The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “She had the note with her the night she visited the Fitzpatricks and dropped it at the scene,” Windsor suggested.

  “Voila.”

  “And all this time, everyone thought the note was to the Fitzpatrick woman because she was found clutching it,” he said.

  “C’est logique,” Laurent said.

  “And Madame Renoir attacking me? What’s logical about that?” Grace frowned and twisted painfully to get comfortable against Windsor’s arm.

  “You caught her at a bad time,” Maggie said.

  “No kidding.”

  “She got it into her head that you were Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

  “Lucky me. Is there a resemblance?”

  “Well, you were both foreign, English speaking, blonde, beautiful, married. I don’t know,” Maggie said, turning to look at Windsor. “Did Madame Renoir ever come on to you, Windsor? That would explain a lot.”

  “We only slept together the one time,” he said with mock seriousness.

  “I imagine it was just bad timing, Grace,” Maggie said. “Plus, you were pregnant and starting to show. We don’t know what kind of snakes and toads were crawling around in the old girl’s brain on account of that. Probably went a little haywire every time she was invited to a baby shower.”

  They were all quiet for a moment.

  “She made the best beignets à la crème,” Grace said.

  Epilogue

  Like a blanket of purple velvet, the surrounding fields of lavender engulfed the senses, subtly, delicately, exquisitely. Spring in Provence was intoxicating. The pastures were alive with tiny kid goats and rambunctious lambs in their fuzzy sleeper pajamas, kicking up their sharp, miniature hooves in glee. The air was redolent with new-mown hay and fresh-cut lavender. Poppies dotted the landscape like bright drops of blood.

  It was Maggie’s wedding day.

  In the five months since the Christmas Day fire, Laurent’s fields had been hand planted with vinestocks from the neighboring vineyards―mostly Jean-Luc’s and Eduard Marceau’s. Eduard had pled “not guilty,” was convicted and sentenced to five years in prison. Later, in a move that surprised nearly everyone, Danielle had sold the lion’s share of the Marceau fields to Jean-Luc, keeping only the house and the surrounding rose gardens for herself. The question of where she would go and where she would live when Eduard emerged from prison was still unanswered in most people’s minds.

  Elspeth and John Newberry arrived with their granddaughter Nicole, who was to share duties with Taylor Van Sant as flower girl. Grace was eight months along, and Windsor appeared proud and happy. In a secret moment, Grace revealed to Maggie that Windsor had decided he could ignore the question of the patrimony of the awaited child. He had been profoundly affected by the thought of losing Grace and had quickly reshuffled his priorities.

  Madame Dulcie had rallied the rest of the village women to periodically visit Maggie at Domaine St-Buvard in an effort to make her feel welcome and at home in St-Buvard. The butcher’s wife made it clear she held Maggie completely responsible for clearing Patrick Alexandre’s good name. Her gratitude was, if gruff, seemingly boundless in the form of free lamb cutlets and ground beef.

  Paulette and Bernard had become, if not regular visitors to their home, then less infrequent ones. And Maggie found herself appreciating the quiet, strong farmer’s wife and marveling in the couple’s obvious affection for one another. Bernard, although never again mentioning his thanks for her efforts in clearing his name, was kind and patient with Maggie’s tortured French, and quite talkative. Maggie was surprised and ashamed that she had viewed him before as an oafish, thick peasant. He was no scholar, granted, but he was good company and could make her laugh. Babette married the biker, announced her pregnancy, and moved to Nîmes. Paulette seemed sorry to see her go. Maggie thought she could even understand why.

  The boulangerie was crudely boarded up with plywood, upon which was painted the word “Ferme.” Closed. Even after nearly six months it was painful for Maggie to look at the little shop. Marie-France Alexandre Renoir was placed in a mental hospital in the north, too far away for Maggie to indulge in any impulsive whims. In any event, Renoir’s doctors had asked that Maggie not write or try to contact the woman. They had classified Madame Renoir as a paranoid schizophrenic and asked that she not be reminded of her past life in any way. Maggie thought it a strange way to deal with mental illness. Madame Renoir had been a big part of her introduction to St-Buvard, to France itself. Every time she pulled Petit-Four onto her lap, Maggie thought of where the dear pet had come from.

