The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Need one more, Laurent,” she called into the kitchen.

  “So, tell me,” Grace said, putting down her glass of California Chardonnay. She got up from the sofa, her tunic falling in silken folds around her slim frame. “Windsor, keep an eye on the kids for a sec, will you?” She took Maggie by the elbow and steered her to the table. “How much does Laurent know of yesterday?”

  Maggie touched a bruise above her right eye.

  “He thinks I walked into a wall.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “He knows I talked with Yves.”

  “How’d he take that?”

  Maggie shrugged and smiled at Laurent as entered the dining room with the last bowl of bourride in his hands.

  “We are ready, yes?” he said to her, not answering her smile with one of his own.

  “I believe we are,” Maggie said. “Win? You want to bring the kiddies to the table?”

  “Not really,” Win said, pulling himself to his feet. “Where’s that baby-sitter?”

  The adults laughed.

  “Now, now,” Grace said, scooping up little Zou-zou. “Why would you need a baby-sitter at a dinner party?”

  “Why indeed?” Windsor said, smiling at Maggie. He looked tired to her. “Where do we sit?”

  They took their places and Laurent handed warm bread pieces to the little girls. He spoke softly to them in French, helping them to dip their bread in the rich soup, and even sullen Taylor muttered a few words in response.

  “I love bourride!” Grace exclaimed, sipping her soup delicately. “As only you can make it, darling Laurent.”

  Laurent nodded in acceptance of the compliment.

  “So,” Grace continued, this time directed at Maggie. “What is the story about Pijou?”

  “Still alive,” Maggie said. “And after Yves looked at her, likely to remain so.”

  “You mean he saved her?” Windsor frowned and reached across the table for the pepper.

  “More like he re-diagnosed her,” Maggie said. “She was seriously hurt but Yves didn’t think, by the time she got to the hospital anyway, that it was life-threatening anymore...not like the doctor who was in the ER. What a whacko! He was like, this complete hysteric....”

  “So Pijou, she is fine?” Laurent asked the question without looking at Maggie.

  “Well, no,” Maggie said slowly. “She’s in a coma.”

  “And you can’t tell us how she came to become that way because of the ildren-chay, right?” Grace nodded at two girls sitting politely at the dinner table.

  “And she cannot talk over their heads, say, in a foreign language,” Laurent said meaningfully, “because she doesn’t know any.”

  Grace and Windsor exchanged a look. Uh-oh.

  “Taylor and Zou-zou understand French,” Maggie said. “As you have been demonstrating so well since we sat down.”

  “Did I mention how much I love this bourride?” Grace said brightly.

  “Which is more than can be said of you, chérie.”

  “I understand French. Lots of it.”

  “Tu es magnifique.”

  “Et tu es une jerk extrordinaire.”

  “Come on, you two,” Grace said, putting a hand on Maggie’s hand.

  “Did she tell you how she got her bruise on her head?” Laurent pushed back his chair and lit up a cigarette.

  “Laurent, the children,” Maggie said. “Don’t smoke at the--”

  “Because I have not yet heard how. Have I, Maggie?”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “She talks to Genet--a major suspect in a murder investigation--”

  “He’s not a major suspect.”

  “How do you know? Is your friend Bedard telling you he is not? Or is this Maggie being smarter than everyone else?”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to ruin this dinner.”

  “Don’t be stupide. I created this dinner, how can I ruin it?”

  “That must be French logic. It’s lost on me.”

  “As are most things French, eh, Maggie?”

  “Drop-pez dead-ez.”

  “So amusant.”

  The knock on the door caused everyone to jump.

  “Oh, my God, I think I swallowed an olive pit,” Grace said, coughing.

  Windsor gave her a couple gentle slaps on the back and Zou-zou knocked over her milk.

  “I’ll get it,” Maggie said. “I can use the air.”

  It was Bedard.

  “I know why you’re here,” Maggie said.

