Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Chapter Twenty

  1

  Less than thirty-five acres remained of Laurent’s vineyard. The rest of his land was scorched black, looking like an undulating parking lot of newly-poured tar. Maggie walked with Laurent through the field, the sounds of burnt vines and support stakes crunching under their feet. Petit-Four ran ahead of them, accompanied by Otto. The two chased each other through the fields, raising puffs of black soot and dust in their trail.

  “Can you bring it back?”

  Laurent threw a rock over the heads of the frolicking dogs.

  “Yes,” he said. “The men from the village will help.”

  “What, like plant seeds and stuff?”

  Laurent looked at her. Her left arm was in a white plaster cast and sling, her dark hair whipped about her face in a tangle. He tried again to imagine the battle in the bakery less than a week ago. Grace had suffered a concussion, a broken right arm and a cracked rib, although the baby was unharmed. Gaston Lasalle sported a broken nose thanks to Madame Renoir’s rolling pin, and Laurent thought he did so proudly. Lasalle was a minor hero in the village these days, credited publicly for Bernard Delacorte’s release from jail although, of course, he’d had little to do with that. But as he had very likely saved Maggie’s life and Grace’s too, Laurent was not willing to begrudge the scruffy little gypsy much.

  “They have offered seedlings,” Laurent said to Maggie, putting his arm carefully around her good shoulder. “They will help me plant them in the spring.”

  She looked up into his face. “Laurent, what will happen to Danielle?”

  They both looked in the direction of the Marceau’s land. The house, which they could just see from where they stood in the middle of the field, looked dark and uninhabited. Danielle had gone to spend some time with her sister in Lyons. Eduard was in Aix, staying in the vacant apartment of a business partner, where he would remain until his trial was over. It was considered likely that he would do some time in prison for his arson. As he was a first offender, and because of his age, it would probably not be a terribly long sentence. Amazingly, less than five days after the police arrested Eduard, Jean-Luc had come to Laurent to tell him that Eduard would not return to St-Buvard to live, regardless of the outcome of the trial. Refusing to explain further, the old farmer had simply delivered his message, paid his embarrassingly humble respects to Maggie, and then gone away.

  “You will have to make peace with Jean-Luc,” Laurent said to her now. “He is miserable for your sake.”

  “I know.”

  As they stood watching the abandoned Marceau farmhouse, Laurent took Maggie’s hand in his.

  “I don’t know what she will do. But I hope she comes back to St-Buvard. She has friends here.”

  “You mean Jean-Luc?”

  Laurent laughed. “Maggie, you surprise me,” he said, pushing an errant lock of black hair from her brow. “You are her friend, are you not?”

  “I like Danielle. I hope she comes back,” she said. “Sans Eduard, of course,” she added quickly.

  “We’d better hurry,” Laurent said, turning back in the direction of the house. “I told Windsor we would not be late for dinner.”

  “Are we usually late?”

  Laurent shrugged. “He insists so.”

  “That’s nerve. He and Grace are chronically late to everything.”

  Once inside the house, Maggie began to carefully peel away her heavy outer jacket from her broken arm.

  “Don’t take that off,” Laurent said from the kitchen, where he was searching for the car keys. “We are leaving right now.” The ringing phone interrupted him and he snatched it up impatiently. “Oui?” he said briskly.

  Maggie listened as he continued the rest of the phone conversation in French. She edged closer to the kitchen to get a better idea of who might be calling when, suddenly, the conversation was over. Laurent stood in the door, the keys in one gloved hand.

  “That was Bernard,” he said. “He and Paulette would like us to stop by briefly on our way to the Van Sants.”

  “Do we have time for that?” Maggie asked.

  “I told them we would come. They wish to thank you for your work in helping Bernard come home to his family.”

  “Oh, Laurent, I don’t want them to think I rescued Bernard.”

  “Why not? It is true.”

  The phone jangled insistently again. Laurent picked up the receiver.

  “Allo? Oui, oui,” he said into the receiver. “But we are just leaving now. Maggie will call you back tonight, okay?”

