Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  You don’t suppose that little rat Gaston pressed charges? “I don’t like this,” she said.

  Laurent went to meet the detectives at the front door. Maggie stayed in the kitchen listening to their solemn greetings in French, and then forced herself to join them in the foyer.

  She looked untrustingly from Bedard to his subordinate. Bedard spoke rapidly to Laurent in French. Maggie slipped her hand into Laurent’s and held it tightly. She squeezed his hand and looked up at him as he turned to her to translate.

  “He says Connor’s body...they are finished with it.” Laurent looked back at Bedard, whose face was grim. Maggie wondered whether he practiced that look or whether it came naturally.

  “There will be no funeral,” Laurent said. “Au moins, not here. The body is flown back to Boston. To MacKenzie’s family.”

  Detective Inspector Bedard spoke again, his hands resting comfortably in his pockets, his jacket mis-buttoned and stained from breakfast or perhaps even dinner last night. Maggie watched his face closely. He sounded more guttural than most of the Frenchmen she had heard, as if somehow his rolling r’s were a sign of great accomplishment or even rank. She hadn’t liked him much before, when he and his gang had set up their operations in her basement. She liked him even less now.

  Laurent gave a short sigh and spoke back to Bedard, roughly, it seemed to Maggie. His voice was louder, more commanding than the stone-faced policeman’s. Finally, Laurent turned to her.

  “Maggie,” he said, “I must go with them for a little while.”

  “Why?” she asked, darting a glance at the two intruders in her foyer. “Are they arresting you? Is this―?”

  “Non, Maggie,” Laurent said firmly, looking into her eyes. “They are only asking me more questions. You will go to Grace’s, okay? D’accord, chérie? Go to Grace’s.”

  Maggie nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “I will call you there later,” Laurent said. He kissed her briefly, then grabbed his jacket from the rack in the hallway. Maggie stood in the doorway and watched as the three men got into the car. Bedard sat in the back with Laurent. She picked up Petit-Four and watched the car until it disappeared behind the twin olive trees at the end of the drive.

  5

  Grace opened the door, her beautiful face puckered into a sympathetic frown, and drew Maggie into the long paneled hallway of the castle foyer.

  “Poor dearest,” Grace said, peeling off Maggie’s heavy wool peacoat and tossing it on an intricately carved wooden bench that served as a receptacle for umbrellas and coats. “Come in and have a drink. Windsor’s just making it. I see you’ve brought your baby.” Petit-Four stared out from under Maggie’s arms with large, blinking brown eyes. “We’ll put her with Mignon―they were litter-mates, right? They should be fine.”

  Maggie looked down the long, impressive hall. Heavy gilt-framed oil paintings―landscapes and anonymous portraits―stared down on her. The tile beneath the entryway Oriental rug was expensive and Florentine, she was sure.

  “Grace, this place is a palace,” Maggie said.

  “You always say that, darling. Thanks.” Grace took her hand and led her down the hall. “Now, don’t freak, okay?” she said. “Guess who’s here too? She called right after you did.”

  They entered the first door on the right at the end of the hall into a large parlor furnished in a combination of French antiques and cozy Elizabethan tapestries. An enormous flint-gray stone mantel that Grace had found in an antiques market in Arles dominated the large room. One side of the room was wallpapered in a pattern of yellow flowers against a pale green background. Facing sofas and two over-stuffed chairs rested on an 18th-century floral needlepoint rug.

  Windsor stood up, a proffered gin and tonic in his hand, and smiled broadly at her. She could see the very straight back of their other guest, but it wasn’t until the woman turned to look at her that she recognized Connor’s winsome, difficult cast-off, Lydie.

  “Maggie, you remember Lydie, n’est-ce pas?” Grace sang out gaily as they joined the others. “She was in the neighborhood, etcetera, etcetera. Windsor, that drink looks marvelous. Got another for a thirsty wife?”

  Maggie was feeling very tired all of a sudden, and the news that Taylor was spending the night in Aix had now been balanced out by Lydie’s presence. Maggie just wanted to collapse and talk freely among friends.

  Grace reached out for Petit-Four.

  “I’ll take her into the kitchen, darling. That’s where our beastie currently reigns.”

