The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  6

  Maggie peered through the bakery door window, tried the doorknob again, and then tapped harder this time. Her knuckles were already stinging and brittle from the cold. She had to pull her gloves off so as not to muffle her knocking. She could see nothing inside the shop. It didn’t seem to be dark in a closed-up way, she thought, just momentarily unoccupied. Madame Renoir’s living quarters were above the shop, but the baker had a sitting room in the back where she spent much of her time when she wasn’t working.

  Maggie turned and looked out onto the street. She hoped Laurent was still at Le Canard, although, from where she stood on the other side of the village square with its massive, dormant fountain and mandatory war statue, she couldn’t see the small café. She did notice Grace Van Sant’s silver-blue Mercedes parked out front of the Dulcie’s charcuterie and wondered, idly, if the Dulcies were open for business on Christmas Day.

  Suddenly, Maggie heard a noise from within the bakery. She turned back and saw the friendly, familiar rotund form of Madame Renoir slowly approaching the door. Maggie found herself remembering that Madame Renoir had been her first friend in St-Buvard. Now, she watched as Madame Renoir, her plump, red face a blur through the foggy glass pane, went through the motions of dusting off the flour from her large, heavy hands and reached for the doorknob to let Maggie in.

  Windsor felt for his gloves in the deep pockets of his coat. He paused in front of Le Canard, debating whether or not to have a drink. He had driven to Dernier’s place with Jean-Luc and so had been rudely surprised to discover that he would have to walk the mile and a half back to the village through the cold to retrieve his own car. Looking up at the shuttered windows lining the deserted street, he decided it was preposterous to think that Maggie was anywhere in the village. She was probably at his own home right this minute visiting with Grace, having a hot-buttered rum. In his haste and panic, Laurent had probably overlooked the note she’d left him telling him as much.

  Satisfied with this scenario and feeling due from his brisk walk, Windsor entered the café, ordered a tall Scotch and soda, and settled himself at one of the tables closest to the large window facing the village square. He wanted to be able to keep an eye on his car. One just never knew, he decided, what with people setting fires to other people’s vineyards and people being killed at Thanksgiving Day dinners. He took a large swallow of his whiskey.

  Thirty minutes later, Windsor paid for his drink and left the café. He walked directly to his car, his thoughts full of worry and concern for Laurent and the vineyards, as well as some uneasiness about Maggie. He wished now that he’d availed himself of the café telephone and called home to see if she were really there. He was gratified, at any rate, to hear his car, unaffected by the dropping temperatures, roar to life when he turned the key. He drove a slow, unseeing circle around the square, where he passed his wife’s parked Mercedes, camouflaged by two other cars parked alongside.

  Windsor turned the heater on full blast and pressed his aching shoulders into the back of the car seat. He thought briefly of the fire raging at Domaine St-Buvard. Poor bastards. Maggie will be beside herself when I tell her what happened. Pulling out onto the narrow village road, he calculated it would take him about twenty minutes to wind his way home in this weather. Which meant he could be in his bath in thirty.

  Jean-Luc had seen fires before, had fought them, as a barefaced youth and throughout his adult years. Provence was dry, the mistral blew hard, and these things happened from time to time. But none of the fires before had carried the same crush of guilt and responsibility as the creeping destruction of this one. He watched the northeastern quadrant of the vineyard smoke and burn like fossil fuel. They’d not been able to save the vines there, only to stop the blaze’s drive toward the stone perimeter wall that surrounded the mas.

  Laurent and the men labored to make the tractor road that ran east to west deeper and wider. Jean-Luc watched Laurent, a man he considered his friend. I am as responsible for this disaster, he thought, as if I had lit the first fragile vinestock with my pipe lighter.

  The fire had edged into the southwest quadrant now, jumping the tractor road feeding hungrily on the dry vinestocks. The smoke smelled gingery and acrid, and there now seemed to be more of it than fire. Jean-Luc turned his head to scan the northern quadrants that were burning and which separated Laurent’s land from Marceau’s. His eyes probed the fuming darkness, and he blinked repeatedly to ease the stinging in them. Through the throbbing, sour blackness, he strained to pick out the form he knew must be there, watching. The smoke and the devouring fire made a sucking sound that rasped in Jean-Luc’s ears. He felt the hairs on the back of his hand prickle and he knew they would be singed off completely if he stood still for very long.