  “I’m not sure you do.” Bedard was dressed for off-duty. He wore jeans and a blue cotton sweater. The blue did wonderful things for his eyes, Maggie couldn’t help but notice.

  “Did Jean-Paul put out a warrant for my arrest? Are you here to discuss my behavior with my husband? Because, great, go ahead. Knock yourself out--it’ll be the cherry on his cake for tonight, I can tell you.”

  Bedard ran a hand through his hair and looked back at his car parked in the driveway. He returned his gaze to Maggie.

  “You’ve got to stop driving me crazy,” he said.

  “Who is it, Maggie?” Laurent’s voice carried down the hall and out onto the front porch.

  “Be there in a minute,” she called back. She addressed Bedard: “Step inside and we can talk,” she said.

  Bedard shook his head.

  “C’est très simple,” he said. “There is something between us, yes? You are feeling it? Am I right?”

  Maggie said nothing. She felt her stomach muscles tighten.

  “I am thinking of you too much. I get a phone call from the hospital saying Jean-Paul Remey has attacked you and I want to...what?”

  Maggie cleared her throat.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “What?”

  Bedard let out a noise of exasperation.

  “Well, let us just say, I am happy to have to come and see you again...but not to scold you, eh? Maybe to take you into my arms? I don’t know. You are driving me crazy. This stupid case is driving me crazy.”

  “You’re not here tonight...officially?”

  Bedard gave her an incredulous look.

  “No,” he said. “Not for official reasons.”

  “The whole reason I started asking questions was because I wanted to help,” Maggie said. “I wanted to help. Maybe I wanted to, I don’t know, maybe I wanted to work with you.” Maggie closed the door behind her and stepped out onto the porch. “I haven’t thought this whole thing out very well. I’m not exactly sure what my motives are. I know I’m not unaffected by our....by whatever there is between us.” She hurried on when she saw Bedard’s burgeoning grin. “I was going to call you today--before things went all crazy--to tell you that I found a tube of Clarins lipstick at the murder site yesterday morning.”

  “What?” The smile disappeared.

  “It’s not Brigitte’s but it’s not all rusty and nasty either so it hadn’t been there long. So, unless you employ cross-dressers, my guess is the killer may have dropped it.”

  “You found it?”

  “Your men missed it, Roger.”

  “Sacre bleu! Jesus Christ! How do you know it’s not hers?”

  “Her husband, Yves Genet, says it’s not.”

  “You talked to Genet?”

  “Yesterday, at the hospital.”

  Bedard rolled his eyes heavenward, then turned and looked again in the direction of his car.

  “I’ll need the lipstick,” he said wearily.

  “Of course.”

  “Look, let’s make a deal.” Bedard ran his hand through his short brown hair again. Maggie recognized it this time as a familiar gesture. She had seen Laurent do it many times during times of stress and agitation. “I will give you at least some of the information you have been asking for,” he said. “In exchange...” He pointed a finger at her. “...you inform me of who you are to speak to and when.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Sometimes I don’t know myself until it happens. The Jean-Paul thing was
totally unplanned. I just saw him and went for it.”

  “And then he went for you.” Bedard indicated Maggie’s bruise.

  Maggie ignored the comment.

  “Besides, if I tell you then you’ll formally warn me not to do whatever it is I was thinking of doing...”

  “Or accompany you.”

  “You’d come with me?”

  Bedard shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.” He looked into her face and Maggie had the terrifying feeling he was about to kiss her. “You must stop talking to people who may be violent,” he said. “...who may be killers.”

  Maggie saw a shadowed movement in Bedard’s car. He turned to look at his car too.

  “There wasn’t a better time to come,” he said. “And I couldn’t get a sitter without any notice.”

  “That’s your daughter?”

  “She was sleeping when I arrived. Wait here.” He trotted back to the car. Maggie watched him open the back door. Within a few seconds, he returned.

  “She’s still asleep,” he said.

  “How in the world do you do your job with a baby?” Maggie asked, shaking her head.