  “Thanks, Grace,” Maggie said, wondering if she sounded as exhausted to others as she felt. “I couldn’t leave her, you know?” She sagged onto one of the large blue couches stamped in fine threads which formed a pattern of hundreds of subtle fleur-de-lys.

  Windsor left his chair and sat on the other side of Maggie. “So, what, exactly, happened Mags?” he asked.

  Maggie looked at Lydie and then at Windsor and waited until Grace had returned and claimed the drink Windsor had made for her.

  “She’s fine, Maggie,” Grace said, seating herself. “Now, what happened?”

  Maggie took a deep breath. “They just came and took him,” she said. “We didn’t even have breakfast.”

  “Did they say why?” Windsor asked. “Was it for questioning, or were they arresting him?”

  “Laurent said it was just for questioning,” she said. “But the cops looked so serious. They acted like they thought Laurent was guilty,” she said.

  “Did they handcuff him?” Lydie asked. She spoke begrudgingly, as if expected to join in but not really wanting to much.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “That’s a good sign.” Grace smiled encouragingly.

  “Were they taking him to Aix-en-Provence?” Windsor asked.

  “I...I don’t know,” Maggie said. “I assumed so.”

  “I know it doesn’t help to tell you not to worry, darling,” Grace said gently. “But the cops will get to the bottom of this and Laurent will be released. You know that.”

  “You know who the killer is, don’t you?” Maggie said suddenly, angrily. “Gaston Lasalle damn well did it, but do the cops question him? No! Do they haul his skinny ass down to...wherever it is? No...”

  “Gaston Lasalle?” Grace frowned.

  “Yes!” Maggie said, putting her drink down on the coffee table. “He was there that night, Grace. He showed up after all. Have you told Windsor about him? About how―?”

  “I told him.”

  “Maggie, drink something,” Windsor said, motioning to her glass. “Grace, find her a coaster.” He looked back at Maggie. “Why would this Gaston character want to kill Connor?”

  Maggie clenched her fists in her excitement. “Why?” she repeated.

  Grace returned from the sideboard across the room with a coaster and placed it under Maggie’s glass.

  “Gaston doesn’t really have a motive, does he?” Grace asked.

  “He’s a low-life scumbag!” Maggie said, raising her voice. “Isn’t that motive enough?”

  Windsor placed a calming hand on Maggie’s shoulder.

  “I know this Gaston,” Lydie said, her face pinched in concentration. “He is bad. But he is not a killer.”

  Maggie looked at her. “What is he, like, a friend of yours or something?” She asked.

  “He is not evil,” Lydie responded. “He wouldn’t have killed―”

  “Oh, what do you know!” Maggie turned from her in disgust.

  “I know I loved Connor,” Lydie said, her eyes flashing. “I know I was to become Madame MacKenzie.”

  Maggie turned to Grace who looked at her with a mild reproof on her face. “Did you know about Connor’s museum?” she asked.

  Maggie saw the briefest of aroused emotions flicker across Grace’s smooth face before she covered the betrayal with an arched eyebrow.

  “The Museum of American Art?” Grace took a sip of her drink. The ice cubes had melted to slivers even in the coolness of the house. “He t
alked about it.”

  Maggie looked at both Windsor and Grace. “Did he talk about where, exactly, he was planning on building this museum?” Her words were cold.

  “Who have you been talking to, Maggie?” Windsor spoke quietly, his voice laced with concern.

  “You both knew?” Maggie felt the emotion that she had held in check about to explode.

  “Knew? Knew what?” Grace smiled at her in confusion. “He’d talked about building this museum but he’d been talking about it forever. Maggie, you knew Connor, he wasn’t a businessman―”

  “He was an artiste,” Lydie pointed out. “The museum would have many original MacKenzie pieces―”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Grace said impatiently. “It was just talk, don’t you see? A way to get up the collective noses of the people of St-Buvard, a way to-”

  “You know,” Maggie said bitterly, “Connor sounds sweeter and sweeter the longer he stays dead.”

  “Tais toi!” Lydie jumped to her feet and faced Maggie aggressively. “I was to be his wife! Don’t say anything about him, you...américaine!”

