“Maggie has forgotten her Christmas pudding?” the plump baker asked as she moved to stand behind the display counter.
“That’s the English, Madame Renoir,” Maggie said. “Americans aren’t really into puddings much. No, I forgot bread, and thought a few tarts would be nice too. I can’t believe you’re open on Christmas Day. I see Madame Van Sant’s car is parked out front. Has she been in yet?”
Madame Renoir pulled out a tray full of lemon cream and nut cookies. “I have much still from the réveillon,” she said, indicating the miniature, yellow cookies. “You are familiar, yes?”
“The réveillon. That’s the thirteen desserts, right? That everyone eats on Christmas Eve?”
“Exactement. Eaten before the Mass. They symbolize Christ and his apostles. It is a Provençal tradition.”
“I see you’ve got a lot left over.”
Madame Renoir sighed heavily and placed the tray of iced cookies on the counter.
“The people of St-Buvard care little for traditions,” she said. “They will eat the cookies for the...how you say?...the little snacks, yes? Not for the purpose I am baking them. You understand?”
“I’ll take them all,” Maggie said. She dug in her purse for the correct change. “You know, Madame Renoir,” she continued. “I don’t even know your Christian name. Your first name.”
Madame Renoir scooped the cookies into a small paper box and folded the sides up around them. She picked up a heavy pair of shears and cut a long strip of twine.
“I was called Marie-France as a girl,” she said.
“That’s pretty.”
“Merci.” The woman looked up from her work, her eyes kind and soft. “My mother named me.”
“Your father was the town hero,” Maggie said carefully, not exactly sure of how to phrase her questions.
“C’est ça,” the baker replied. That’s right.
“So I guess you were pretty hurt by everything that happened when he had to go to prison.”
Madame Renoir tied the parcel tightly and snipped the loose ends of the twine from the knot.
“Nothing else?” she said, her eyes hooking Maggie’s with a sudden coldness.
Maggie reached for the package. “Comme bien, Madame Renoir?” she asked.
“Rien,” Madame Renoir replied. “Joyeux Noël, Madame.”
“Merci,” Maggie said. “And Joyeux Noël to you too, Marie-France.” As she said the words, her eyes strayed from the baker’s face to the handbag that was laying on its side on the floor by the backroom door. Now that she saw it, Maggie was surprised she had missed it before. It was a very expensive lady’s handbag that, the last time Maggie had seen it, had the name “Grace Van Sant” handstitched inside in gold threads.
Maggie cleared her throat and tucked the cookie parcel under her arm.
“You know, Madame Renoir,” she said, forcing her voice to remain clear and pleasant. “I think I know Madame Van Sant pretty well and I can’t believe she’d leave here without taking her purse with her.”
The bakery was quiet for a moment. Then, Madame Renoir moved to the doorway where the purse lay and picked it up. She looked momentarily confused as she held it, as if not quite sure what it was.
Maggie walked past her to the back room and, pushing wide the half closed door, saw Grace stretched out on the floor, a light smear of blood showing the trail where she had been dragged to where she now lay. Even now, knowing what she already knew about Madame Renoir, knowing what must have happened, Maggie’s first reaction was that Grace had had some kind of accident. Maggie quickly knelt beside her hurt friend, touching the clotting blood behind her head.
“Madame Renoir,” she said, cradling Grace’s head and holding her hand. “You must call the hospital. L’hopital, comprends-tu? Elle est blessée.” She is hurt.
The baker simply stared at Maggie as if to decide how much of a threat this young, foreign woman was to her. And Maggie, sensing the terrible shift in the woman’s affect, spoke more firmly to her: “Madame,” she repeated. “Où est le téléphone? Madame Van Sant est bien blessée.”
Maggie saw the bloodied rolling pin on the floor beside Grace.
Madame Renoir clasped her pudgy hands together in front of her and looked down at them as if contemplating what they had done. Her eyes were flat and cold.
Carefully, Maggie peeled off her heavy wool coat and folded it under Grace’s head. She touched Grace’s face with a trembling hand and then stood up and faced Madame Renoir.
“Où est la téléphone?” she repeated, looking around the room.
“Il n’y pas de téléphone.”There isn’t a telephone. Madame Renoir spoke sullenly, her face revealing a dangerousness once more.
