Later, as they were filing out of the church, smiling and shaking hands with everyone―the air full of many Joyeux Noëls―Windsor tripped and fell down on the hard, flagstone floor of the chapel. Complaining that it was because the stones were uneven, Windsor allowed Laurent to help him out the door and down the hill to his car.
As they stood outside the church, Maggie tugged at Grace’s heavy cape. “Want to see Patrick’s grave?” she asked, the snow making a light cap of white on her dark head.
“Maggie, you’re obsessed,” Grace laughed. “It’s past one in the morning. Christmas morning at that. I have a child who will be up in four hours. If I’m lucky, four hours!”
“It’s just over there and it’s not muddy tonight. Come on, one quick peek.” Maggie pulled at Grace’s arm. “The guys’ll be forever trying to wedge Windsor into the car. It’ll just take a sec.”
Grace allowed herself to be propelled toward the darkened cemetery. “And then we need never do this again?” she asked hopefully.
“Here, it’s right outside here. I told you he was buried outside the cemetery, didn’t I?”
Grace stumbled a little on the hard ground and stood next to Maggie as they looked down at the headstone.
“Patrick Alexandre,” Grace read. “Yep. That’s him, alright. Let’s go.”
“Isn’t it creepy that he’s placed outside like this?” Maggie said. “I mean, they allow him this close but not inside the sacred walls?”
“It’s canon law,” Grace said, rubbing her shoulders with her gloved hands.
“What do you mean? You know about this stuff?”
“I’m Catholic, Maggie, remember? They make us take tests on all this stuff. I could give lectures on it.”
“And this is his beloved hunting dog, Louise.” Maggie pointed to the smaller grave behind Patrick’s. “See? It says...” Maggie knelt down and brushed a thin dusting of snow off the small marker. “Douce enfant Louise.” She frowned. “Huh. Enfant. That doesn’t make sense, does it? Sweet Baby Louise? Was it a puppy hunting dog?”
“Maggie, don’t be ridiculous,” Grace said, now stomping her feet in the cold. “That’s not a dog’s grave. The church would never allow a dog to be buried so close to consecrated ground.”
Confused, Maggie looked up at Grace.
“Besides,” Grace continued. “Madame Renoir has a perfectly nice doggie graveyard behind the bakery. You’ve never seen it? Her family’s got animals buried in that thing since the early 1900s. I’m serious. We’re talking dead hedgehogs, piglets, dogs, cats...She showed it to Taylor once.”
“Louise is supposed to be his hunting dog,” Maggie said, still kneeling next to the graves. She touched the icy cold stone with a tentative hand.
“Darling,” Grace said with some exasperation. “It says Douce enfant.” Grace shivered and looked at the small marker. “This is a child’s grave.”
4
A sudden puff of wind sent the flattened blue pack of Gitanes in the gutter scooting down the empty village street. Eduard watched with disgust as the cigarette pack danced away. Between the ubiquitous litter of sky-blue cigarette packages and the mounds of dog feces everywhere in Provence, he thought, it was little wonder we French spend so much of our time sweeping and hosing down the front walks of shops and businesses. We are a nation of polluters and tidiers, he thought bitterly. He sat in front of a pastis on the crowded terrace of Le Canard on Christmas morning. Far from being closed, the village café was doing its liveliest business of the year. Many farmers were glad to be away from the Christmas Day mayhem in farmhouse kitchens, with in-laws sleeping on pull-away cots in the dining room, and too-sugared children running amok through normally off-limit areas of the house. It was good to have a quiet drink away from the bedlam, the joy, the holiday.
Last night’s snow was only a mild warning. There was nothing on the ground this morning. The air was cold but the ground was brown, not white, as Eduard had feared. Weather reports indicated there would be more snow tonight but it didn’t matter. He finished off his drink and stared into the vacant village square with its defunct fountain and small, granite statue of a forgotten man devoted to a long since forgotten cause. And suddenly, l’ennemi was there in the café, slapping a cigarette ash from his coat, and looking directly at Eduard.
