother on the phone. I was saying this real intelligent stuff like it never should have happened and I wouldn’t hurt Windsor for the world...tune into any daytime soap opera and I’m sure you can pick up a pretty accurate recreation.”

  “And Windsor heard this?”

  Grace shrugged. “I thought he was upstairs napping.” She smiled ruefully at Maggie. “He wasn’t.” She brushed away a few lingering breadcrumbs from her cashmere sweater. “He was upset but he forgave me, you know? Then later, when I came up pregnant, he decided he was more upset than he thought he was. The fear of having to live with my infidelity in the form of a walking-talking little reminder just made him crazy.”

  “Do you think the baby’s Windsor’s? God, Grace, this is really terrible.”

  Grace turned and looked out the window at the falling snow. A moment passed between them.

  “It could be Windsor’s,” she said slowly.

  “Should I guess who the one night stand was with?”

  Grace closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t suppose you need to. It was Connor.”

  “God, Grace.”

  “We were drunk, I was pissed off at Win...” She shrugged as if to say, these things happen.

  Maggie was silent for a moment and then cleared her throat. “Was it the night y’all came here for dinner?” she asked. “The night Windsor got so drunk he had to sleep it off on our couch and you were mad because that was the night y’all were supposed to...you know...?”

  “C’est ça,” Grace said, almost cheerily. “Sorry, darling.”

  “I’m just sorry to see the two of you so miserable,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “How do you feel? You know, about who the baby’s father might be?”

  Grace went to the dining table and picked up their untouched glasses of mulled wine. She returned to the window and handed one of the glasses to Maggie.

  “Darling, I would like nothing better than for this child to be Windsor’s and I hope and pray with every fiber in me that still wishes to hold this marriage together that it is his child.”

  “But...”

  “But I’ve tried so long and so hard to get pregnant, that, frankly, I would be thrilled with the dear little thing even if it belonged to Gaston Lasalle.”

  “I guess that’s about as emphatic a case for maternity as I ever heard,” Maggie said, smiling at her friend. “I love you, Grace. And I’d like to be a help to you, someone you can talk to―not someone you feel you have to keep secrets from.”

  “I know, darling. I wanted to tell you.”

  Maggie gave Grace’s arm a light squeeze. Behind them, they could hear Windsor in the kitchen as he giggled noisily at something Laurent was saying.

  2

  The Frenchman looked out at the snow coming down and cursed. The snow would make his job harder. He touched the worn, polished banister in his front hallway and wondered if he had the nerve, l’estomac, to do what he believed he had to do. The risk was great, the rewards even greater. He nodded grimly as though to give himself encouragement, and began his ascent to bed on this Christmas Eve night. The snow would make him silent, he told himself. And afterward, it would cleanse him.

  3

  Midnight Mass at the St-Buvard village church brought most of the villagers out into the cold, white night. Maggie huddled next to Laurent in one of the pews closest to the door and watched all the people enter, stomp the dusting of snow from their shoes and workboots, and then find their once-a-year places in the ancient church. She smiled at Père Bardot when she and Laurent and Windsor and Grace first arrived. And he smiled back.

  M
adame Renoir came with Madame Dulcie and her husband. The baker grinned broadly, approvingly, at Maggie and Laurent when she saw them. Maggie saw her stock go up with Madame Dulcie too, perhaps blotting out the late breakfast she’d been caught indulging in that morning. The Dulcies and Madame Renoir inched their way up the aisle to a row of pews directly in front of the pulpit. Maggie assumed these were their regular seats.

  She watched the old post mistress hobble in, then some farmers and their wives, followed by a group of pious-looking teenagers, and Paulette Delacorte, who smiled shyly at them and whose eye unmistakably caught Laurent’s. Next came the pharmacist who had supposedly married her stepson, and Maggie thought of Connor.

  Who the hell was Connor MacKenzie? she wondered. He was an artist and he was naughty and clever and sweet and conniving and really not to be trusted. Maggie watched the village priest arrange his books and papers around him and prepare for the sermon and wondered why she’d never seen Connor’s treacherous side before? Why she’d always managed to see the harmless, innocuous part of him that didn’t foreshadow any of his plans or schemes. She glanced over at Windsor, who sat between Grace and Laurent as if he’d been zapped with a stun gun. His eyes were glazed and he wobbled even from a sitting position. Connor had betrayed Windsor and taken advantage of Grace’s mood and biological condition. He’d betrayed her too, Maggie thought. From Lydie to Babette to Grace to Windsor and even to herself, it seemed there wasn’t a friend he hadn’t exploited.

  Maggie leaned back into her seat and thought of the happy, working union that Grace and Windsor had when Maggie first met them and the limping travesty that now served as their marriage. Connor’s legacy, Maggie thought. Connor’s good-bye present.

  The Mass was long and boring, especially for Maggie, who understood little of the priest’s message to the congregation. Laurent seemed to be entertaining himself with his own private thoughts, Maggie noticed. His eyes darted around the interior of the little church, its cold stonewalls looking more like a dungeon of torture than a house of worship. The alcohol obviously continued to keep him warm and his thoughts occupied; he seemed to be effectively tuning out every word Père Bardot was so carefully delivering from the altar. She snuggled a little closer to him and took his hand in hers. Laurent looked down and patted her knee and then squeezed it, the greater portion of his thoughts still somewhere else.