“But what if someone wants to say that the more complex sauces and stews that France is known for, its wizardry with pastries and such--something no housewife in her right mind would ever attempt--that these are the keystones to the country’s cuisine. Hardly simple! I mean, they could make an argument, you know.”
“Shut up, Grace.”
“Yeah, well, I can do that. The rest of it sounded great, darling. Really cookbookish, I’m serious. Made me hungry!”
“Shut up, Grace.”
“So what else did Madeleine say? You really think she’s had a lift? She can’t be 38 years old yet. Maybe it was corrective, you know? Fixing a harelip or something?”
Maggie rolled her eyes at her friend and put down her notes. She signaled a waiter to bring them two more coffees.
“I told you most of what she said, and I also told you I liked her.”
“I’m so pleased for you, angel.” Grace didn’t smile.
“Look, you’re the one who’s leaving me,” Maggie said. “Let’s please not forget who’s pissing off to the States and leaving me here barely able to order my own baguettes at the market.”
“I’m feeling sad, Maggie.”
“Oh, shut up, Grace!” Maggie looked at her in exasperation. “You’re not sad. You want to go--you’re happy to go! You just don’t like the idea that I might not be so stinking lonely after all when you leave and isn’t that an ugly way to feel about your best friend?”
“That’s not at all how I feel,” Grace said unconvincingly. “Oh, how I’m going to miss being made to feel small and mean by you.”
“I’m ignoring you.”
“So tell me about the investigation. Can you do that? Can we talk about who killed Brigitte without hearing a rundown of all the new best friends you’ve collected in the meantime?”
“You’re doing this to make it easy on me, aren’t you, Gracie? That’s so sweet of you! Like throwing rocks at Lassie because you know she’ll get in trouble for being with you but it just breaks your heart to do it. That is just so fucking sweet.”
“I expected to be missed, Maggie! Is that so terrible? Yes! I want to go! Can’t it still hurt to leave you? And can’t it hurt to think I’m so damn replaceable? What’s it been? Two possible best friend replacements in forty-eight hours?”
“No one could ever take your place, Grace.”
The two friends were silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “There’s no easy way to leave someone you care about. Maybe I’m trying to make you the bad-guy because I can’t stand to think I’m doing this deliberately.”
Maggie reached over and gripped Grace’s hand.
The waiter came and set down new coffee cups, frothy with steamed milk.
“Pijou said she propositioned Bedard, did I tell you?” Maggie pulled away and dumped a packet of sugar crystals into her coffee.
Grace grinned.
“She’s such a tart, isn’t she? But Bedard is awfully cute. He eyes you pretty good, Madame Dernier.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Like you don’t know it. So did you ring him up and tell him about Madeleine’s choice of suspects?”
Maggie shook her head.
“Saying Brigitte was having it off with the hospital pharmacist didn’t impress me as a good enough reason to believe the guy did it,” she said.
“But he could’ve?”
Maggie shrugged.
“I’m going to go talk to him.”
“You’re not!” Grace smiled broadly. “Boy, this is like old times, isn’t it? Want some help? I can knock over some enema kits or something while you rifle his work diary.”
Maggie ignored her.
“The reason I didn’t call Bedard was because I had nothing but gossip to pass on. And since I didn’t feel in the mood to be condescended to, I thought I’d wait until I had a confession or something like that.”
“God, isn’t it weird all the sleeping around this crowd does?” Grace made a face and sipped her café au lait. “I mean, Yves does it with everyone, including Madeleine and Pijou and now Brigitte with this guy? I would’ve liked to have thought that she was, you know, the injured party, but if she was screwing around too...”
“I didn’t know what to think when Madeleine told me,” Maggie admitted. “I mean, it's true we didn’t know Brigitte very well, but it was still shocking.”
“Do you believe Madeleine?”
“Why would she lie to me? She loved Brigitte. She thought she was passing on the name of Brigitte’s killer.”
