“Yes, I know they are.” Maggie allowed herself to be released from Laurent’s lap. “I thought I might be able to help in someway.”
“I see,” Laurent said. He turned to look at her. “I suppose violence and death are, of course, more interest than writing cookbooks.”
He was referring to the murder of a mutual friend of theirs the year before. A murder that Maggie had unraveled while exonerating another friend in the process.
“I was thinking of doing both,” Maggie said lamely.
“What is the name of the man in charge of this murder?” Laurent asked.
“Bedard,” Maggie said. “Roger Bedard. Do you know him?” Laurent’s earlier mysterious and nefarious past had more than once thrown an interesting coincidence into Maggie’s life.
He shook his head.
“Does he seem competent?” he asked.
“I guess. I thought I might be of some help. He may find the killer. I might help him find the killer faster.”
Laurent rubbed his eyes and Maggie thought he looked tired.
“It’s been a hot summer,” he said. “A lot of hot work repairing the stone walls surrounding the vineyard. Keeping the weeds and the fungus away.”
“I know. You’re never here. I’m not criticizing. I know you’ve been working hard. When do we harvest the little buggers?”
Laurent frowned.
“In a few weeks,” he said. “You know it is my busiest time. It is the time of most...great....upheaval.”
“I know,” Maggie said. “I won’t let this thing get in the way or mean I’m not there to help you during the harvesting.”
Laurent nodded.
“Bon,” he said. “Then you must do what you like. Call this Detective Bedard and begin. I am being supporting of you, of course, Maggie.”
Maggie felt a flush of affection toward her husband. She knelt next to this chair and kissed him on the lips.
“You’re up early tomorrow,” she said. “And now it looks like I’ve got a reason to be, too. Let’s go to bed.”
5
The rough-hewn stones of the restraining wall cupped the wedge of baldly-cut lawn surrounding the little patio of tables. Le Canard was the local bistro/café/bar/restaurant in St-Buvard. In such a small village it served every important function for disseminating news and gossip, providing delicious fare to accompany the many good wines of the area, and allowing a pleasant if somewhat aborted view of the ancient stone fountain in the village center. With the boulangerie closed and the post office open only two days a week, Le Canard was rivaled only by the charcuterie for business. And as Le Canard served an always-abundant flow of pastis and marinated, area olives, the rivalry was never a serious one.
Maggie had spent many afternoons at Le Canard in her two years in St-Buvard. It was a favorite place to catch a bite to eat with Laurent, and was the first place she looked for him when she couldn’t find him in his vineyard. She and Grace had taken to spending a pleasant hour each week on Le Canard’s terrace too. The plane trees that lined the road leading to St-Buvard grouped around the bar’s terrace in a friendly huddle, spilling their large, hard leaves onto the pink-stoned pavers and the wrought-iron tables and chairs.
It was Bedard who had suggested they meet at Le Canard when Maggie called him.
He lit a cigarette and pushed his demitasse cup away from the aim of the ashtray. His eyes looked more gray than blue in this light, Maggie decided. His complexion was clear and perfect; unlike the usual pocked countenance of many of his countrymen. She had decided at some point in the night last night that any attraction she might feel for this man was simply a matter of fact and not even one of much consideration. It didn’t deter her from her interest in the case or, certainly, her adoration of her husband. It didn’t make her think of running off with him or feel unsatisfied with her life (or at least no more than she already did.) And so, she reasoned, if it didn’t threaten her marriage, why not recognize the attraction, at least to herself? Why not enjoy the feeling of Bedard’s eyes as he watched her? Why not? To lie about it would only encourage a guilt she didn’t earn. Armed with the soundness of this new self-awareness and its remarkable logic, Maggie relaxed in the company of this man whose eyelashes were so dark and thick against his cheek; whose lips pulled back to reveal, surprise! straight, white teeth.
“I won’t get in your way,” Maggie said, watching his cigarette travel to his lips.
“I know you won’t,” Bedard said. “I wouldn’t allow it.”
“I can be a help.”
“I cannot imagine how, Madame Dernier.” Bedard smiled and exhaled a thin stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth.