Marceau felt an irrational fury when he saw Laurent. As far as he was concerned, Dernier didn’t belong in that house, in this village―and certainly not in Eduard’s café. Was there no place a man could go to get some peace? To think and plan and be alone with his thoughts? As he watched the large Frenchman approach him, his hand cupped his empty pastis glass until he thought it would shatter between his fingers.
5
“Well, don’t you think it’s strange?” Maggie rearranged the pillows on the couch, creating a little cave for Petit-Four who watched her sleepily as she talked on the phone. Maggie’s hair was tied back with a red velvet ribbon. A gold brooch of diamonds and emerald chips sparkled from the neck of her navy velour sweatsuit where Laurent had pinned it earlier that morning.
“I’m not sure, darling,” her mother said from her hotel in Paris.
Her parents were spending Christmas with friends but planned to be back in Atlanta before the New Year.
“Which part do you find strange, Maggie?”
“Why would they bury a child outside the graveyard?”
“Perhaps it died before it could be baptized.”
“In that case, don’t you think there’d be heaps of babies and children buried outside the graveyard? I mean, it’s a primitive village, there must’ve been lots of babies that died during childbirth or right after, but Baby Louise’s grave is the only one.”
“Well, I really don’t know, then, Maggie.”
“The priest, Father Bardot, said he got to thinking about it after we talked yesterday and he talked to the bishop over in Aix and the bishop nearly took his head off and said of course a dog couldn’t be buried on church grounds. He’d just always seen it there and never thought much of it.”
“Why did he think it was a dog in the first place?”
“He said the priest who used to be here told him it was a dog.”
“And the priest who used to be―”
“Dead.”
“I see. Convenient.”
“Mother!” Maggie laughed and leaned back into the pillows on the couch. Laurent had made a fire for her before he left to have a drink in town, and it danced in front of her now. She could smell their Christmas dinner bubbling and baking away in the kitchen. She felt happy and contented on this Christmas Day with its many mysteries and questions.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Elspeth said, laughing too. “Piecing the puzzle together isn’t easy when some of the pieces have already passed on to the great beyond.”
“I’ll say. You know what’s even weirder? Every time I see Patrick’s grave, there are fresh flowers on it. And last night, after Mass? There was a red carnation on the baby’s grave. Someone knows the story here. Maybe I should just wait outside behind a tree or something and see who comes bearing flowers. What do you think?”
“I think you should dress warmly, whatever you do.”
“It’s snowing here. Nicole would love it.”
“Oh, I’ll bet it’s beautiful. I’m sorry we can’t see you before our return flight. Do you know when you’ll be back in Atlanta?”
“Mom, Laurent’s decided not to sell Domaine St-Buvard.”
“Oh, dear.”
“But he says he’ll return with me to the States if that’s what I want.”
“And?”
“That’s pretty much the way we’ve left it.” Maggie watched the dancing flames in the fireplace. Outside, she could see the wind whipping the tops of the little fir trees in the garden. She felt cozy and happy. “I think I’m going to go on gut feeling for awhile,” she said.
“That’s probably wise, darling.”
“Give my love to Dad and Nicole.”
“Merry Christmas, Mother. I love you.”
“I love you too, darling.”
6
So any pretense of neighborliness is gone, Laurent thought, as he watched Eduard scowl at him from across the café. He approached Marceau’s table and received nothing less than a snarl, much as a dog would give to protect his property. Laurent sipped his whiskey from his own table and tried to ignore the man’s presence. The café was crowded today. It was good to see the men there, laughing, boasting and drinking their Mother’s Milk of Provence, their pastis and Pernod. Laurent felt good in their company, hearing their nasal twangs and listening to them relate to each other as only a Frenchman can. It was a feeling, a situation, that could not be contrived anywhere else in the world. It was more than that too. The men in this small village no longer stared at him when he came to drink. They knew who he was and where he belonged. They understood where his place was in their lives, in the village, and in their judgments. There was little curiosity about him now. They had accepted him as one of their own.