“And what was that name, exactly?”
Maggie flipped open her notebook again.
Grace laughed.
“You keep your murder investigation notes all mixed up with your cookbook notes?”
“Don’t have to lug around two notebooks that way. Jean-Paul Remey.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Can’t imagine why you would.”
“And the police are telling you nothing?”
“Nada. Bedard is true to his word.”
“Oh, well, you didn’t need his help with Connor.” Grace said, quietly, referring to the mutual friend who had been murdered at Maggie and Laurent’s home two years earlier.
“Sometimes I still can’t believe Connor’s dead,” Maggie said. “People who are so much fun and so full of life...”
Grace opened her purse to extricate the required francs and centimes for the coffees.
“Right!” she said brightly. “What’s next? The hospital? Monsieur Pill-Mixer? I suppose we’re safe enough there if he should happen to feel cornered and want to elude us by slitting our throats.”
“I’m going alone, Grace. Thanks for the offer all the same.”
“You can’t go alone! Did Nancy Drew go without George? Did Lucy go without Ethel? Did Thelma handle it without Louise? Well, skip that last one...”
“Alone, darling,” Maggie laughed. “Don’t you have children-type things to do? Where’s Zou-zou?”
“I have plenty of things to do, Maggie, dearest. I’m moving in two weeks in case you’ve forgotten. I just thought this would be a good opportunity to spend some time together.”
Maggie stood up and tossed down her own francs for the coffees.
“Come to dinner tomorrow night and bring Win and the kids. Laurent said to make sure I reminded you.”
“It’s hardly as exciting as tracking and belling the killer in his lair.”
“Then you’ve obviously forgotten Laurent’s béchamel sauce. It doesn’t get any more exciting.” She paused. “Maybe I should write that down.”
“You’ll never convince me, darling.”
“Fortunately, I don’t have to. I’m sure my editor will think it’s all terribly authentic, and that’s all that matters.”
“If you say so.” Grace gathered up her Prada handbag and gloves and stood next to Maggie. “Personally, I cannot imagine people getting so excited about putting meals together. What next? The art of dish-washing?”
Maggie looked at Grace with surprise.
She knew Grace didn’t cook but it had never occurred to her that her friend might not be able to appreciate good food.
“Well, maybe leaving France won’t be so devastating for you, after all,” was all she said.
2
Maggie carefully cut the tomato into thin slices.
Spontaneity and simplicity, she thought as she worked. Make it quick, make it very close to its natural state. That was the key. No grinding and manipulating of the foods. No heavy seasonings, either. She tossed chunks of blue cheese into a large earthenware bowl of mesclun and added careful drops of a port vinaigrette. What was all this to Grace? she found herself wondering. Just fuel? Just so much nutrients arranged in a tasty manner? God! She should go back to the United States!
Maggie put down her knife and stared out the window. And when had it all changed for Maggie? When had she stopped missing her Big Macs and started to appreciate the
artistry and wonder of France’s cuisine? In her heart, she believed she always had. It wasn’t something one had to learn, she thought. And Laurent had always loved to cook for her. She sighed and her eyes searched for his familiar form on the horizon. She couldn't see him but she knew he was out there somewhere, working his beloved grapes.
Grace had told Maggie over their coffees that she had been to see Marie several times and the report was always the same: she was a basket-case, unable to take succor or comfort from Grace’s visits. René assured her that there would come a time. Just be patient.
The phone rang in the salon and Maggie wiped her hands on a kitchen towel before answering it.
“Allo?” she said. She hated answering the phone when Laurent wasn’t here. Understanding French was even trickier when you didn’t have the helpful sign language that Maggie depended on for communication.
“Maggie? This is Detective Bedard.”
Maggie felt her pulse jump. Perhaps he was going to share some information with her!
“How is the cookbook coming, eh?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Remind me to give you my grandmother’s aioli recipe. It is by far the best. It will help you sell many books.”