  “I wouldn’t have brought her if I thought there was going to be trouble,” Bedard said wryly.

  “You’re welcome to leave her with me, sometime.”

  “That is an incredible offer, Madame.”

  Maggie shrugged. “I like kids.”

  Laurent appeared in the door.

  “Inspector,” he said, nodding at Bedard. “Es-ce qu’il y'a un probléme?”

  Bedard looked at Maggie and shook his head.

  “I think we’ve solved it,” he said.

  “Then, come in. Have a drink.” Laurent nodded toward the car. “Bring your friend.”

  He’s got the eyesight of a Great Horned Owl, Maggie thought with amazement.

  “She’s underage,” Bedard said smoothly. “And it’s late.”

  “Papa?” The voice from the car sounded sleepy and faint.

  “Very late!” Bedard said with a grin. “Madame Dernier, I will discuss this further with you tomorrow, yes? Monsieur, merci pour tout et bonne soir.” He turned abruptly and left.

  “Back to the party, Maggie?” Laurent asked gently, reconciliation in his voice. He watched her as she tried not to look at Bedard’s retreating brake lights disappear into the dark night.

  2

  The candles still flickered on the dining room table. Taylor had begged to be allowed to blow them out after dinner, then been sidetracked by some imagined insult by her baby sister and finally disintegrated into a full-blown tantrum. She had been carried screaming out of the Dernier house by her weary father. Grace lingered a moment in the doorway, her arms heavy with her sleeping toddler, her face suddenly looking lined and old to Maggie.

  “In spite of everything,” Grace said to her friend. “It was a good evening.”

  “It was a shambles,” Maggie said, touching the baby’s cheek softly with the tips of her fingers. “Mostly my fault.”

  Grace smiled weakly.

  “The first year is always the toughest,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Maggie said, kissing her friend on the cheek. “Charles Boyer and ‘Gaslight.’”

  “Call me,” Grace said as Windsor walked back up the front steps to take Zou-zou from her.

  Maggie watched the car disappear into the gloom. She saw no flailing arms coming from the backseat and assumed that Taylor had found at least temporary peace.

  “Even the rich have their troubles,” Laurent said, coming up behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and she relaxed into them. “I’m sorry for tonight,” he said.

  “Me, too,” Maggie said. “Oh, well.”

  He turned her around to face him and they kissed deeply.

  “I don’t know why I have said these things,” he said.

  “Let’s forget it,” she said. “It’s been a long night and the unpleasantness isn’t totally your or my fault.” She closed the front door and followed him into the kitchen.

  “We can do it in the morning,” he said, gesturing to the piles of pots and pans in the sink.

  “Let’s at least get a jump on it,” Maggie said picking up a thickly-encrusted casserole. They washed and wiped in silence, the only noise the hum of the water from the tap and the sounds of china and crystal clinking musically together.

  “What did you think of Marie?” Maggie asked, breaking the silence between them.

  “Marie? Brigitte’s mother?” Laurent shrugged. “I thought nothing. She is an artiste. She wears black. She has a self-concept. I thought nothing.”

  “Yeah, she does have a self-concept, doesn’t she?” Maggie found an assortment of conflicting thoughts criss-crossing her brain. “I wouldn’t have expected her to go so to pieces like she has.”

  “She is a mother. It is a terrible loss.”

  “Yes, of course, it is. I just would’ve thought she’d had more steel in her.”

  “Artistes are passionate. They are emotional beings.” Laurent threw down a dish towel. “Done for now,” he said.

  “Yeah, okay, me too,” Maggie said. She bent down to push a large Le Crueset pot into the bottom cupboard. “There’s something wedged in here,” she said, peering into the cupboard.

  “Ah, never mind that,” Laurent said. “I will put it away. I know where things belong in--”

  Maggie drew back out of the cupboard, bringing with her the small black handgun that had served as the impasse to the pot fitting in its slot.

  “Ach, mon Dieu!” Laurent swore.