“Does it really matter as long as I don’t obstruct your investigation?”
Bedard ignored the question.
“You are asking for facts to the case that my department has deemed confidential,” he said.
“I admit, it would help me not to go over ground you and your men have already covered.” Maggie leaned across the table earnestly. “All I’m asking is for stuff that will be public record sooner or later.”
Bedard smiled at her.
“I am sorry, Madame.”
“Call me ‘Maggie,’” Maggie said irritably, sitting back.
“Maggie.”
“Are you divorced?” Annoyed, Maggie felt a desire to throw him off balance.
The Frenchman’s smile turned into an outright grin.
“I am Catholic,” he said.
“Right. So not divorced,” Maggie said briskly. It irritated her that the man would flirt with her when he was still married. The fact that she -- a married woman -- had responded, if ever so slightly, to his attentions didn’t seem as deliberate a misdemeanor, somehow.
“No, not divorced,” Bedard repeated. “Widowed.”
Oh, God, Maggie thought. This guy is dangerous stuff. I should get up and run like hell right now.
“I...I’m sorry,” Maggie said, wadding up a paper napkin in her embarrassment.
“In any event, I must get back to the station. It should hearten you to know that my men and I have many leads and we are confident about solving this case.” Bedard signaled the waiter and took out his wallet.
“Is Yves one of the leads?”
Bedard squinted into the sun as if trying to read one of the tree limbs. “We are questioning everyone,” he said. “I’m sorry I could not help you, Maggie. I understand your wanting to do something for your friend.”
He paid the bill and smiled briefly at Maggie who felt ashamed, thwarted, and not just a little dismissed.
After he left, Maggie continued to sit at the table. The waiter returned and she ordered another coffee. The late afternoon sun had ground into the tops of the trees against the horizon and Maggie felt the faintest of cool breezes as it feathered through the outdoor café. The summer had been so brutal, so unfailingly, searingly hot, and autumn had seemed like it could never come again. But, sitting there in the dying sunlight, Maggie could sense the changing seasons, and knew that a dramatic change was imminent.
6
The Renault was parked in the gravel drive of Domaine St-Buvard when Maggie returned home. It was old, with a severely dented-in right fender. After parking their Citroen, Maggie looked into the Renault on her way to the front door. A knit, fitted, chartreuse cardigan was wadded up in the passenger’s seat. Maggie could see the Versace label clearly. Who the hell? Hurriedly, she went into the house.
The voices that greeted her came from the kitchen. A bubble of girlish coquetishness intermixed with the solid rumble of Laurent’s slow, calm French. This is reason enough to learn the damn language, Maggie thought, as she tossed down her purse and walked into the kitchen.
Pijou Pernon sat perched on a stool against one of the counters next to Laurent while he, with his back to Maggie, stood and chopped garlic on a wooden chopping board. Pijou was drinking a large balloon of red wine -- from their own cave, Maggie could see -- and wearing something one might fee
l embarrassed to wear at a topless beach in Cannes. Pijou turned to look at Maggie. Her expression of fawning attentiveness did not waver. She regarded Maggie’s entrance much as she might a dog relieving himself in the garden. She looked drunk to Maggie.
“Bonjour, Pijou,” Maggie said levelly as she came into the kitchen. Laurent swung around to see her.
“Allo, you are back,” he said and they kissed briefly before he resumed his chopping.
“How is your mother?” Maggie asked.
Pijou rolled her eyes and nudged Laurent’s big beefy shoulder.
“You see?” she said. “It’s always Marie...or Brigitte...God! Brigitte! Honest to God, this must be the ultimate one-upsmanship ever!”
Laurent turned to Maggie who was staring at Pijou in horror.
“She is very upset, Maggie,” he said. “I am making food for us.”
The Frenchman’s version of a soothing cup of tea, Maggie thought. A heady dollop of aioli with hard-boiled eggs and white boiled potatoes. What could they not cure?
“Good idea,” Maggie said. “Is there any more wine?”
“Stupid question,” Laurent muttered good-naturedly as he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and poured her a glass from the wine bottle. “What did Bedard have to say, eh?”
