The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “I do know them! I knew her, don’t you see? She mattered to me, Laurent. I didn’t know her very well or very long, but we connected. I need to do this.”

  Laurent looked at her, then sighed, adding cream to her coffee.

  “I can’t handle full cream, Laurent. I have to keep my calorie-count under a thousand per cup.”

  “I don’t care how fat you get.”

  Maggie smiled.

  “I know you don’t. But I care.” She leaned over and kissed him. “I’m meeting Marie at Le Canard. I have to go.” She looked guiltily at the remaining dishes from last night’s dinner.

  “Go on,” he said. “Go.”

  2

  Marie sipped carefully from the bistro’s heavy crockery. The espresso burnt her tongue and she found herself savoring the pain. Her eyes searched the streets for Maggie’s approaching car. She could only hope that Grace was right. Before it was too late for all of them.

  3

  Maggie picked up her cellular phone as she drove and dialed the private office number that Bedard had given her before he’d left last night. She was mildly aware of not wanting to talk with Bedard where Laurent could overhear. The Inspector picked up immediately.

  “Allo?” His voice was warm and familiar to Maggie. Even in her present irritation with him, she could feel the tingling sensation of excitement in her chest just at hearing his voice.

  “Are you nuts? Arresting René Pernon?”

  “Ahh, Maggie.”

  “I cannot even believe you.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. I was taken off the case two days ago.”

  “Is that why you came by last night? To see how you could get back into the case?”

  “You know why I came by last night.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry.” Maggie turned into the parking lot of Le Canard and immediately spotted Marie sitting at a remote table on the terrace. “Look, now what?” she said into the telephone. “Are we going to work together on this?”

  “We are.”

  “And you’ll start by filling me in on everything? The autopsy results? The murder weapon? Everything your men found?”

  “If it ever got out I told you, I’ll be directing traffic in Nîmes.”

  “When do we meet?”

  4

  Maggie sat close to Marie and held both her hands in her own. Their coffee cups sat between them, the coffee untouched and cold.

  “Okay, first tell me how Pijou is,” Maggie said.

  Marie looked terrible. Her eyes were red from days of weeping, her hair seemed more gray than black, and her shoulders slumped inside her black dress like a carelessly draped hat rack. Yet, in spite of that, Maggie detected a certain strength or resolve in Marie that she hadn’t seen at the funeral or since Brigitte’s death. The “steel” she had expected to see in the Frenchwoman was there, after all. It was buried deep, but it was there.

  “She is still unconscious,” Marie said, taking a deep breath. “She cannot tell us what happened. She cannot tell us who did it.”

  “What do the police think happened?”

  Marie made a terrible face and Maggie had a sudden horror that the woman would expectorate right there in the sunny café.

  “The police!” She said. “They say only that she was attacked with a blunt instrument.”

  Maggie waited.

  “She was found beaten like this in her apartment.”

  “Who found her?”

  Marie shut her eyes tightly.

  “René. He went to check on her,” she said. “She had missed supper. She was not answering her phone.”

  “Are the police using the fact that René discovered her as evidence against him in some way?”

  “Who knows? They are idiots.” Marie waved away the approaching waiter without looking at him. Maggie couldn’t help but notice how imperious Marie could be.

  “And the prognosis? When do they expect Pijou to awaken?” Maggie asked gently.

  Marie looked at her, her eyes clouded with her pain.

  “Look, Marie,” Maggie said, squeezing the woman’s hands. “I know I can help you, okay? But I can’t do much with this dream-thing. I’m sorry. You dreamt the killer came to you? It’s not a fact, you see? I mean, if you have a theory about who you think killed Brigitte, please, tell me. Let’s piece some things together and see what kind of picture we get, you know? Hunch, yes, dream, no. Do you understand?”

  Marie smiled sadly at Maggie.

  “You Americans are not very mystical, are you?” she said. “Perhaps, yes, we should call it a hunch, then. Not a dream. I had a terrible...hunch. And his face is disguised, shielded, in my hunch. But he is known to me, this killer. Of that I am positive.”

  5

  Using a clean dishtowel, the burly chef wiped the grease from his broad forehead. Why did the fool have to mention that they’d dined at his restaurant? He’d not even been interviewed by the police up to now! Surely, this new information would interest them!

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Yves had said on the phone in that too-confidant way of his. “No one will listen to the American girl. Besides, they have arrested my father-in-law. They will not be asking anymore questions.”

  René! Arrested! August Schworm shook his head. And how, exactly, was that arranged, he wondered? Poor René! There would have to be many, many Hail Marys said to assuage the culpability of this new crime, many hours at Mass spent trying to atone, trying to blot out the deed, or, at least, the too-vivid memory of the deed. And perhaps absolution would never come. August knew that possibility. Oh, how well he knew that possibility.

  6

  “You’re not going to like many of my questions.”

  “I’m ready to hear them.” Marie sipped her cold coffee and made a face. “Where is that imbecilic waiter? He’s ignored us all morning.”

  “I’m wondering about Monsieur Schworm.”

  “Uncle August?”

  “I can’t help but think he’s involved, somehow.”