  Today, she stood in the cold stone side room in the little church at St-Buvard, her friends and family waiting on the church pews polished shiny from years of penitent villagers’ bottoms. She wore a simple white dress, her dark hair off her neck in an elegant French twist, with tiny lavender and gardenia blossoms pinned in the upsweep of hair. She held a small bouquet of village flowers in her hands: violets, lavender, and pale pink rosebuds. All from her own garden.

  Maggie turned and walked to the window of the little room and looked out. The purple hills that seemed to stretch all the way to Lyons filled the horizon and, even from this distance, Maggie could smell their lovely, light scent.

  Immediately outside her window she could see the little church graveyard, its granite tombstones, ornate crosses and weatherworn angels stuck into the ground at haphazard angles. From where she stood she could just see Patrick Alexandre’s grave as well as the tip of his granddaughter Louise’s. She wondered if old Patrick was resting easier these days. But since the fear of exposing his cherished only daughter, Marie France, was the reason he died in the first place, Maggie hardly thought he’d thank her.

  “You are not thinking of jumping?”

  Maggie started at the voice and then turned to smile at Laurent. He wore a simple gray suit, a white rose bud in his lapel, his dark hair trimmed to just below his ears. He was gorgeous.

  Wordlessly, she moved toward him. He held her arms in his two hands and looked into her face.

  “You look magnificent, Maggie,” he said.

  “I am happy, darling.” She smiled at him and then cocked her head. “Did you think I might change my mind?”

  He leaned over and kissed her again. “I have come to thank you for my early wedding gift.”

  Maggie looked at him with a look of mild confusion. Then her eyes strayed to the door and the noise of the gathering congregation outside. She smiled back at him.

  “So Roger made it,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if he’d gotten my message.”

  Laurent took her into his arms and she felt her residue nervousness fade from her as completely as watercolors in a rainstorm. As he held her, Laurent whispered into her ear: “You never asked me about the fortune the old gypsy woman told you. The one on the little tape recorder?”

  Maggie smiled into his shoulder and smelled his mixed scent of lemons and musky maleness.

  “I forgot all about it,” she whispered. “What did she say?”

  She felt Laurent shrug.

  “Only that you would marry a good man and bear him many sons.”

  Maggie laughed. “Yeah, grape-picking sons, right? You’re making this up,” she said.

  “Better study your French and find out, eh?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Susan Kiernan-Lewis lives in Atlanta and writes about horses, France, mysteries and romance. Like many authors, Susan depends on the reviews and word of mouth referrals of her readers. If you enjoyed Murder à la Carte, please consider leaving a review saying so on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com or Goodreads.com.

  Follow Susan’s website at susankiernanlewis.com and feel free to contact her at sanmarcopress@me.com.

  MURDER IN PROVENCE

  Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  The failing evening light wove through the gaps in the wicker-backed chairs like golden strands of hemp. There was a faint fragrance of garlic and lemons in the air as the lower streets’ many bistros prepared to satisfy
their patrons with special renditions of paella or cassoulet and soupes des poissons. The warm, caressing light and the delicious scents should have combined to make Catherine’s walk more enjoyable as she negotiated the rough cobblestone road to the stretch of unembellished, middle-class apartment buildings where her aunt lived. She held her breath in order to hear the soft tinkle of wine glasses and dinner plates being set down on starched tablecloths, or the sounds of people laughing, talking. The voices would carry easily on the breezes that scooted inland from the sea.

  Yet she heard nothing. The bistros and outdoor cafés, evident on this summer night only because of the wafting odors and her own knowledge that they were there, were out of sight and silent from this distance. She stared up at the tightly shuttered row of windows above her in the deserted little mews, so dark and filthy in its inhospitality. One would think the whole street deserted as a result of some recent, natural catastrophe. Why hadn't she gone the longer way round? Past the bustling restaurants and the slapping water of the moored sloops in the tiny harbor? Why did she always have to take the short-cut, the quick-fix? She'd worked late at the hospital again tonight. How stupid! Or was it greed? Were the three hours of extra pay worth the risk of being late to her aunt's special dinner?