  Up until now he knew that fighting the fire had been the most important thing. Plenty of time for everything else later. Plenty of time to find Eduard. But the longer he stood there and watched the sputtering demolition of Laurent’s vineyards―once Jean-Luc’s own family vineyard―the more blame and anger he felt for every bleary puff of ash floating in the dense air that had once been part of a carefully tended vine.

  Jean-Luc turned to speak to Laurent but was interrupted by the remote whine of the St-Etienne fire brigade. Laurent heard the siren too and looked up, his shovel in his hand. He looked around him. really for the first time, and regarded the scorched and still-flaming remnants of his farm. Jean-Luc could see Laurent’s hands tighten on the handle of his shovel.

  “I’m sorry,” Jean-Luc said.

  Laurent looked at him, his face streaked with soot, his coat pocked with burn holes and blackened by carbon. Only his blue eyes, clear and flashing, tempered the picture of gray foreboding he presented. He nodded grimly, in brief acceptance of Jean-Luc’s culpability and, to Jean-Luc’s surprise, in forgiveness of it too.

  7

  Madame Renoir smiled tiredly and ushered Maggie into the bakery. The familiar smells of just-baked cakes and caramelized sugar filled the small front room. The baker gestured to the display case and clucked at Maggie affectionately. She wore a dark, plain dress without her usual apron. Her fat ankles rested atop wide, splayed feet that were stuffed into a pair of shabby house slippers. Maggie thought she looked breathless.

  “Maggie has forgotten her Christmas pudding?” the plump baker asked as she moved to stand behind the display counter.

  “That’s the English, Madame Renoir,” Maggie said. “Americans aren’t really into puddings much. No, I forgot bread, and thought a few tarts would be nice too. I can’t believe you’re open on Christmas Day. I see Madame Van Sant’s car is parked out front. Has she been in yet?”

  Madame Renoir pulled out a tray full of lemon cream and nut cookies. “I have much still from the réveillon,” she said, indicating the miniature, yellow cookies. “You are familiar, yes?”

  “The réveillon. That’s the thirteen desserts, right? That everyone eats on Christmas Eve?”

  “Exactement. Eaten before the Mass. They symbolize Christ and his apostles. It is a Provençal tradition.”

  “I see you’ve got a lot left over.”

  Madame Renoir sighed heavily and placed the tray of iced cookies on the counter.

  “The people of St-Buvard care little for traditions,” she said. “They will eat the cookies for the...how you say?...the little snacks, yes? Not for the purpose I am baking them. You understand?”

  “I’ll take them all,” Maggie said. She dug in her purse for the correct change. “You know, Madame Renoir,” she continued. “I don’t even know your Christian name. Your first name.”

  Madame Renoir scooped the cookies into a small paper box and folded the sides up around them. She picked up a heavy pair of shears and cut a long strip of twine.

  “I was called Marie-France as a girl,” she said.

  “That’s pretty.”

  “Merci.” The woman looked up from her work, her eyes kind and soft. “My mother named me.”

  “Your father
was the town hero,” Maggie said carefully, not exactly sure of how to phrase her questions.

  “C’est ça,” the baker replied. That’s right.

  “So I guess you were pretty hurt by everything that happened when he had to go to prison.”

  Madame Renoir tied the parcel tightly and snipped the loose ends of the twine from the knot.

  “Nothing else?” she said, her eyes hooking Maggie’s with a sudden coldness.

  Maggie reached for the package. “Comme bien, Madame Renoir?” she asked.

  “Rien,” Madame Renoir replied. “Joyeux Noël, Madame.”

  “Merci,” Maggie said. “And Joyeux Noël to you too, Marie-France.” As she said the words, her eyes strayed from the baker’s face to the handbag that was laying on its side on the floor by the backroom door. Now that she saw it, Maggie was surprised she had missed it before. It was a very expensive lady’s handbag that, the last time Maggie had seen it, had the name “Grace Van Sant” handstitched inside in gold threads.

  Maggie cleared her throat and tucked the cookie parcel under her arm.