  “Impossible.” Marie studied Maggie. “Why do you think so?”

  “It was at his restaurant Brigitte was to have dined that last night.”

  Marie frowned.

  “But he wasn’t there that night,” Maggie continued. “I called and asked his head-chef. August never showed up.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “August had opportunity. I saw him and Brigitte together once and it was obvious he was in love with her.”

  “That is perverse!”

  “Nonetheless, it was my observation. If it’s accurate, it gives him motive. Lastly, the police haven’t questioned him about her death at all and that’s probably the biggest sign of all that he’s somehow involved.”

  “You don’t know him or you couldn’t suggest such a thing. I’m losing faith in you, Maggie.”

  “He doesn’t have to be the murderer, Marie,” Maggie said gently. “He just has to know something---more than he should. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Marie tossed down a five-franc note and stood up abruptly. She straightened her dark cardigan down over her hips.

  “Bon,” she said. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  Within the hour they were seated in the back room of August Schworm’s cozy, trendy bistro. Maggie’s stomach growled as the tantalizing waftings of cassoulet and pot au feu drifted behind the curtain that separated them from the rest of the restaurant.

  “I am so sorry to hear about René, chére Marie.” August shook his massive head and patted Marie’s hand. “If I can do anything to help you until he is released....you must let me help you.” He turned to Maggie and nodded solicitously at her. “You will eat something, yes?” he asked, his face round and red and damp. “Un peu de soupe, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps, l’ognion?”

  Maggie shook her head but Schworm ignored her refusal; he turned and ordered a staff member to bring her a bowl of onion soup.

  Marie leaned across the table and took the fat man�
��s hand.

  “Thank you, August. I have confidence that René will be home soon.” She paused briefly. “We have come to talk of Brigitte,” she said evenly.

  Maggie did not have to look too closely to see the man’s pained reaction. His gaze flitted from Marie to Maggie and back again. He cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “I have some questions,” Marie continued. “And I want direct answers. No bull-shit, August!”

  “What are you saying to me, Marie?” August protested, pulling his hand free. “I only tell the truth. Why would I not? I loved Brigitte!”

  “Too much, maybe, eh?” Marie said, her eyes bright with challenge.

  “What are you saying to me?” August looked horrified, but whether from the idea of it or the fact that the truth had been discovered, Maggie couldn’t tell. “She was my niece! My brother’s daughter! Are you suggesting something sick? Something unclean? Has grief demented you, Marie?”

  Maggie held her tongue and watched the pair.

  Marie reclaimed the man’s hand.

  “You grieve her as I do, I know that, August,” she said. “I don’t think you loved her in an unhealthy way...”

  “I should certainly hope--”

  “But you know something about how she died, of that I am now certain, and you will tell me what.”

  Maggie could hear the laughter coming from the main dining room, and the musical clink of silverware against china. The tension snapped neatly with the arrival of a waiter. He set down a large bowl of steaming soup in front of Maggie and placed a soup spoon beside it. Silently, he retreated.

  “Now, why is it,” Marie said, nailing him with an unflinching gaze, “that you should know something about that?”

  August groaned.

  “I don’t know how it is you know,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow, remorse. “I told Yves there would be trouble. I told him it was madness.”

  “What was madness?” Maggie’s impatience got the better of her.

  August stood up and walked to the curtain. He glanced out briefly at the busy dining room and then returned to their private table. He looked as if the walk had aged him ten years.

  “I did love her,” he said.

  “I know you did--” Marie began soothingly.

  “Non, non,” August waved away her comforting words. “Je l’adore!” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “How could I not? She was perfection, my Brigitte. Une ange parfait.”

  Marie stared at him, her face a mask of pain and disbelief.

  “Tue es un bâtard,” she said.

  He nodded, unperturbed.

  “Je sais,” he said, not looking at her. “There is nothing you can tell me about myself that I have not said--in much harsher terms.”

  Maggie cleared her throat.

  “What was the madness that Yves suggested?” she repeated.

  August looked at her as if she had just materialized at the table. He seemed surprised to see her sitting there with a bowl of soup in front of her.

  “I...he arranged for me to...” August covered his face with his hands. “Brigitte, ma chou,” he choked. “Forgive me! Mon Dieu, have I aided in your murder? Will I ever know if I have helped kill you?”

  “Arranged for you to do what?” Marie asked coldly.

  “To meet secretly with Brigitte that night,” he said, beginning to weep. “He said she wanted to see me and that he was surprised but that she must have been secretly attracted to me all these years and...and that she had suggested we finally...we finally...” He jerked his face up, the tears had made greasy inroads down his plump cheeks. “She never showed up! Yves set it up so I would not have an alibi for the time of her death! The bastard made it all up--”

  “So even Yves could see your unnatural lust for her...your own niece,” Marie stated flatly.

  “It wasn’t unnatural!” August boomed. “Call it what you must, but you know in your heart that it wasn’t incest.”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “I don’t know, Monsieur Schworm,” she said. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing, although I doubt it. In America, the relationship between uncle and niece is very close and any sexual or romantic interaction between them would definitely be considered--”

  “She wasn’t my niece! Tell her, Marie! I may be a stupid old fool but I’m not a pervert! Tell her, Marie!”