“Madame, nous devons l’aider.” We must help her.
“C’est une truie!” Madame Renoir said. “Madame la souillon Fitzpatrick. Je n’aiderai pas celle qui a tué mon père.” She is a pig, a slut. I won’t help she who killed my father.
Over the pounding in her ears and the labored breaths of the baker, Maggie could almost hear the pieces of the puzzles click together.
“Elle n’est pas Madame Fitzpatrick”, Maggie said. This isn’t Madame Fitzpatrick. “Comprends-tu? C’est Madame Van Sant. Souvien-tu?” Maggie edged toward the door.
Madame Renoir leaned down and picked up the heavy rolling pin from the floor. Maggie could again see its floury surface stained with red.
“Et l’enfant dans le cimetière,” Maggie said breathlessly, her heart beginning to pound, “ce n’est pas le sien.” The baby in the cemetery isn’t hers either. She saw Madame Renoir falter for a second and then quickly regain her equilibrium. Her eyes watched Maggie’s as if in a sort of a trance. Her hands still gripped the rolling pin. “Louise n’est pas son enfant,” Maggie repeated.
“Pourquoi viens-tu ici? Pourquoi viens-tu ici nous blesser moi et mon père?Pourquoi?” Why have you come here to hurt me and my father?
Maggie willed herself not to glance at Grace. A solicitous air, even vaguely expressed, might be the trigger that caused the baker to attack. “Je n’ai pas blessé votre père, Madame Renoir,” I didn’t hurt your father, Maggie said.
The open door of the backroom loomed tauntingly on her left not two yards away.
“Tu l’as fait.” Maggie said. It was you.
The woman raised the heavy rolling pin over her head. Maggie knew she would have no other opportunity. She dashed towards the door; in her mind’s eye she could already envision herself out of the shop and running down the street to a café full of people when she felt the blow on the back of her shoulder. The pressure was immense, exploding in black nuclear clouds of pain, and bringing her to her knees. She could hear the woman shrieking behind her as she fell.
“Je ne pas blessé lui! Je ne pas blessé lui! Vous me l’avez fait faire!” I didn’t hurt him, I didn’t. You made me.
Just as the woman raised her hand for a second shot at her, Maggie rolled under a large table, ignoring the fiery pain in her shoulder.
“Harlot! Cochon! Vous êtes amants, n’est-ce pas? Il m’a dit, non, mais je connais la verité! Je connais la verité!” You are lovers, aren’t you? He said, no, but I know the truth! I know the truth!
Before Maggie could decide what to do next, she heard a small groan. Grace was reviving. Madame Renoir heard the noise too and Maggie watched as the baker’s heavy legs moved away from the table and toward where Grace lay on the floor.
Maggie crawled out from under the table, her left arm limp and numb at her side. Madame Renoir was standing over Grace’s body, prodding Grace with the rolling pin.
“Il m’aimait et ne pouvait penser à rien d’autre. Certainment, pas à toi!” Maggie shrieked at the woman. He loved me and could think of nothing else. Certainly, not you. “Tu n’etais qu’un bébé. Il ne pensait jamais.” You were only a child. He never even thought of you.
Madame Renoir hesitated. “Ce n’est pas vrai vrais,” she said. It’s not true.
“Tu
sais que c’est vrai,” Maggie said as she moved to put a large worktable between them. You know it’s true. “Dans ton coeur, tu le sais.” In your heart. “Il étàit toujours avec moi et jamais avec toi. Toujours.” It was always me and never you.
Madame Renoir lunged at Maggie, swinging at her with the long rolling pin. Maggie moved easily out of her reach from across the table.
“Vous mentez!” the baker screamed.
“You let your father die for your crime and all the time it was you!” Maggie screamed back. “You, that slept with the Englishman! You, that killed them all! How far did you carry your lie, Marie-France?” Maggie moved quickly to avoid a rushing jab from the baker. Unless she could maneuver the woman into changing places with her on this side of the table, sooner or later, Maggie knew, Madame Renoir would tire of trying to hit her and simply turn around and finish off Grace.
“Il m’aimait,” Madame Renoir whimpered. He loved me.
Maggie moved closer to where Grace lay.