  “You know, Madame Renoir,” she said, forcing her voice to remain clear and pleasant. “I think I know Madame Van Sant pretty well and I can’t believe she’d leave here without taking her purse with her.”

  The bakery was quiet for a moment. Then, Madame Renoir moved to the doorway where the purse lay and picked it up. She looked momentarily confused as she held it, as if not quite sure what it was.

  Maggie walked past her to the back room and, pushing wide the half closed door, saw Grace stretched out on the floor, a light smear of blood showing the trail where she had been dragged to where she now lay. Even now, knowing what she already knew about Madame Renoir, knowing what must have happened, Maggie’s first reaction was that Grace had had some kind of accident. Maggie quickly knelt beside her hurt friend, touching the clotting blood behind her head.

  “Madame Renoir,” she said, cradling Grace’s head and holding her hand. “You must call the hospital. L’hopital, comprends-tu? Elle est blessée.” She is hurt.

  The baker simply stared at Maggie as if to decide how much of a threat this young, foreign woman was to her. And Maggie, sensing the terrible shift in the woman’s affect, spoke more firmly to her: “Madame,” she repeated. “Où est le téléphone? Madame Van Sant est bien blessée.”

  Maggie saw the bloodied rolling pin on the floor beside Grace.

  Madame Renoir clasped her pudgy hands together in front of her and looked down at them as if contemplating what they had done. Her eyes were flat and cold.

  Carefully, Maggie peeled off her heavy wool coat and folded it under Grace’s head. She touched Grace’s face with a trembling hand and then stood up and faced Madame Renoir.

  “Où est la téléphone?” she repeated, looking around the room.

  “Il n’y pas de téléphone.”There isn’t a telephone. Madame Renoir spoke sullenly, her face revealing a dangerousness once more.

  “Madame, nous devons l’aider.” We must help her.

  “C’est une truie!” Madame Renoir said. “Madame la souillon Fitzpatrick. Je n’aiderai pas celle qui a tué mon père.” She is a pig, a slut. I won’t help she who killed my father.

  Over the pounding in her ears and the labored breaths of the baker, Maggie could almost hear the pieces of the puzzles click together.

  “Elle n’est pas Madame Fitzpatrick”, Maggie said. This isn’t Madame Fitzpatrick. “Comprends-tu? C’est Madame Van Sant. Souvien-tu?” Maggie edged toward the door.

  Madame Renoir leaned down and picked up the heavy rolling pin from the floor. Maggie could again see its floury surface stained with red.

  “Et l’enfant dans le cimetière,” Maggie said breathlessly, her heart beginning to pound, “ce n’est pas le sien.” The baby in the cemetery isn’t hers either. She saw Madame Renoir falter for a second and then quickly regain her equilibrium. Her eyes watched Maggie’s as if in a sort of a trance. Her hands still gripped the rolling pin. “Louise n’est pas son enfant,” Maggie repeated.

  “Pourquoi viens-tu ici? Pourquoi viens-tu ici nous blesser moi et mon père?Pourquoi?” Why have you come here to hurt me and my father?

  Maggie willed herself not to glance at Grace. A solicitous air, even vaguely expressed, might be the trigger that caused the baker to attack. “Je n’ai pas blessé votre père, Madame Renoir,” I didn’t hurt your father, Maggie said.

  The open door of the backroom loomed tauntingly on her left not two yards away.

  “Tu l’as fait.” Maggie said. It was you.

  The woman raised the heavy rolling pin over her head. Maggie knew she would have no other opportunity. She dashed towards the door; in her mind’s eye she could already envision herself out of the shop and running down the street to a café full of people when she felt the blow on the back of her shoulder. The pressure was immense, exploding in black nuclear clouds of pain, and bringing her to her knees. She could hear the woman shrieking behind her as she fell.

  “Je ne pas blessé lui! Je ne pas blessé lui! Vous me l’avez fait faire!” I didn’t hurt him, I didn’t. You made me.

  Just as the woman raised her hand for a second shot at her, Maggie rolled under a large table, ignoring the fiery pain in her shoulder.

  “Harlot! Cochon! Vous êtes amants, n’est-ce pas? Il m’a dit, non, mais je connais la verité! Je connais la verité!” You are lovers, aren’t you? He said, no, but I know the truth! I know the truth!

