And he wouldn’t make that easy on her.
“So,” she said finally, sipping her Perrier. “Why is it you think Julia is involved with Jacques’s death?”
“Come right out with it, Maggie,” Bedard said, grinning. “I was wondering how long you could last.”
“No reason to play games is there, Roger? We haven’t seen each other in awhile. You’ve been busy. Big new promotion with the police force. I’ve been busy.” She put both her hands out to give an unobstructed view of her very pregnant belly. “So why don’t we get to it?”
Roger watched her with warm, glittering brown eyes. She noticed they lingered on her belly—and her breasts—and she couldn’t help but blush darkly. Damn him. He would tell her in his own time, and unfortunately, in his own way.
“Well, Maggie, I see you have gotten yourself mixed up with the wrong sort again.”
“Really, Roger? Was Brigitte the wrong sort?” It occurred to her too late that reminding him of the murdered woman who initially brought them together was probably not the smartest thing to do if she wanted to keep him malleable and open with her.
He flushed and straightened in his chair, the relaxed air of insouciance gone.
“This time, your friend is not a victim,” he said. A decidedly defensive edge had crept into his tone. “I have laboratory results that prove that.” Roger was well aware that Maggie knew he hadn’t always been so careful with forensic evidence in the past.
“What kind of laboratory results?”
“A toxicology screening.”
“He died of something he ate?” Maggie frowned. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.
“You might say that. Agaricus mushrooms were found in his stomach. Deadly poisonous. But actually quite flavorful, I’m told.”
Maggie took a long drink of water. Her stomach cramped painfully.
“Interesting fact,” Roger said, oblivious to Maggie’s reaction. “Did you know women tend to use poison as their weapon of choice when committing murder?”
“Wow. Thank you, Hercules Poirot.”
“I’m afraid your sarcasm will not change the facts for your friend, Maggie.”
“And in light of this evidence, you decided to arrest Julia because…?” Maggie felt a tingle of heat spread across her face and upper lip as she waited for Roger to answer her.
He shrugged. “Because she served him an omelet made with poisoned mushrooms the night he died. I’m sorry, Maggie. I knew you were hoping for something else.”
“Did Julia admit to making him a mushroom omelet?”
“She did.”
Crap. “But that isn’t proof that the poisonous mushrooms came from her omelet.”
Roger smiled sadly at Maggie as if disappointed in her. “She served him a mushroom omelet. He died of poisoned mushrooms. I feel pretty sure that will be enough to convict. The Chief Prosecutor shares my confidence.”
“Were there nonpoisonous mushrooms in his stomach?”
Roger frowned. “That is irrelevant.”
“But of course it isn’t, not at all. If Julia served him an omelet with non-tainted mushrooms and someone else—”
“Oh, how I have missed your theories, Maggie,” Roger said with no trace of amusement or pleasure on his face. “They are like watching a very interesting detective show. No basis in fact but endlessly entertaining.”
“I guess this conviction would be a pretty big feather in your cap.”
“No feathers involved. Just doing my job.”
“Is Julia saying she didn’t do it?”
“Of course.”
“Can you at least arrange for me to see her?”
Their food arrived and Roger waited until the waiter had left before answering.
“Is your husband okay with your going to the prison to see her? It is not a nice place, especially in your condition.”
“Yes, he’s fine with it, thanks. When?”
Roger shrugged. “Follow me back to the office. If she is not with her attorney you may see her for a few minutes.”
Annette grabbed the buzzing cellphone and slipped out of bed with it. She gave a quick glance to the large, somnolent form entangled in the bed sheets behind her before she stepped into the bath and pulled the door shut.
“Maman? Are you there?”
“Yes, Michelle,” Annette whispered, turning on the water in the sink to cover her voice. “I am here. What did the police say?”
A sound of impatience and disgust came over the phone connection. “It was as you said,” Michelle said. “They took my statement and released me. It was nothing. Who did you talk to?”
Annette sighed heavily and sat down on the closed toilet. She noticed her hands were shaking. “It doesn’t matter. A friend.”
“A very good friend, Maman,” Michelle said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “to allow me to walk free this morning with not even a fine after I admitted to destroying the English whore’s apartment.”
“You admitted it?” Annette gasped, a hand flying to her throat. The stupid girl! Was she trying to end up in jail?
“Why not? It was clear that I had an angel looking out for me. The police are so stupid.”
“Michelle, be quiet!” Annette was on her feet in her agitation. The sudden appearance of her reflection in the mirror made her jerk her head in that direction. Not a good move. The woman looking back at her was haggard and wan, worn and old. She turned her head away. “Even my connections have limits. As do I! Why did you do such a crazy thing?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Annette regretted them. Her daughter was very sensitive to certain labels.
“Really, Maman? You think it insane to punish the woman who ruined your life? Ruined our lives? I am only sorry it wasn’t the putain’s face I was smashing with the axe.”
“She is paying, Michelle,” Annette said. “She will pay—with her life. That is enough.”