“Oh, good,” Maggie laughed. “I only have about a dozen aioli recipes now. I think my next book will be all the variations of aioli in France!”
“Alors, Maggie,” Bedard continued. Maggie felt the seamlessness of his conversation and wondered if he were reading from a script. “I am calling to say I know about your visit with Jean-Paul Remey.”
Maggie was amazed.
“Well, it wasn’t much a visit--” she began.
“I know he was unavailable when you visited the hospital this afternoon,” Bedard interrupted. “I’m calling to say that this office has received a complaint from Monsieur Remey about your visit.”
“Are you serious?” What was this Remey-guy’s problem? She’d just left a note saying she’d come by and would like to ask him a few questions.
“...when I told him that no, you were not connected with this office or the investigation, he became very angry...”
“Don’t you think that’s unusual? That he over-reacted like that?” Maggie found herself getting excited. “A little ‘me thinks he doth protesteth too much...'?”
“You cannot ask people questions in connection with the murder, Maggie.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You are interfering with the official investigation.”
Maggie thought she could detect the first signs of exasperation from the ever-cool Bedard.
“Had you already questioned Remey?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“Maggie, I will have to have a word with your husband if you persist in this.”
Was this guy for real? Maggie nearly burst out laughing.
“Well, Laurent doesn’t tell me what to do,” she said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Detective. I’m an American wife.”
“More’s the pity,” Bedard said. “I will have no more complaints about your intervention in this matter, Maggie. This phone call is a courtesy to you.”
“What are you saying? That next time you’ll come over and arrest me?” Maggie's face felt hot.
“Next time I will not speak with you at all,” Bedard said. “I will deal with this matter through Monsieur Dernier.”
Nearly sputtering with rage, Maggie hung up on the policeman.
3
Grace tucked Zou-zou into her car seat, buckled her in and then slid into the driver’s seat, careful not to crush her new Donna Karan silk stole. Really too fussy for a trip to the pediatrician’s, she had told herself, but true to who she was, she wore it anyway, and with pleasure. Zou-zou chattered quietly to herself in the backseat, leaving Grace to her thoughts and the scenes of French countryside that seemed to have the color leached from them with every mile. Ever since her classes with Marie, Grace had found herself more and more attentive to things she’d never bother to notice before. Clouds, for example. The way they billowed and puffed, their edges stained with violet or dark bruises of color--depending on the impending weather. Grace was surprised at how much pleasure she’d begun to get simply by watching each day’s sky.
She turned off the A-20 at the sign for Aix. It was just a routine wellness check-up. Win had suggested that it might be better to get it done now in case it got lost in the time-shuffle once they were Stateside. Grace’s faith in French doctors had taken a serious hit ever since Princess Diana never quite made it to the American emergency room in Paris a few years back. But French doctors had managed to get Grace pregnant two years ago, and she was willing to forgive much for that.
Grace stared at the mildly uncompromising landscape. Autumn had edged into the scenes, with flowering stands of bright red leaves climbing up windowsills and ancient trees, replacing the fields of lavender with their own brilliance. There was so much she had missed about America. It wouldn’t have done to let on to Maggie. Grace smiled. No, that was Maggie’s special real-estate: being homesick, missing her Southern home. Grace was happy to play the polyglot; the sophisticate who was genetically comfortable in all cultures. The facts were slightly different, she had to admit. Try as she did to portray herself as something other, the fact was she missed home, she missed the familiarity of her own country, and the long breath one takes when everyone you meet is speaking your language.
And then Windsor had handed her the way out. Through no device of her own, she was being allowed to leave and go back home. It was perfect. She had all the stories to recount of her years of living in France, (“Zou-zou was born there, you know”) all the soon-to-be-made friends in their wealthy new subdivision in Zionsville--just north of Indianapolis--to be wildly impressed by the pictures of her French mansion in the countryside of the south of France (“We loved it so. It broke my heart to leave France. Always, it will be home to me.”)