  “Is that my Mother?” Maggie said, tugging on Laurent’s sleeve. “Let me talk to her.”

  Laurent handed her the phone. “We must hurry,” he reminded her.

  “Hello, Mom? Where’ve you been? Did you get my letter? Can you believe all this stuff that’s happening here? Where’ve you been for the last five days anyway?”

  Laurent jingled the car keys in his hands.

  “Maggie,” he said. “You must tell her about it later. We are late and we have an extra stop to make.”

  Maggie ignored him. Quickly, she filled her mother in on the news. She only related the burning of their vineyard, believing the story of Madame Renoir would have to wait for a face-to-face. Within seconds, Maggie’s father was on the phone.

  “The bastard tried to burn down your house?” Her father was dumbfounded.

  “Well, it’s not clear he was ever really after the house, Dad. He concentrated on the fields.”

  “That’s his idea of, what, persuasion?”

  “We think he was frustrated. I mean, Laurent obviously wasn’t going to sell and Eduard was really upset about it.”

  “Well, what was Eduard’s problem? It’s not like Laurent was going to build a parking lot on the land like Connor or something.”

  “No, but the damage had already been done as far as that goes. He’d already worked himself into a frenzy over images of parking lots and tour buses and belching exhaust pipes and tourists and stuff. I think Connor really painted such an awful picture of what would happen to the property that Eduard became convinced the land would be, you know, ruined if anyone owned it but him. And, of course, he wanted the extra acreage for his own farm. Laurent’s additional forty hectares would’ve really positioned Eduard as the kingpin landowner in these parts. A veritable Southfork en Provence if you know what I mean.”

  “It’s hard to believe he’d destroy the vines, though. Didn’t he know how much he was risking? I mean, what’s Danielle going to do now? What’s going to happen to his own farm now? What’s going to happen to him? “

  “He’ll go to jail probably. It’s kind of an open and shut case as far as that goes. I mean, he did it and everyone knows he did it and the cops picked him up reeking of gasoline with these little petrol soaked fuses sticking out of his pocket and all. I think you could say, his goose, she is cooked.”

  “I feel sorry for him.”

  “I know, Dad, me too. How’s Nicole? Did she have a good Noel?”

  “What do you think?”

  2

  Sleeping Beauty’s Castle in EuroDisney could hardly have looked more enchanting than the Van Sant’s château as it stood decked out for Christmas. Twinkling lights in rainbow colors sparkled against the blue-black night in zany outlines around windows, doors, bushes and even the two flanking olive trees in the front yard. Maggie was delighted. Windsor must have hired a hoard of hungry (and ultimately amused) Frenchmen to string the colored lights on the outside ramparts of the house, she guessed. They dipped and swayed in the cold, brisk wind, visible for a mile down the road.

  Laurent was appalled. “It looks like a sex shop in Thailand,” he said.

  “Really?” Maggie answered. “How would you know?”

  “This is not the sort of thing that translates well in France,” he said. “It is a uniquely American custom. Roast turkey, okay, we can adapt―perhaps even cranberries and dressing, although it is difficult, but this―”

  �
�Oh, Laurent, in America, the gaudier the outdoor lights, the better.”

  “It doesn’t translate over here.”

  “Quoique,” she said. Whatever.

  They parked their car in the winding drive, and hurried to the front door. It was still cold. The New Year was only a few days off with snow and more wind in the forecast.

  Windsor met them at the door. A wedge of yellow light fell across the broad threshold when he opened the door on them. He hugged Maggie gently, mindful of the cast on her arm, and shook Laurent’s hand enthusiastically.

  “Grace and Taylor are in the salon,” he said. “We’re having mulled wine tonight. Was the drive bad? It’s freezing out there. Here, let me take those for you.” He gathered up their coats and tucked them into the hall closet. Maggie walked down the hallway into the salon.