Her daughter laughed, and the sound made Annette’s skin tingle and creep. She had heard that sound before. That terrible sound, before terrible things…happened.
“It is never enough, Maman. You of all people should know that.”
Chapter Seven
The cellule de prison where Julia was being held was like any detainment center at any police facility in a midsize city. Located at the top of the Palais de Justice on Rue Mejanes was an ugly five-story building built in the last twenty years. The set of four minimum security holding cells looked as bleak and basic as Maggie would have imagined they’d be. Roger had handed her off with a brief handshake to a uniformed officer, who had her empty her pockets and took her purse after itemizing its contents. It was just as well that she hadn’t been able to retrieve any of Julia’s clothes from the apartment—the idea that she might be able to give Julia anything was laughable.
The officer escorted her down a long, irregularly lit hallway that led to a waiting room, where another officer briefly patted her down and then unlocked the door that led to the holding cells. With all the locked doors she was walking through, it was pretty clear that any sort of unauthorized entering—or exiting—would be impossible. She was taken to a stark, bare room with two windows—both high up and barred—furnished only with a single metal table, bolted to the cement floor.
The thought of Julia having already spent two full days in this place brought tears to Maggie’s eyes but she brushed them away. She glanced at the two silently malevolent video cameras that hung in opposite corners of the room. If she felt like crying, it was easy to imagine Julia was going to be in much worse shape than she’d feared.
When the door finally unlatched with a jarring clang, Maggie whirled around to face the entrance. For Julia’s sake, Maggie tried not to cry. But when her friend entered, Maggie instantly broke into tears.
Julia wore a baggy orange jumpsuit that made her look smaller and more vulnerable than she normally did. Her gamin cap of curls was limp and unwashed, and even from across the room Maggie could see the encroaching line of gray
at her part. When Julia saw her, she covered her face with her hands. Maggie ran to her and pulled her into her arms, holding her tightly, feeling her bones through the jumpsuit. The guard left the room and clanged the heavy door shut behind her.
For a moment, the two friends stood together without speaking, the sounds of Julia’s ragged weeping echoing off the bare walls of the room. Maggie’s own tears had quickly given away to a steely anger the moment she touched Julia. That anyone could have the power to reduce a person to this! Only yesterday, Julia had been vibrant and beautiful, impish and in control. She wasn’t the same person today, so broken and lost.
Maggie drew Julia to the table and urged her to sit on it with her. She had nothing with which to wipe her friend’s tears so she used her fingers to wipe them away, then held Julia’s hands tightly in her own.
“This won’t last, Jules. I swear it won’t last much longer.”
Julia withdrew a hand and wiped at her tears, but more took their place. Her face was lined and slack.
“Are you eating?” Maggie knew it was a stupid question but she didn’t know what else to say. Julia had no control over what was happening to her, but she could at least keep her strength up.
Julia shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, her voice a whimper.
Maggie rubbed a hand up her friend’s arm. Never before had she so accurately seen a representation of someone who was literally a shadow of her former self. The transformation had happened so quickly and so severely Maggie was having trouble recognizing the friend she had known so well for the last several months. If it weren’t for the head of curls, even the graying deflated curls, she might not have recognized her.
“This won’t last,” Maggie said again, although her stomach twisted when she said it. Honestly, she had no idea if the current situation would last or not. Roger had told her at lunch that because Julia was English, she was considered a flight risk and wouldn’t be eligible for bail. It might very well last, she thought miserably, looking at her friend. It might, in fact, go on for months and months.
“My attorney is not optimistic.”
“We’ll get you another one.”
“I don’t think it will help.”
“Has the British consulate been in to see you?”
“They are who arranged for the useless attorney.”
“Is there anything I can get for you?” Maggie felt so helpless. She felt guilty too, for the fact that she would be able to walk out of that claustrophobic, unhappy room when it was time.
“I didn’t kill him, Maggie,” Julia said, her face pinched and searching. She squeezed Maggie’s hands and Maggie resisted the urge to pull away. “I swear I didn’t kill him. I mean, there were plenty of times that I wanted to and, honestly, even now I’m not sorry he’s dead—”
“Jules, don’t talk,” Maggie murmured. “The room is monitored.”
“I mean, I spent about five minutes astounded that he was gone and then the rest of the time, absolutely delighted.”
“Julia, shut up,” Maggie said fiercely. “Are you saying this shit to your counsel? Or the police?”
“I don’t know,” Julia said miserably. “I’m not used to watching my words. I am an artist. I express myself.”
“Well, don’t. At least not while you’re in here. It’s all very well not to like someone, but when they fall down dead and people are pointing a finger at you don’t talk about how much you didn’t like them. Okay?”
“They say I poisoned him.”
“I know.”
“And that the mushroom omelet I made is what killed him, but that’s impossible.”
“How so? It would be really helpful to your defense if you can answer that with something tangible.”
“I made it with Death Trumpets, not agaricus.”
“Is there another name for Death Trumpets that doesn’t sound quite so indicting?” Maggie asked in frustration. “I mean, are you going around telling people you fed him Death Trumpets?”