  “Oh, get her away from me!” Maggie snarled.

  Windsor patted Lydie’s arm and looked with some confusion and helplessness at his wife.

  “Maggie, darling,” Grace said smoothly. “He wasn’t really going to build a museum, it was just Connor-talk―”

  “You said he had the money for a project―”

  “I also said he wasn’t the commerce type. Now, come on!” Grace motioned Lydie to reseat herself. “Everyone’s sort of edgy, it’s understandable.” She gripped Maggie’s wrist. “Laurent is going to be okay, Maggie. He is.”

  “And what about Connor?” Lydie whined, wrenching free from Windsor’s mindless pats. “Is Connor going to be okay?” She looked appealingly to Grace. “We were friends, Grace? You and me and Connor and Windsor, yes?”

  Maggie noted a look of hesitancy in Grace’s smooth, controlled features.

  “You will help me get what belongs to me, yes?” Lydie looked from Windsor to Grace. “Connor was to make me his wife,” she said urgently. “He said I will be in his...what?..his...?”

  “His will? “ Grace asked her, frowning.

  “Oui! His will! You must help me, Grace. His family, they do not know that I was to be his wife.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Maggie said and reached for her drink.

  Grace shushed Maggie. “Lydie, dear,” Grace said, “you have nothing to worry about. The American legal system is such that you will get all that is entitled to you by Connor and his will. Comprends-tu? His family will not hide it from you.”

  Lydie looked eagerly at Grace, the greed and desperation turning her young face ugly. “Tu es sûr?” she said.

  “Oh, bien sûr,“ Grace said, smiling benignly at the girl. “I am quite, quite sûr.”

  After Lydie had gone, happier and richer of mind than when she’d arrived, Maggie polished off her second gin and tonic and curled up on the couch, her irritation with the Van Sants gone. Grace had changed from her country Chanel costume of a golden-chained blouse tucked into her tailored straight skirt and was now wearing a simple black cashmere catsuit. It fit her flawless figure like a coat of paint.

  Maggie sighed and watched Windsor prepare yet another drink for Grace and found herself wondering what stage the two of them were in their quest for pregnancy. Should Grace be drinking so much if she’s trying to get pregnant, Maggie wondered?

  “The fact is,” Windsor said, as he pushed aside the small saucer of wedge-cut limes on the coffee table, “the kind of project Connor was talking about creating would have destroyed St-Buvard.” He looked over at Grace. “At least,” he added, “the St-Buvard we all know and love. What with parking lots and advertising and widening the roads and all―”

  “He was going to build it on Domaine St-Buvard,” Maggie said, watching Windsor closely.

  “Where else?” Windsor replied, leaning back into the couch that faced Maggie. “We were all told the new owner of Domaine St-Buvard was going to sell―at least, eventually. And it’s good land.” His eyes flicked again to Grace. “It’s much in demand,” he said. He looked back to Maggie. “What did you think? That Connor was going to somehow force you and Laurent off your own land?” He grinned at the absurdity of the thought.

  Maggie shook her head and looked down tiredly at her drink.

  “It’s just that Connor liked to flap his gums, you know?” Windsor continued. “And he flapped them in the direction of Eduard Marceau and half a dozen other villagers as they’d be sitting out at Le Canard or someplace until he was sure he’d stirred up a real hornet’s nest.”

  “Why?” Maggie didn’t want to think of Connor this way.

  Windsor’s look was mild. “Why would you say, my dear?” He turned to his wife.

  Grace sighed and looked at Maggie with a weary smile. “Connor was just Connor,” she said enigmatically. “A scoundrel, a pain in the ass, a dear boy and a good friend.” She shrugged.

  “What about Lydie and Connor’s will?”

  Grace laughed. “And here I thought that woman had no imagination.”

  “So you don’t think Connor put her in his will?”

  “I guess he might have told her he had,” Grace admitted.

  “But it’s bullshit.”

  “Gee, Maggie, what do you think?”

  All three of them laughed, the relief and pleasure of which was cut off by the ringing of the phone.

  “God,” Grace said, getting up to answer it. “I hope Taylor hasn’t bitten anybody or tried to fry the cat again.”