“Bedard? You talked to him?” Pijou wiped a streak of black mascara down her face and Maggie saw that she had been crying too. “God, I want him. Isn’t he gorgeous? Of course, Maman and Papa both hate him. They think he is the devil. He’s not arrested Yves yet and he hasn’t fallen all over them as if they’re bereaved royalty or something. In fact,” Pijou took a large swallow of her wine and Laurent filled it back up for her. “René thinks he suspects them. Can you believe it?” She laughed roughly. “They are so stupid!” She laughed again.
What a mess, Maggie thought. She looked at Laurent but he had turned back to his chopping board. A flash of irritation scored her. Fill up her wineglass but bow out when it comes to dealing with her emotion.
“So?” Pijou jabbed Maggie with a long finger. “So what did Bedard tell you? Did he say he thinks René did it? Is he going to pick up Yves? Is he going to take me up on my offer?” She addressed Laurent now. “‘Any time’ I told him. ‘Any fucking time you want.’” She laughed again and turned back to Maggie. “I don’t suppose he mentioned me?”
“He wouldn’t tell me anything,” Maggie said. “He wants me to stay out of things.”
Laurent glanced at her over his shoulder. Sorry.
Maggie smiled weakly back at him and then turned back to Pijou.
“The funeral is Saturday?” she asked.
Pijou nodded and slid off her stool to stand, unsteadily, against the kitchen counter.
“You know who I think did it?” she said. “Brigitte’s best friend.”
“Who would that be?” Maggie asked. Laurent glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled. Maggie knew he thought she’d kicked into her gentle-interrogator mode. She hadn’t noticed she had until he responded. With or without Bedard’s approval, she thought. I guess I’m on the case.
“Madeleine Dupre? You know her?” Pijou squinted at Maggie.
Maggie shook her head.
“They were friends a long time?” Maggie asked.
“A very long time. Madeleine’s husband works with Yves; that’s how they know each other.” Pijou smiled sweetly. “Doctors’ wives, you know. Madeleine was banging Yves on a regular basis until Brigitte found out. Took a dent out of the friendship, but darling, they still lunched regularly, you know. They certainly weren’t going to be tacky about it.”
Maggie didn’t know what to believe. She watched Pijou carefully to try to determine how drunk she was.
“Yves slept with Brigitte’s best friend?” she asked.
“Oh, yes.” Pijou smirked. “Does that shock you, Madame Dernier?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Maggie answered. “I suppose even a little more shocking is the idea that they remained friends afterward.”
“You know, none of us are really sure about that ‘afterwards’ part.” Pijou laughed loudly and spilled her wine on the counter.
“Don’t worry about it,” Maggie said absently, although Pijou certainly didn’t look she cared one way or the other. “By that, you’re saying Brigitte knew they continued to sleep together?”
“You know Yves,” Pijou said, shrugging. She seemed to be coming down just a tad from her earlier high. Maggie thought she noted a bit of queasiness in Pijou’s concentration on Laurent and his work now.
“Well, not really,” Maggie said. “I guess the general opinion is that he’s a real rotter, huh?”
Pijou ignored the question. She pushed her wineglass away from her on the counter and put a hand to her head.
Looks like we’ll be dining alone, after all, Maggie thought.
“Has anyone talked to Madeleine since the murder?” Maggie asked.
“Huh? Well, I certainly haven’t,” Pijou said, her tone edging closer to a snarl now. “I mean I would hardly talk to the cow, would I?”
Maggie took a chance.
“Well, why not?” she asked. “If she was so close to your sister--”
“Because of the jealousy thing, stupid!”
Laurent turned to watch the women and Maggie signaled him not to interrupt.
“Meaning Madeleine was jealous of you?”
“Of course.”
“And that would be because...why exactly?”
“That would be...” Pijou said smugly, “because I was Yves’ lover too.”
Chapter Six
1
It rained the morning of the funeral. The service was held at the Catholic chapel, L’église Saint-Honor, in Arles. After the ceremony, the funeral procession wound its way though the narrow, cobblestone streets until it reached the outer area of town where a black Mercedes hearse awaited. Maggie and Laurent walked with Grace and Windsor toward the end of the solemn little group.