  “What in hell is this.” Maggie asked, holding the gun upside down by its stumpy handle. It was not really a question.

  “You are never in this kitchen! I cannot believe you found the stupid thing.”

  “Why is it here?” Maggie handed it to Laurent. Her face was solemn, ready to fight, wanting to.

  “I’ve had it for years,” Laurent said.

  “A handgun’s only purpose is to kill another human.”

  “Who are you quoting now? Your father?”

  “Do not dare to get sarcastic with me, Laurent Dernier! Don’t even dream of it! Do you still have enemies? Do we need protection from something you haven’t told me about? Is that why you have it?”

  “I keep it for sentimental reasons.”

  “Get rid of it.”

  Laurent said nothing.

  “Look, Laurent, I’ve given in on the hunting rifles. But I will never give in on the idea of a handgun in my house.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And you expect me to someday bring children into this house?!”

  Finally, Laurent nodded.

  “I’ll get rid of it.”

  “How?”

  “It’s not registered, I can hardly just hand it in to your friend Monsieur Inspector Bedard! I will have to dispose of it...throw it into the Rhone...what difference does it make?”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t mysteriously resurface in my house.”

  Laurent wrapped the gun up, the only sound between them the harsh crackle of the paper.

  “I said I would do it,” he said firmly.

  “Promise me on our love that you’ll get rid of it.”

  He looked at her as if startled. Then, “I promise.”

  3

  The ringing phone awakened Maggie at a little before six.

  “Mon Dieu! Who calls so early?” growled Laurent, rolling over in bed and pressing a pillow to his head.

  Maggie sat up in bed and picked up the receiver.

  “Allo?” she said.

  “Maggie? Is that you? This is Marie Pernon. Oh, Maggie, I must speak to you. Please say you will help me!”

  “Marie?” Maggie nudged her husband. “Coffee? she whispered. “Marie, are you okay?”

  “Oh, Maggie, you must help me. The police have come this morning--just like the Gestapo!--they have taken René away! My God in Heaven, they have arrested my poor René for the killing of
our little girl!”

  “Okay, Marie, now calm down.” Maggie looked at Laurent who was sitting up in bed now, looking at Maggie with concern.

  “What has happened?” he asked.

  “It’s Marie,” Maggie said. “The cops have arrested René. Please get me some coffee. I’ll be down in a minute. Marie? Tell me from the beginning. I cannot believe Bedard would do this!”

  “He is a monstre! Like all the others! Please God, Maggie, you will help me? Grace said you could. My poor Pijou! She may never awaken! My Brigitte is gone from me, and now René! Please help me!”

  “You know I will, Marie...”

  “The police are fools! They have finished with this case and the murderer goes free! You can find him, Madame Dernier, Grace said you could find him!”

  “Marie, of course, I--”

  “I have a message from the monstre,” Marie continued, her voice rising into hysterics.

  Bedard wrote her a note? Maggie frowned.

  “He has come to me in a dream, his face darkened to mask his identity. He has come to me to gloat over the murders of my children and to boast of the murder yet to be.”

  Maggie rubbed her eyes. What is she talking about?

  “The killer has told me that he will kill Grace next.”

  Chapter Ten

  1

  After making arrangements to meet with Marie, Maggie dressed hurriedly and ran downstairs. Laurent was just pouring the coffee.

  “René’s been arrested,” Maggie said. “And Marie has asked me to find the real killer.”

  Laurent looked at her blankly.

  “And that would be, because...?”

  “Grace told her about Connor, I guess.”

  “I am guessing, too, that Grace did not mention the part that you and she nearly died in the course of solving Connor’s murder?”

  “We didn’t die, obviously.”

  “Incroyable! That you are going to go off trying to find killers and murderers--”

  “You said it didn’t matter as long as it didn’t get in the way of harvesting.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Tough.”

  “What is ‘tough’?”

  “It is ‘no’, as in it’s too late to change your mind. I need to do this. I need to help Marie and René.”

  “You don’t know these people!”