Laurent caught sight of Jean-Luc’s familiar navy blue cap. He was surprised but pleased to see the old boy. Maggie’s theories notwithstanding, Jean-Luc was a man Laurent felt destined to like whether he felt he could trust him or not. And Laurent was well aware from past experience that that was almost always a dangerous mistake.
“Joyeux Noël, Laurent!” The older man stuck out his hand and pumped Laurent’s hand enthusiastically. His face was flushed with the many Pernods he had recently downed.
“Joyeux Noël, Jean-Luc,” Laurent replied affably. “Please, join me.” He indicated the seat next to him at the small table. He noticed that Jean-Luc did not glance to Marceau first.
“How is Madame Dernier?” Jean-Luc asked pleasantly, as he placed his tall glass on the table and settled himself next to Laurent.
“Bien, bien,” Laurent replied. “You are not sitting with Eduard today?” he asked pointedly.
Jean-Luc looked briefly across the café to Marceau.
“Eduard prefers to drink alone,” he said.
Had there been a power shift? Laurent wondered. Surely Eduard would be enraged at Jean-Luc’s fraternizing with the hated usurper? Unless, of course, this was a setup.
“I have never seen him like this before,” Jean-Luc said, lightly swirling the contents of his glass. “Even Danielle is worried.”
“You spoke with Danielle? Good for you.”
“You are a very shrewd man, Dernier,” Jean-Luc said with a rueful smile.
“Only an observant one, my friend,” Laurent replied.
“There is nothing between Madame Marceau and myself,” the farmer said emphatically.
“Of course not.”
“She is a friend from many years. We knew each other as children.”
“She is a good woman. For being one of the richest women in St-Buvard, her life has not been easy.”
“No,” Jean-Luc said.
“And so how does Monsieur Alexandre spend his Christmas Day?” Laurent ordered another round of drinks for them both.
Jean-Luc shrugged. “You’re looking at it,” he said. “And you?”
“Christmas Dinner, of course. Will you come? It will be just the three of us.”
Jean-Luc shook his head. “Not this year,” he said. “Your wife doesn’t trust Jean-Luc.”
“Not to worry, old friend,” Laurent said, his smile touching his eyes. “Some of my greatest friends are not to be trusted.”
Jean-Luc was not visibly heartened or amused by the remark. “Next year will be different.”
“If we’re still here next year.”
Jean-Luc looked at him in surprise. “But, you said you would not sell Domaine St-Buvard.”
“I will not sell it.” Laurent said. “But I may not live in it myself. I may rent it out.”
Jean-Luc rolled his eyes and finished off his drink. “Mon Dieu,” he said. “Don’t let Marceau hear you say that. I’m afraid for what he might do. Renters?” He shook his head.
“Ahh,” Laurent said, “here comes Monsieur Van Sant, and alone, for a change.”
Jean-Luc made a face. “It is not good to be always in the company of women,” he said.
“Well, then you certainly have little to worry about,” Laurent replied dryly. “Windsor! Over here.” He waved to the American and watched the man’s face break into an expression of gratification to see him. Windsor was good value, Laurent decided.
“Bonjour, Laurent, Jean-Luc,” Windsor said, extending his hand and shaking both of theirs enthusiastically. The cold had infused a rosy blush to his cheeks and the wind had rearranged his thick brown hair. He looked out of place in the little café, Laurent thought, with his coal black cashmere overcoat and Gucci loafers.
“Come have a Christmas drink,” Laurent said expansively, motioning to the waiter again. “It’s a surprise to see you here.”
“Yeah,” Windsor said, dragging up another chair to the table. “I’m a little surprised myself. But there’s only so much joyful, greedy delight you can see in a young child’s eyes before you want to go screaming out for the nearest bar.” He tossed his handstitched, kidskin gloves onto the table top. “I’m about Christmassed-out, if you want to know.”
Laurent laughed and the waiter brought Windsor a tall, watery pastis.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Laurent asked him.