  Catherine had reasoned that, by taking the back streets to her aunt's neighborhood, she would lose nothing. Nor would she have to pay the exorbitant charges a taxi would demand--the bandits!--to take her there from the bus stop. No, this was certainly the smart thing to do.

  The dormant, dark windows on either side of the close alleyway stared blindly down at her. The cobblestones themselves were damp and gritty but there had been no rain recently that Catherine knew of. The alley--too small to allow even the smallest of compact cars--narrowed further. She approached the last gentle turn before the final climb up ancient stone steps to the foundering light of the plateau and the row of tidy, bland, apartments where her aunt lived. She quickened her pace and looked back over her shoulder. There was nothing behind her except the narrowing alleyway with its movie-set back prop of shadowy buildings and the darkness that seemed to swallow up her trail like a treacherous mountain shelf that slowly crumbles into oblivion as each footstep leaves it. Catherine hurried to stay ahead of it.

  She found herself walking lightly, as if not to disturb the rats and the street cats she could not see but knew were there. She held her breath again and listened a second time for any noise other than the sound pounding in her ears of her own heart. At what point had she become nervous? she wondered with surprise. When had she stopped thinking of work and which doctor had said what and which patient had inspired the new anecdote she might tell at dinner, and when, instead, had she become aware of how dark it was getting and how lonely this street was?

  This time when Catherine held her breath, she heard it.

  Her hand tightened on the leather shoulder bag over her right shoulder and she winced as the strap bit into her thin cotton blouse. The two bottles of vin de pays in the bag were heavy.

  A muffled, lumbering sound, of something moving unnaturally, almost silently, across the cobblestones, echoed softly in her brain.

  Catherine began to run.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1

  The heat was blistering. It poured into the open window of the dining room like a malevolent odor, creeping into the fissures and cracks of the plastered walls and wooden floors until there was no room in the farmhouse that wasn't stifled by its invasion.

  Maggie stood in the door between the dining room and the kitchen trying to avoid the swelter of the kitchen. She watched as her husband, Laurent, scooped up the chunks of white fish from the bourride he was making and placed them on a deep baking dish in the oven. Laurent was over six foot five, and broad. His bulk seemed to fill the farmhouse kitchen as he moved from cook stove to oven, picking up utensils from the counter, cracking eggs in a china bowl as he moved. The kitchen was the only room in the house that had been remodeled to any real extent. Its ceiling arced to an apex that held a large circular skylight and its cabinets were glass-fronted to show the pretty, mismatched bowls and plates within.

  Maggie held her pen poised over a notepad in her hand. She was a small woman, her hair dark and long to her shoulders. This morning she had in pinned up off her neck; the effect accented her high cheekbones and seemed to make her small, perfect mouth more noticeable. Her eyes were brown, fringed with thick lashes. They watched Laurent intently as he worked. He was sweating heavily

  “Why not just leave the fish in the soup?” she asked, frowning. “Seems a lot of trouble, not to mention discomfort on an August day, to bung it in the oven when you're just going to put it back in the soup anyway later.”

  Laurent gave his developing aioli another push of the food processor's button. He didn't look at his wife. His light brown hair was long to his shoulders and his eyes were dark, nearly pupilless. Maggie had always found them sexy but a little disconcerting too, as if she could never read them. Those mysterious eyes were a lot like Laurent, himself, she'd discovered, who had more secrets and facets to his taciturn personality than most people could begin to credit him with. He was a big, handsome Frenchman with more enigma than Anna Karenina, a whole lot more sex appeal...and a past.

  Maggie waited patiently for the loud whirl of the machine to stop. She knew he was being difficult, but she felt a little difficult herself these days. She would wait him out.

  Laurent seemed to be examining the top of the stove where a large copper-bottomed skillet sat and a small cauldron of potatoes boiled. Finally, he turned off the food processor and stuck his finger into the golden yellow goo.