“Well, I did feed him Death Trumpets,” Julia said, her eyes wide and innocent. “I ate them myself.”
“The toxicology report says the agaricus mushrooms were found in his stomach in addition to other kind of mushrooms.”
“But I didn’t put them there!”
“They said they found traces of agaricus on your clothes.”
“Well, they would. I come across all kinds of mushrooms when I forage. There’s bound to be spores or whatnot on my shoes or my pants cuffs. But I don’t collect poisonous ones! What about my kitchen? They haven’t found anything there, have they?”
“Both your kitchen and your car were open to the world for several hours after your arrest. Anybody could’ve come in and planted poisonous mushrooms.”
Julia stared at Maggie with her mouth open. “Are you…are you telling me they found agaricus mushrooms in my kitchen?”
Damn Roger and damn that stupid attorney! Were they not informing her of anything?
“No.” Maggie took a long breath. “In the trunk of your car.”
“Then I’m dead.” Julia spoke simply. She turned and looked at the wall and blinked.
“No, you’re not dead. You didn’t kill him and someone is trying to make it look like you did. Probably the same someone who did kill him.”
Julia acted as if she hadn’t heard. “I cannot believe this is happening to me.”
“Julia, please have a little faith. I’m not going to let whomever is doing this get away with it. I promise you. Listen to me!” Maggie turned Julia’s face to her and looked into her eyes. “Have a little faith in me.”
The tears in Julia’s eyes welled up again and Maggie saw the numbness begin to ebb away, revealing the depth of her tortured feelings.
“Help me, Maggie,” she said, her eyes frantic and fearful. “Please help me.”
“I will, Jules. I promise.”
An hour later, Maggie pulled into the driveway of Domaine St-Buvard. The rain had held off but the cool wind, a precursor to the coming winter, whipped the dead leaves on her front porch in a whirling maelstrom. The perimeter of the drive was lined with cars, and while the harvest hadn’t officially begun, she knew Laurent was only hours—if that—from making the decision of when to pick.
Perfect timing, she thought with resignation, as usual. It was still only late afternoon so she expected Laurent to be out in his vineyard. She wondered for a moment if she should have swung by Danielle’s to see if Zou-zou had been deposited there for the day. Danielle was childless, and had been only too happy to act as stand-in Grandmère. Maggie double-checked her cellphone but there had been no text from Laurent. Not that that was unusual. Laurent, although not exactly anti-technology, was at the best resistant to it. Half the time he left his cellphone behind at restaurants, or in taxicabs and public restrooms. He would have at least called, she reasoned, if she was needed to collect the baby. That just left Grace. Feeling a needle of guilt for having left her alone all day, Maggie collected the packages from her market shopping in town—bread, to be sure, and a large bag of macarons from Bechard, just because—and hurried into the mas.
As soon as she stepped across the threshold, she was struck by how quiet it was. Even little Petit Four, usually so quick to greet her, was nowhere to be seen.
She moved quickly up the stairs and tapped on Grace’s bedroom door. Not hearing an answer, she hesitated and then pushed the door open. Grace watched her solemnly from the bed. Little Petit Four was snuggled up on the bed with her.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Maggie said. “But if you’re up for it, I’ve got a job for Lucy and Ethel.” She came into the room and held up the bag of macarons.
Grace eased herself to a sitting position on the bed and smiled sleepily at her. She reached out for the bag and Maggie handed it to her.
“You not been up yet?” Maggie asked cautiously. She went to the window to open the curtains but Grace moaned.
“No light yet, darling,” she said, biting into
one of the cream macarons and settling the bag on the bedside table. “I’m not feeling quite myself this morning.”
“It’s like three o’clock in the afternoon, Grace,” Maggie said, frowning.
Grace leaned back into her pillows. Even without a stitch of makeup on she was effortlessly beautiful, Maggie thought. Even sad and eating cookies in bed in the middle of the afternoon.
“Danielle and I are going to Jacques’s aunt’s house to give our condolences,” Maggie said.
“You know his aunt?”
“No, but Danielle does.”
“So you’re using Danielle to question the aunt.”
“I’ll have you know she is delighted for me to accompany her.”
“So you can ditch her as soon as you’re through the door and start rooting around in the aunt’s attic looking for clues? I know you, Maggie.”
“Your point?”
“Does Laurent know?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me if I’m going behind Laurent’s back. Maybe you should focus on your own marital dirty laundry.”
“Oh, touché, darling. You really got me there. Did you ever think I might be trying to help you avoid the pitfalls that have brought me to such a sad state of affairs?”
“Oh, give me a break, Grace. Like you ever felt you had to hide anything from Windsor. Has he ever said no to you?”
Grace smiled sadly. “Almost never.”
“So, what was the problem?”
“Like most complicated situations, Maggie, I’m afraid it can’t be summed up in an easily digestible sound byte.”
“Did you or did you not leave him? Or are you telling me he threw you out?”
“He’s found someone else, alright? Are you happy now?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Was this before or after you gave up on the marriage?”
Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) Page 6