“I’m surviving,” Windsor said. “Listen, I overheard something this morning at the tabac. Can you believe that place is open on Christmas morning? I’m convinced it’s really a betting shop.” He took a long drink.
“Hair of the dog?” Laurent said, proud of his idiomatic use and enjoying Jean-Luc’s look of incomprehension.
“Yeah, big time,” Windsor said, his hand shaking as he set the glass back down. “Anyway, I was going to pop over and tell Maggie, but now I’ll let you do the honors. It’s about Connor.”
Laurent noticed that Windsor obviously could not resist glancing over at Jean-Luc as he spoke the dead man’s name.
“You’ve heard something about Connor in the tabac?” Laurent asked.
Jean-Luc studied his drink quietly during the other two men’s exchange.
“Yeah, from Gaston himself. He was reading dirty magazines or something and I heard him say to the guy that works there about how he knew the man who was murdered at Domaine St-Buvard and all.”
“He knew Connor?” Laurent asked.
“Yeah, he said he worked for Connor, if you can believe it. I find it a little hard to, myself. He said Connor hired him to give you―” he jabbed a finger at Laurent. “―a very hard time. To scare you off, upset your wife, etcetera.”
Jean-Luc cleared his throat and both men turned to him. “It is the truth,” he said, looking up from his drink. “MacKenzie gave the gypsy money to chase you away.”
“It’s unbelievable,” Windsor said, sipping his drink and shaking his head.
“When MacKenzie was killed,” Jean-Luc continued, “Lasalle came to Eduard and me, to...to see if the arrangement couldn’t be continued for different reasons.”
There was a brief silence and then Laurent spoke.
“Perhaps it will not make anyone’s life better for Maggie or Grace to know about this, Windsor,” Laurent said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, keep this information to yourself. Comprends?”
“Yeah, okay,” Windsor said uncomfortably. “If you think so.”
“I do. Maintenant...” Laurent lifted his glass up for a toast and looked at both Jean-Luc and Windsor, “a toast to the women in our lives, eh? They make our lives richer, more complicated....” he hesitated.
“...a lot more unpleasant...” Windsor said as he raised his glass.
“...and very necessary,” Jean-Luc finished. They all drank with satisfaction.
At that moment, Eduard walked up to the table.
“Bastards!” Eduard hurl
ed the word at them and shook with rage and the morning’s alcohol. “Foreign bastards!” He turned from his address of Laurent and Windsor, to Jean-Luc. He spat on the man. Jean-Luc caught the spittle full on his chest and never flinched.
“You, Jean-Luc Alexandre, are a traitor to your village, like your brother, Patrick!” Eduard said.
Laurent stood up and pushed Eduard away, three blunt fingers against the older vigneron’s chest.
“Go, Eduard,” Laurent said calmly. “Go home.”
But Eduard had been drinking steadily all morning and was not going to be so easily dismissed.
“Bâtard!” he said again, this time directly to Laurent. “I want you out of Domaine St-Buvard!”
“Go home, Eduard,” Laurent repeated, turning away from him to sit back down.
“I will kill you for this, Dernier,” the older man hissed, impotent and frustrated, from where he stood in the middle of the crowded café terrace. “I will take your land from you, I will drive you from St-Buvard.”
Windsor’s mouth fell open as he listened to Marceau.
“Your tricks have not managed it so far,” Laurent said over his shoulder, refusing to face the man and his vitriol directly. He thought Jean-Luc was wise to remain silent. Whatever words Jean-Luc might say would only serve to enrage Marceau further.
“I will kill you for this,” Marceau repeated, looking from Laurent to Jean-Luc and back to Laurent. It was not clear to anyone which man he intended to kill. Indeed, the confusion seemed to be in his own mind as well. His face was contorted and flushed. His thick eyebrows looked wild, no longer distinguished, and his eyes held a manic hunger in them that even the alcohol couldn’t dull.
The three ignored him. Eduard Marceau turned and stumbled out onto the street, knocking coats and newspapers off tables as he went. The noise of conversation resumed in the café.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 62