  Before Maggie could decide what to do next, she heard a small groan. Grace was reviving. Madame Renoir heard the noise too and Maggie watched as the baker’s heavy legs moved away from the table and toward where Grace lay on the floor.

  Maggie crawled out from under the table, her left arm limp and numb at her side. Madame Renoir was standing over Grace’s body, prodding Grace with the rolling pin.

  “Il m’aimait et ne pouvait penser à rien d’autre. Certainment, pas à toi!” Maggie shrieked at the woman. He loved me and could think of nothing else. Certainly, not you. “Tu n’etais qu’un bébé. Il ne pensait jamais.” You were only a child. He never even thought of you.

  Madame Renoir hesitated. “Ce n’est pas vrai vrais,” she said. It’s not true.

  “Tu sais que c’est vrai,” Maggie said as she moved to put a large worktable between them. You know it’s true. “Dans ton coeur, tu le sais.” In your heart. “Il étàit toujours avec moi et jamais avec toi. Toujours.” It was always me and never you.

  Madame Renoir lunged at Maggie, swinging at her with the long rolling pin. Maggie moved easily out of her reach from across the table.

  “Vous mentez!” the baker screamed.

  “You let your father die for your crime and all the time it was you!” Maggie screamed back. “You, that slept with the Englishman! You, that killed them all! How far did you carry your lie, Marie-France?” Maggie moved quickly to avoid a rushing jab from the baker. Unless she could maneuver the woman into changing places with her on this side of the table, sooner or later, Maggie knew, Madame Renoir would tire of trying to hit her and simply turn around and finish off Grace.

  “Il m’aimait,” Madame Renoir whimpered. He loved me.

  Maggie moved closer to where Grace lay.

  “Robert Fitzpatrick? Ridicule! Don’t be ridicule. He loved his wife. Comprends-tu? Sa femme. It’s why you killed him and her and the children too. Isn’t it?”

  As Madame Renoir moved around the table toward Maggie, her weapon raised over her head, Maggie ran the final steps to Grace’s side. She now faced the baker directly across the table. It was a moment of truth, Maggie knew, whether her adversary was aware of it yet or not. She had succeeded in removing the immediate danger of Renoir hurting Grace and had thereby ensured her own vulnerability. She couldn’t switch places with the baker a second time. Grace wouldn’t, in all likelihood, survive it.

  Maggie looked wildly around the room.

  Don’t bakers ever use knives?

  All she s
aw were mixing bowls full of batter and dough, crocks of butter and linen bags of flour. She noticed a large wooden mixing spoon on the table and snatched it up. It was ridiculous as a defense against Renoir’s rolling pin but it gave her something to hold in her hands.

  “Vous êtes méchant!” she screamed at the woman, brandishing the spoon. “Back off! Do you hear me?”

  Madame Renoir regarded her coolly. She straightened up and hefted the rolling pin against her stubby fingers as if measuring its weight for the job she intended for it.

  “Tout la village sait que ton bébé n’avait pas de père,” Maggie said. Everyone knows you had a baby without a father.

  “Vous mentez!” You lie.

  Again, Maggie forced herself not to look at Grace for fear it would trigger an assault from Madame Renoir.

  “Le bébé, comment est il mort?” she asked. How did the baby die? “Voila la question tout le village se pose savoir.” That’s what everyone wants to know.

  “Vous mentez! Vous mentez!” the woman howled. She lashed out at a shelf of glazed strawberry tarts and Maggie watched the perfect little pies tumble onto the floor in a mass of jam and broken baking molds. The destruction seemed to serve only to further enrage Madame Renoir. She brought the rolling pin down on a small worktable lined with half a dozen bowls filled with gooey yellow batter.

  Maggie stole a quick glance at Grace and realized with a mixture of dread and relief that she was regaining consciousness. Quickly, Maggie looked over at Madame Renoir, hoping she hadn’t noticed too. “Madame,” she said. “Qu’est-ce que ça peut faire? “ Who cares? “Tout le monde s’en moque.” No one cares. “Toi-même, tu n’étais qu’un enfant.” You were just a child yourself.” Maggie’s voice was soothing, calm.