“Robert Fitzpatrick? Ridicule! Don’t be ridicule. He loved his wife. Comprends-tu? Sa femme. It’s why you killed him and her and the children too. Isn’t it?”
As Madame Renoir moved around the table toward Maggie, her weapon raised over her head, Maggie ran the final steps to Grace’s side. She now faced the baker directly across the table. It was a moment of truth, Maggie knew, whether her adversary was aware of it yet or not. She had succeeded in removing the immediate danger of Renoir hurting Grace and had thereby ensured her own vulnerability. She couldn’t switch places with the baker a second time. Grace wouldn’t, in all likelihood, survive it.
Maggie looked wildly around the room.
Don’t bakers ever use knives?
All she saw were mixing bowls full of batter and dough, crocks of butter and linen bags of flour. She noticed a large wooden mixing spoon on the table and snatched it up. It was ridiculous as a defense against Renoir’s rolling pin but it gave her something to hold in her hands.
“Vous êtes méchant!” she screamed at the woman, brandishing the spoon. “Back off! Do you hear me?”
Madame Renoir regarded her coolly. She straightened up and hefted the rolling pin against her stubby fingers as if measuring its weight for the job she intended for it.
“Tout la village sait que ton bébé n’avait pas de père,” Maggie said. Everyone knows you had a baby without a father.
“Vous mentez!” You lie.
Again, Maggie forced herself not to look at Grace for fear it would trigger an assault from Madame Renoir.
“Le bébé, comment est il mort?” she asked. How did the baby die? “Voila la question tout le village se pose savoir.” That’s what everyone wants to know.
“Vous mentez! Vous mentez!” the woman howled. She lashed out at a shelf of glazed strawberry tarts and Maggie watched the perfect little pies tumble onto the floor in a mass of jam and broken baking molds. The destruction seemed to serve only to further enrage Madame Renoir. She brought the rolling pin down on a small worktable lined with half a dozen bowls filled with gooey yellow batter.
Maggie stole a quick glance at Grace and realized with a mixture of dread and relief that she was regaining consciousness. Quickly, Maggie looked over at Madame Renoir, hoping she hadn’t noticed too. “Madame,” she said. “Qu’est-ce que ça peut faire? “ Who cares? “Tout le monde s’en moque.” No one cares. “Toi-même, tu n’étais qu’un enfant.” You were just a child yourself.” Maggie’s voice was soothing, calm.
“Je l’aimait,” Renoir said, almost in a whisper. I loved him.
“Il n’en valait pas la peine, “ Maggie replied. He was never worth it.
“Il m’aimait,” the woman said in a moan. He loved me.
“Il voulait que tu partes quand tu étais enceinte.”He wanted to leave when he knew you were pregnant.
“Il m’aimait,” Renoir repeated fiercely.
“Ainsi tu les as tués.“ And so you killed them.
Madame Renoir blinked at her as if digesting this. “Les tuais, “ she repeated Maggie’s words.
“Tu les as tués.” Maggie wasn’t sure exactly where this was going. She wasn’t sure whether Madame Renoir would snap at the mention of her crime, or whether it would jolt her back to her senses, into remembering who Maggie was, who Grace was.
Suddenly, Grace groaned loudly.
“Cochon!” hissed Madame Renoir.
Maggie banged her spoon against a large metal mixing bowl and Madame Renoir turned to her briefly.
“Elle n’est pas un cochon!” Maggie yelled. “Not cochon! Dammit! It’s Grace! How many times have you waited on her? Talked to her? You...you gave her the little dog. Remember the little―”
“Souillon,” the baker said, eyeing Grace with loathing.
“Maggie?” Grace spoke in a pained whisper, her voice a crack that threaded along the ground and was almost lost. She struggled to a half-sitting position against the wall, her right arm limp at her side, her face bloodied, her stomach obviously showing her pregnancy.
Immediately, Madame Renoir came around the large table toward the two Americans. Maggie put herself between the approaching Frenchwoman and Grace.
“Don’t do this, Madame Renoir,” Maggie said, her eyes pleading. “It’s Maggie, Madame Renoir. Please, remember me.”
“Harlot!” The baker screamed, her eyes insane and unreachable. “Cochon! Il m’a toujours aimé! Toujours!” He always loved me.
She raised the weapon over her head, aiming directly at Maggie’s upturned face.