  She picked up the phone and listened, her face breaking into a smile before turning to look at Maggie.

  “Well, I know someone who’ll be very happy to hear that, Laurent,” she said, gesturing for Maggie to come to the phone.

  6

  It was fantastic, really. Maggie hugged herself as she drove home.

  Laurent was not only safe and sound, but home whipping up dinner and whistling a merry tune. He’d even asked her to stop by the village for cigarettes and bread on her way home. Maggie patted the little dog in her lap absently as she drove down the main street of St-Buvard and wondered how changed it would all have been if Connor had built his museum.

  Windsor was probably correct, she thought. The village and its aloof charm would have been destroyed. It occurred to Maggie as she parked the car in front of the village tabac, that Windsor and Grace had a small stake, at least, in the museum not being built. Their half million dollar country retreat wouldn’t be much of a retreat after the traffic started to back up on the M-40 and was rerouted by their bedroom window.

  The tabac was empty except for a pudgy, tattered Kris Kringle lookalike who was flipping through a Nice-Matin under the scowling eye of the proprietor―a dark-faced, little ferret of a man, possibly Algerian, thought Maggie. She reached the counter and asked for the cigarettes when she noticed a third person in the shop. Gaston Lasalle saw her as well and abruptly dropped the newspaper he’d been scanning behind the cartes postales carousel and slipped out the front door. Maggie noticed he limped, and a heavy bandage protected his right ear.

  She bought the cigarettes and took her time getting the money out of her coin purse―to the annoyance of the tabac owner―in order to give Lasalle plenty of time to vacate the area. When she emerged onto the street, he was nowhere to be seen. Wondering if the remainder of her year was going to consist of trying to avoid Lasalle in public places, Maggie made her way down the narrow village street to the bakery. As usual, Madame Renoir had a generous exhibit of cakes and sugar-varnished buns in the window. Little fruit tarts and custard pies sat on wooden tiers, looking like luncheon-food for fairies. Beyond the array of sugary goodies, Maggie could see the big baker herself behind the counter. As usual, Madame Renoir’s face was florid, and she beckoned Maggie into the shop with what looked like not a little urgency.

  As Maggie entered the shop, she could see that Madame
Renoir was towering over young Babette, whose pregnancy, it seemed to Maggie, had lately begun to show. Babette sat huddled on a wooden chair against one wall of the shop, her hair draping down her face like a ragged curtain. She was crying.

  Maggie suddenly wished bread hadn’t been on her list this evening. She didn’t want to become embroiled in whatever was happening between the two women. Madame Renoir gestured for Maggie to come closer.

  “Oh, Madame Dernier!” Madame Renoir said unhappily, looking down at Babette, whose face was puffy and ugly with her tears. The baker patted the frail shoulders of the girl, raising vague puffs of flour in the air as she did so. The old baker looked woefully at Maggie. “The police have arrested Babette’s father.”

  Chapter Eleven

  1

  Maggie nearly dropped her purse on the floor. Babette’s father killed Connor? She approached the two carefully.

  “When did this happen?” she asked Madame Renoir.

  Madame Renoir ignored the question.

  “Poor Babette!” she said, shaking her gray head. “She loves her father very much.”

  At this point, Babette began to screech: “Bâtard! Bâtard!” and shake her small, balled fists in the air in front of her, thoroughly upsetting poor Madame Renoir and unnerving Maggie.

  As Maggie watched the fit progress and the screams of “bastard!” rise and fall and rise again in the small bakery, it occurred to Maggie that she wasn’t sure precisely to whom Babette was referring: Connor, Detective Bedard? Or her beloved papa?

  “Madame Renoir,” Maggie spoke to Madame Renoir as she watched Babette. “What evidence do they have? Did he... he didn’t confess?”

  Instantly, Babette leaped up and confronted Maggie.

  “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she screamed.

  Madame Renoir gathered the red-faced girl into her beefy arms and lifted Babette off her feet. Without a word to Maggie, Madame Renoir carried the limp Babette, sobbing anew, to the back room.

  Within seconds, she returned and closed the backroom door behind her. She shook her head at Maggie and looked as if she were quite disappointed in Maggie’s behavior.