“Looks like mostly business associates,” Grace said, looking impeccable in her dark Prada suit. She wore a dazzling, yet simple, 10-carat diamond and gold bracelet on her black-gloved hands.
“Whose?” Maggie asked, puffing slightly from the walk.
“Yves, naturally,” Grace answered, indicating the grieving widower with her eyebrows.
Yves shook everyone’s hands before and after the little ceremony in the chapel.. He behaves like he’s running for office, Maggie thought with amazement. At one point, René had to be physically removed from Yves’ immediate circle of friends. Maggie watched him throughout the funeral service; he seemed more intent on Yves and his actions then what was happening at the altar. Marie sat next to him, her shoulders hunched and shaking with sobs.
“His alibi is that he was in surgery at the time,” Grace continued. “And I guess it’s a pretty good one since no less than nine people can verify that.”
“Wow.” Maggie tried to see past the crowd to the waiting hearse.
“Look at the bastard,” Grace said. “He really looks cut up, doesn’t he?”
Yves smiled broadly at someone and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. He shook his head as if tut-tutting a golf score, Maggie thought.
“Which one’s Madeleine?” she whispered.
Grace scanned the crowd.
“There,” she said. “You see her? The one in the chartreuse Versace dress. Unbelievable! Talk about tacky.”
Maggie shrugged. She knew little about fashion.
“It’s a pretty dress.”
“To a funeral?” Grace said in disbelief. “Incredible.”
Madeleine wore sunglasses. Her very blonde hair was tucked elegantly into a silk scarf. Her cheekbones gave promise to the inevitable beauty behind the glasses. She held tightly to the arm of a stocky, brown-haired man. His eyes were clear but troubled. He had a nice face, Maggie thought, and wondered if he was aware of his wife’s adventures.
“I heard she was Yves’ lover,” Grace said. “Pijou told me.”
/> “Marie’s still pretty shook up,” Maggie said, changing the subject.
“Poor dear. I know. She breaks my heart. I hope they find the monster that did this soon. Look, Win, there’s our car. You two riding with us?”
Windsor and Laurent walked a few steps behind their wives, heads bowed. Laurent smoked.
When they arrived at the cemetery, the crowd was decimated. A handful of mourners stood under umbrellas in the warm drizzle next to the open grave. Maggie saw Marie and René holding each other. They were quiet now, as if stunned.
Yves was not there.
“The bastard!” Grace said when she stepped out of the car.
“He can’t make you happy, Grace,” Windsor said, helping Maggie out of the back seat. “He’s a bastard for being here and a bastard for not.”
“He can’t finish out the funeral for his own wife?” Grace said in disbelief. “Incredible.”
Maggie’s eyes scanned the small crowd. She quickly spotted Bedard, standing at the edge of the perimeter, uninvolved, observing. He met her eyes and nodded; she thought she saw his eyebrows shoot up just a tad at the sight of her 6’5” husband.
“Maggie?”
She turned back to Laurent.
“That is Bedard?” He held another cigarette between his full lips.
She nodded.
“I guess he’s checking out to see if somebody new shows up,” she said. “Or maybe if there’s going to be any grave-side confessions or theatrics.”
“Oui?” Laurent frowned. “He’s good-looking.”
“If you say so.”
Laurent looked from Bedard, now ignoring them, to Maggie. His frown remained in place.
The rain was coming down harder now and the four huddled under Windsor’s large golf umbrella. Grace had scolded him for bringing it with its large Coca-Cola logo emblazoned across the crown of it, but Maggie was grateful for its size.
As the local priest began the last words for Brigitte, Maggie could hear the soft wailing of Marie filtered against the sound of the downpour. She shivered in the heat and thought she could smell -- just the faintest hint -- of the mistral from somewhere off the coast, revving up, getting a head-start for their little patch of Provence. She remembered hearing about being able to find sand in Arles brought from the beaches of Tunisia by the mistral. The terrible wind scared her but today she found herself waiting for it, almost wanting it.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 74