Chapter Nineteen
1
Laurent bent over and slapped at the clinging flakes of ash on his corduroy pant leg. A lone needle of smoke sidled up the horizon on the far side of the field. The fire brigade would finish the job now. The two ancient fire engines had arrived in a flurry of blaring sirens and wheels spinning in wet gravel. Under the circumstances, too late or not, Laurent thought they had arrived in an amazingly short time. Who knows? he thought bitterly, a row or two more of vines might be saved.
He could see Jean-Luc, who had disappeared into the house, returning now across the fields. He was disconcerted to see the old man hurry toward him in such a way as to suggest he might possess further bad news.
“What is it?” Laurent called. “What’s happened?”
Jean-Luc pointed toward the house and broke into a trot. “Monsieur Van Sant called while I was at the house,” he said, when he reached Laurent, his breath coming in small, labored gasps.
Laurent gripped the farmer by the shoulder. “He has found Maggie?” he said, his fingers digging into Jean-Luc as if he could force the man to respond positively.
“He did not find Madame Dernier.” Jean-Luc spoke quickly. “But he says you are not to worry. His own wife is also not at home...”
“So he believes they are together.” Laurent relaxed a bit, releasing his hold on Jean-Luc. “He’s probably right. Maggie off on her own is one thing, but if she is with Grace, the two will talk and forget the time.” Laurent turned from Jean-Luc and stared at his smoldering fields. Snapping cinders jumped in the air around them. “I don’t like it, though,” he murmured.
“Laurent,” Jean-Luc said. “I have called the police.”
Laurent’s eyes watched him.
“I will be here to greet them,” Jean-Luc said. “To introduce them to our neighbor, Monsieur Marceau.” He gestured in the direction of Marceau’s vineyard to their right. There was a hazy barrier of spent fire and smoke that divided the two properties now. “It is Christmas Day,” Jean-Luc continued. “I’m sure Monsieur Van Sant knows his wife, but me, I don’t believe the two women are sitting on a rock in a field talking on Christmas Day. I don’t believe they are in Aix shopping. I don’t believe there is a good reason not to find them today of all days. Do you?”
Laurent felt the anxiety and fear that he’d suppressed while he’d battled the fire escape and surround him like a noxious shroud. He turned and ran toward the house where the Peugeot wa
s parked in the gravel drive.
2
Later, Maggie would remember putting the forearm of her unbroken arm up to try to protect her face. She would remember Madame Renoir’s almost sorrowful look as she raised the rolling pin high over her head, gritting her teeth as she brought it down hard on top of her. Maggie did not hear the noise of the shattering glass as she was struck.
At the sound of the window breaking behind her, Madame Renoir whirled around to face Gaston Lasalle who jumped through the small backroom window and now stood, panting before her. Maggie fell backwards on top of Grace. She had succeeded in deflecting the blow with her arms, and although it felt like her other shoulder was now broken, she was at least conscious.
Madame Renoir swung wildly at Lasalle and the wiry gypsy jumped easily out of the way. She screamed at him, her face mottled with rage, spittle flying from her full lips like milk in front of a fan.
Gaston shouted at the baker and continued to dodge her wild swings. Maggie could pick out a few words from his hoarse French, “crazy” and “fat” being the two used most often. She gave Grace a quick, light squeeze on the shoulder, and wondered if she should leave her and try to go for help. She tried to think if there was a telephone booth anywhere in town. Surely, Le Canard would be long closed by now, and it would take her a full ten minutes to reach Father Bardot’s rectory even if she ran the whole way. And what if Madame Renoir succeeded in disabling Gaston? Madame would finish Grace off before Maggie even reached the rectory.
Within seconds, Gaston sprang at the baker, knocked the rolling pin to the floor and grabbed the baker’s arms behind her. He forced her to her knees, her best Christmas dress finally dusting the dirty floor, and held her firmly. Maggie’s eyes met his briefly. Then, she turned back to Grace who, still propped up against the wall, was watching the proceedings through groggy, half-opened eyes.
“Maggie,” Grace said.
“It’s okay, Grace,” Maggie said, as she sank to the floor next to Grace. She took Grace’s hand as her own pain began to overwhelm her. “It’s over,” she said.
Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series) Page 34