  “Did a lady here call for a broken arm?” Maggie said wagging her cast as she entered the room. Grace and Taylor sat on the thickly carpeted floor of the room in front of the massive stone fireplace. Its mantle stretched nearly the width of the large room. It was supported by intricately carved columns, something on the line of what Maggie remembered seeing in Avignon at the Palais de Pape. Maggie had not seen it lighted before and was amazed now to see the flames rising nearly three feet tall. She had images of Richard Coeur de Lion plotting and pacing in front of such a mammoth, majestic fireplace. Grace had strung large gold balls from the mantle which reflected the dancing flames. The soft, wet nose of Mignon protruded from the recesses of a wicker basket on the floor beside Taylor. Maggie felt a pinch of memory of Madame Renoir when she saw the little dog.

  “Sorry, we’ve already got one,” Grace replied, lifting her own cast up in greeting.

  Windsor and Laurent came into the room behind Maggie. Laurent went straight to Grace and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Bonsoir, chérie,” he said. “How are you feeling tonight?”

  “I’m good, Laurent,” Grace replied serenely. She looked it too, Maggie thought. Unlike herself, Grace had immediately tossed out her hospital-issue sling and replaced it with a grosgrain blue silk scarf which coordinated perfectly with her royal blue velvet top and pants. Her hair, unbandaged now, looked shining and full. Her eyes were alive with pleasure.

  “And petite Taylor?” Laurent said, looking down at the child who regarded him in return with undisguised suspicion. “How was Father Christmas to you this year?”

  “He was okay,” the child said, sullenly. “Mommy,” she said, tossing down a plastic piece of the game they were playing, “can we finish our game now?” The child’s face was screwed up in a prelude to a full-fledged whine. “Please?” she added belatedly.

  “Sorry, Taylor,” Windsor said from the bar where he was pouring the hot wine into large gold-rimmed mugs. “You know the deal.”

  “You can play quietly in your room for an hour before you have to go to sleep,” Grace said as she began to clear the pieces from the board. “I think you were going to win this game anyway. It’s just as well we’re quitting.” She smiled encouragingly at Taylor, who frowned back at her.

  “Mommy said you were going to bring your dog,” Taylor said to Maggie.

  Maggie glanced at Grace before she answered. “Well, no, Petit-Four is home with Otto, Laurent’s hunting dog.” She smiled at Grace and Windsor. “I knew it was only a matter of time before he let that big mutt into the house.”

  Taylor looked at her for a moment and then, to everyone’s surprise, stood up, brushed off her tiny lap of Christmas velvet, and walked to the foot of the staircase that led to the upstairs bedrooms. “You won’t forget to come up to say my prayers?” she said to Grace over her shoulder.

  “I won’t forget,” Grace said.

  “Okay,” the child said. “Goodnight, then.”

  The adults held their breath until the sound of the little patent leather shoes had been silenced by the shutting of the bedroom door.

  “She’s changing,” Grace said to no one in particular.

  “We haven’t had a major incident with her since right after Thanksgiving,” Windsor said. “Six weeks or something.”

  Laurent accepted his steaming wine from Windsor, then joined Grace and Maggie, who were sitting on the rose damask settee in front of the fire. Grace was drinking cocoa.

  “I wish we could take credit for it,” Grace said, still looking at the staircase where their daughter had ascended. “But I think it’s her new nanny.”

  “A girl from the village, isn’t it?” Maggie asked.

  “Where have you been?” Grace said with a laugh. “That was three nannies ago. No, Rochelle is from Arles, if you can believe it.”

  “Arles?” Laurent joined in the conversation. “That’s a long way to come for a babysitting job, no?”

  Windsor sat down in the overstuffed armchair across from the others, and set his drink down on the glass-topped coffeetable in front of him.

  “Except that we pay her what a hypersonic fighter pilot would get,” he said.

  Grace rolled her eyes at her husband and then turned back to Laurent and Maggie. “Let’s just say, it’s worth the drive in from Arles,” she said. She stretched her back against two silk tasseled pillows on the couch.

  “Are you really feeling okay, Grace?” Maggie asked.