  Maggie looked at Marie with confusion.

  “The fat bastard is correct,” she said. “Brigitte and and Pijou are not his nieces because they are not really René’s daughters.”

  Chapter Eleven

  1

  “Not his real daughters? Are you serious?” Grace shifted the phone to her other ear and spooned more strained beets into Zou-zou’s willing mouth.

  “Not only not his real daughters,” Maggie said from the phone booth she had called Grace from, “but the product of a rape a year before she met René.”

  “Marie was raped? Oh, my God. Brigitte and Pijou were...well, that might explain a few things about Pijou.”

  “Let’s be kind, Gracie.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry. How awful. Oh! So, does, like, the whole world know about this except Brigitte and Pijou?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not very modern way of handling things.”

  “We’re not talking a question of biological parenthood, here Grace,” Maggie said. “It’s one thing to be told you were adopted, quite another to be informed you were a result of a night of terror, violence and hate.”

  “You’re right, you’re right.” Grace put down the jar of beets and scooped her daughter up into her arms and held her tightly. “Poor Marie. I can’t believe how much misery one person is expected to endure in a lifetime.”

  “I know. She’s an incredible woman. Absolutely remarkable. We split up so she could go visit René in jail. I mean, the interview with Uncle August had to have practically killed her, but she’s more sure than ever that we’re going to find Brigitte’s killer.”

  “She trusts you. She’s smart.

  “Grace...Marie told you about her dream, didn’t she?”

  “The one where she’s told that I’m next on the list?”

  “Yeah, okay, well, just keep your eyes open okay? Be extra careful?”

  “You don’t really think this lunatic is going to come after me next, do you?”

  “Just be mindful, will you?”

  “I always am, darling. You be mindful of your own self! I’m not the one being attacked by crazy French pharmacists. What’s the deal with him, by the way?”

  “I’m supposed to meet with Bedard in a few minutes and he’ll let me know why he went so looney and if they’re going to keep him locked up.”

  “You’re meeting with Bedard?”

  “Is there an echo on this line?”

  “Is that wise?”

  “In what sense are you wondering if it is wise?”

  “Don’t be a wise-ass, Maggie. You know in what sense I’m talking about. His attraction for you is out in the open now. This is a very dangerous stage for a newly-married, mildly discontented ex-patriot to find herself in. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Maggie sighed.

  “I am not going to betray Laurent or my wedding vows, Grace, if that’s what you’re asking--”

  “Oh, no, well, maybe not intentionally...”

  “...Or unintentionally find myself being seduced...”

  “Can you honestly say you’re not attracted to him, too?”

  “Grace, I--”

  “Or that things aren’t just wobbly enough between you and Laurent right now where you might be a shade, shall we say, receptive?”

  “You’ve definitely got to find something besides babies to occupy your mind, Gracie. You’re starting to invent soap operas in your head.”

  “Just so long as you keep yours, darling.”

  “I’ll do my best. Look, there he is, I’ll ring you later, okay?” She disconnected and emerged from the phone bo
oth. Bedard had parked his unmarked police cruiser in front of the booth.

  Maggie hopped into the passenger side seat.

  “Bonjour, Roger,” she said, a little flushed and self-conscious from her conversation with Grace. Damn you, Grace! she thought as she tried to relax.

  “Salut, Maggie,” Bedard said, grinning at her.

  He looked altogether too handsome, Maggie thought with a sinking feeling. His brown hair was tossed boyishly around his face and his blue eyes twinkled with delight.

  “Have you got much for me?” Maggie asked and then cursed herself for using this particular American idiom. “I’ve got some new information for you,” she added hastily.

  “Ah, yes?” Bedard put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Then perhaps you should go first.”

  Maggie gave herself a moment to collect her thoughts. She tried to ignore the feeling of sitting so closely to Bedard and the agitation that it caused in her stomach.

  “Your men never interviewed August Schworm, did they?” she asked.

  Bedard frowned.

  “I don’t believe so,” he said.

  “Schworm was lured away for a rendezvous with Brigitte on the night of her murder.”

  “‘Lured’ by whom?”

  “Yves Genet.

  “For what purpose?”

  “Schworm says to criminally implicate him and to put him more firmly in Genet’s power.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Maggie shrugged.

  “Maybe Uncle August has some dirt on Yves and this is a way for Yves to control him.”

  “‘Dirt’?”

  “Maybe Yves isn’t as clean as it looks in this murder case.”

  “He has an airtight alibi.”

  “Yeah, I know. But why else send Uncle August off on a wild goose chase?”

  “Schworm says Madame Genet never appeared?”

  “That’s right. He says he showed up at the café Yves told them to meet at and waited nearly two hours past the agreed-upon time. Finally, he left and went home.”

  “Don’t you think that sounds strange?”

  “In France?”

  “Don’t be offensive.” But Bedard’s lips twitched into a smile.

  “Well, where else could he have gone? Brigitte was killed at what time?”