She glanced in the rear-view mirror at her youngest daughter. With her tiny ears pierced with little loops of gold, her exotic name, her fluent French vocabulary, Grace considered Zou-zou to be her great French accomplishment. Silly, of course, she thought. With my and Win’s genes she’s as American as Sears and Roebuck. But to look at her.....Grace’s smile broadened as she gazed at her child.
She drove into Aix, deftly cutting in front of another driver and quickly squeezing the Mercedes into a close-in parking spot.
But, naturally, Zou-zou will remember nothing of her experience here. Brought to life on French soil after so much effort and pain and now, never to remember that France was a part of her, except through old photographs. Grace sat in the parked car; her seat belt still secure around her.
And of course, there was Taylor.
Grace found herself nearly wincing at the thought. Taylor, so nervous and unhappy until she came to France and found her precious Nanny--the one person on earth who could tame and moderate the awful child. Grace felt a flush of guilt for the thought. How would Taylor react to the kind of stimulation endured by most American children? How would her tortured, brilliant seven year-old handle America with it’s violent video fare, it’s continuous consumption, its glare and gimmick?
Grace rubbed her eyes with one hand, unmindful of what it would do to her mascara. Zou-zou cooed happily in the back seat.
Now that this part of my life has come to an end, Grace thought, the first wash of hopelessness beginning to sift over her, is the best of my life now behind me?
4
Maggie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The packet of green granules she’d dumped into the bathtub water had read: “Aromatherapy. Guaranteed to relieve stress.” She slipped into the hot water and felt the ministrations overpower her natural copywriter’s cynicism. She actually felt the stress seep out of her pores like sweat. Finally, she thought, as she lay back in the bath, advertising copy that you can believe.
Thirty minutes later, as she was
hoisting her totally relaxed, very limp body out of the now-cool tub water, she heard Laurent’s dog bark from the kitchen below. She frowned.
That’s odd, she thought. Laurent doesn’t allow the dog in the house. As eager as she was to debrief Laurent on her disturbing phone conversation with Bedard, Maggie felt the twinge of returning anxiety as she pulled on her terry cloth robe and opened the bathroom door.
“Laurent?” she called downstairs.
There was no answer except the sudden sound of pounding dog-feet coming up the stairs to her.
Oh, great, she thought, closing the bathroom door to keep the animal from jumping on her. The dog, a mixed breed standard poodle, banged into the bathroom door. Maggie could hear his labored breathing. She opened the door and put a hand out to him.
“Settle down, boy,” she said soothingly. “Calm down, now. Where is your Papa, eh?”
Within seconds, she heard the downstairs door crash open.
That was not Laurent’s style.
“Laurent?” Maggie called down. She pulled the belt of her robe tightly around her and stepped out into the hall. Her fingers felt for the collar of the big dog beside her. If ordered to, he would, she knew, attack for her.
“Ah, oui, it is me,” he called up to her. “You were expecting someone else?”
Was he drunk? Maggie wrapped her wet hair in a towel and walked downstairs. The dog ran ahead of her.
“Why’d you make so much noise coming in?” she asked. “And why is (Dog’s name) in the house?”
As soon as she saw him, Maggie froze.
He stood, nearly belligerently, in front of her. His long hair was tossed by the cold air outside and his cheeks were flushed red. He wore his usual jeans and ancient pullover, his beefy arms stuffed into his trademark corduroy jacket. He glared at her as if in a challenge. In his right hand, he held the long, wicked stock of a hunting rifle. (Dog’s name) bounded over to his master. In his enthusiasm, the dog’s tail knocked over a small Lladro sculpture on the coffee table. The figurine broke into two pieces.
Maggie felt the sound of a starter pistol explode in her head.
“What is that stupid dog doing in here?!” she shrieked. “And what do you mean bringing that gun in my home?” She picked up the broken Lladro and swept the ceramic dust into her hand. “That dog is not allowed in this house! You are directly responsible for this!”
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 76