  Grace nodded. “I’m fine. It’s more the effects of being pregnant than the aftermath of being worked over by our neighborhood baker. I was like this with Taylor too, wasn’t I, Win?”

  “You were worse.” He turned to Maggie. “She started to show at six weeks―”

  “You liar, I did not.”

  “―and had morning sickness right up until labor. At which point, I started to get sick.”

  “Oh, don’t listen to him.” The two of them grinned at their own little joke, and Maggie realized with relief that something had changed between them since Grace’s attack. Something had somehow been shook loose and back into place.

  “We stopped and saw Bernard and Paulette Delacore on the way over,” Laurent said.

  Grace leaned forward eagerly. “I heard he was out of jail. God, that must be a happy household about now.”

  “It really is,” Maggie said. “I guess I didn’t pick up before how close Paulette and Bernard were. Laurent knew, but I never saw much evidence of it.”

  “You only saw them together once,” Laurent reminded her. “Bernard spoke of her often to me when he was harvesting Domaine St-Buvard.” A frown passed fleetingly across Laurent’s face as he thought of the recent harvest of his now ruined vineyard.

  “Yeah, well, I guess it was hard to believe that a union of true love could really produce a Babette,” Maggie said.

  “How’s she doing anyway? Our village wunder-tramp?” Grace picked up her hot cocoa and smiled at Laurent impishly.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” Maggie said. “Paulette says she’s getting married.”

  “To the biker?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Her mother didn’t have many details.”

  “I’ll bet not!” Grace said. Both women laughed.

  “And Laurent is giving our hero, one Gaston Lasalle, a job in rebuilding the vineyard.” Maggie patted his knee. “Scraping away dead vines and stuff, clearing the land for the spring planting.”

  “Really?” Windsor looked at Laurent with surprise. “Pretty convinced he’s turned over a new leaf, are you?”

  Laurent shook his head. “Gaston is...an opportunist,” he said. “But he worked hard for me before and he could use the money.” He paused for a moment and then added: “And yes, I feel he has balanced out his crime against us.”

  “The cops said they thought he was probably breaking in that backroom window because he was intending to rob the place,” Windsor offered.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Laurent said.

  “I think the point is, Windsor,” Maggie said, “he may have originally been up to no good when he arrived, and knowing Gaston, that’s pretty believable. But when he saw the situati
on in the room―Madame Renoir swinging her rolling pin, Grace lying injured on the floor, me―well, he came through, you know? He could’ve just turned and left. But he decided to help instead.”

  “And he spent two hours in the hospital having a bandage applied to his nose for his bother,” Grace pointed out. “She caught him one before he subdued her, you know. I’m very grateful to him.” She looked over at Windsor. “And I expect this family to be too―in the form of a very substantial financial thank-you.”

  “It’s already done,” Windsor said.

  Grace’s eyes widened. “Really? You gave him money?”

  “He had no qualms about accepting it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Of course, I gave him money. I gave him quite a lot.” Windsor looked uncomfortable. “At the time, it was lucky for us I stopped short of signing over the title to the house.” He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “I was very grateful to him. Still am.”

  “Why, you old thing,” Grace got up and kissed him on the mouth, then sat back down.

  “Anyway,” Windsor said, clapping his hands together. “What’s this about next spring’s planting? Have you two got an announcement to make tonight? Are you going to be here for the harvest? Have you decided to stay?”

  Laurent picked up Maggie’s hand and pressed it between his thick fingers. She squeezed him back.

  “We’ve decided to stay,” Maggie said, “for better or for worse.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” Grace asked, her eyes bright, glancing from Laurent to Maggie and back again.

  Windsor looked at her in confusion. “What?” he said. “What does what mean?”

  “Laurent and Maggie, I think, have decided to stay in St-Buvard and to stop upsetting the pious churchgoers by their hedonistic and flagrant vie de pêche?”

  “Will someone please tell me what this woman is talking about?” Windsor said in exasperation.

  “Laurent and I have decided to stay...”

  “I’m up on that part.”