  “Laurent, I want to know...”

  “It's just the way it is done,” Laurent replied, not looking at her.

  “Well, great, I guess that would be a new approach for a cookbook. I'll just write: 'Take the fish out of the soup for no good reason that I can tell you and keep it warm until you're ready to return it to the soup.' That sounds good, Laurent, and I'm sure housewives all over America will accept these little French peculiarities as, well, special to the region.”

  “You're getting on my nerves, chérie.” Laurent said cheerfully over his shoulder as he grated a rind of orange peel into his simmering fish broth.

  “Laurent, you said you'd help me with the cookbook. Now, if you don't want to help me...” She snapped shut her notebook and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “Merci, Maggie,” Laurent said, grinding pepper into the broth. “I don't want to help you.”

  “Thanks, merde-head,” Maggie said sweetly and exited from the kitchen.

  Laurent turned to her in exasperation.

  “You are driving me crazy!” he said, his eyes bright with frustration. “I have not the patience for this constantly: 'Laurent, I need to know why you are salting the lamb, Laurent, would not ten garlic cloves make the aioli smoother? what makes you put in only six? Laurent, why that pot? Laurent, how you this? Laurent...'“ He paused and then spoke more softly. “Chérie, I agree you must find something to do with your time and this cookbook idée is good, but...” he looked around the kitchen for the words. “...but you are driving me crazy!”

  “I know, I know.” Maggie moved back into the kitchen, feeling the blanket of heat like a warning against her face and arms. Did he look a little tired these days? Was she the reason for that? It wasn’t his project. She knew that. She put down her notebook on the kitchen counter. It must be her own lack of confidence and enthusiasm, she thought with a light wave of guilt that had her constantly trying to involve him with it. A conciliatory smile came to her lips and he responded to it by relaxing the lines of tension across his brow.

  “I'm sorry about calling you a merde-head,” she said. She raised up on tip-toes and kissed him on the lips.

  “Il ne pas de quoi,” he murmured, rubbing his hand lightly up her bare arm. “Go on, now,” he said. “It's too hot in here. Why don't you go out into the garden? I'll join you when I'm
finished.”

  She nodded and he kissed her and released her, turning once more to his stove. Maggie picked up her notebook and the tall tumbler of sweet iced-tea from a coaster in the living room. Her little poodle-terrier looked up sleepily at her from the couch but gave no indication of wanting to follow her outside. She crossed the living room and left the house through a pair of French doors.

  Domaine St-Buvard was a stone mas. An old French farmhouse connected to fifteen acres of prime vineyard that Laurent cultivated for the light vin de pays he produced called Vin de Domaine St-Buvard. He'd inherited the house and the land from his uncle two years earlier when he and Maggie had decided to move to Provence for a trial year to work the land and live in the house. Before the end of the year they had decided to marry and to stay in France.

  Although not an unhappy decision for Maggie, it was still not one she was totally comfortable with either. Her language skills had improved greatly in her two years living in St-Buvard, deep in the heart of Provence, although she still preferred that she and Laurent speak English at home.

  The stone farmhouse had never once been a ruin as all the large older homes in Provence seemed to have been at one time. It had withstood its share of upgrading over the years, the plumbing and bathrooms being the most extensive, and had never been allowed to sit unloved and unlived in. It had been built, not unusually for Provence, with building materials from the rough landscape; stones of varying sizes were cemented into loping knee-walls called pierres apparentes. Cherry-colored roof tiles stretched the whole expanse of the roof like a flying carpet of pink and the bright blue shutters dotted the otherwise austere façade of the farmhouse in what seemed a cheerful, almost offhand, gesture.

  Like most self-respecting French domiciles, the house had a garden. In her first year in Provence, Maggie had been content to simply enjoy the garden, watering when necessary. It had been choked, not unattractively, with wild geraniums, roses and bushes of lavender. Several gnarled olive trees led from the cracked and ruined terrace to the grape fields, and a hedge of wild-cherry trees and cannes de Provence wound around the four, worn stone columns that punctuated the small garden.