Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5)

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  That probably wouldn’t bode well for Michelle’s mood during Maggie’s questioning.

  Maggie waved away the approaching waiter and pulled herself out of the table. She wasn’t sure exactly what she intended to do. She only knew she had to talk to Michelle because Roger wouldn’t—or if he had he wasn’t sharing. And as much as she wasn’t looking forward to the next fifteen minutes—her arms had yet to scab over from her last meeting with the girl—all she really had to do was bring Julia’s tear-stained and stricken face to mind to galvanize her into taking the next step.

  And right now, the next step was crossing the street and punching the button to Michelle’s apartment. Right after she used the bistro’s facilities.

  That bastard! Did he really think she was so stupid she didn’t see what he was trying to pull? Michelle snatched up her cellphone and punched in her mother’s number. As she listened to it ring, she padded into the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator and extricated a Diet Coke. Her eyes glanced at the boning knife on her kitchen counter. The worm was lucky we were in the bedroom when he got the call from his wife. Otherwise…

  “Michelle?”

  “Oh, Maman. You are not going to believe what he’s done now.”

  “Who? David?”

  “He is still screwing his wife! He virtually admitted as much to me. You were right. You were right all along.”

  “Where are you, chérie? Are you home? I will come at once.”

  “No, don’t bother. I am not staying here. I need to go out. I just wanted to tell you that I ended it finally.”

  “That is good, chérie. I know it hurts now but it is for the best. Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

  “Non, Maman,” Michelle said, her eyes still on the boning knife. “I don’t want to see anyone right now. Oh, fuck. I have to go. Some idiot is buzzing me from downstairs.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I wouldn’t for the world disturb you during your time of grief, except I thought you might want to know several hundred thousand euros were found in Madame Patrick’s apartment, and I know for a fact they aren’t Julia’s.”

  Maggie had rehearsed the line so many times on the walk over to Michelle’s apartment that she prayed it didn’t come across wooden and mechanical. The girl already didn’t trust her. On the other hand, it was entirely possible—and she was counting on this—that what she had to say would distract Michelle from how she said it.

  Maggie forced herself not to look at the wicked looking kitchen knife that Michelle came to the door holding. Expecting the return of her boyfriend, maybe? She took a long breath and willed herself to look confident and sure of herself.

  Michelle stood looking at her. “Say that again,” she said finally, her lip curled in a snarl. “In English, this time.”

  “A small fortune in cash was recovered in—”

  “Who recovered it? The police?”

  Maggie tamped down the smile that wanted to burst through.

  She had her.

  “No, I found it after you left. Is it yours, then?”

  Michelle took a step back into her apartment, which was all the invitation Maggie needed. She stepped forward.

  “I didn’t bring it with me today,” Maggie said, “because I fear the rampant pickpockets in Aix. I, myself, have been a victim on two separate—”

  “Yes, it is mine,” Michelle said, practically licking her lips when she spoke.

  “Very good. I’m glad to hear it. And I also wanted to take this opportunity to tell you that I am not, in fact, a friend of Julia Patrick’s. Far from it. I am an animal lover, only, intent on the care and—”

  “What were you doing at my Aunt Lily’s home yesterday?”

  Maggie was ready for that one. “That was a total coincidence,” she said. “I am only a friend of a friend of your aunt’s. My neighbor, as it happens—”

  “Yes, yes, whatever. When can you bring me my money?”

  “Immediately, Mademoiselle Tatois. I would be only too happy to do so. But as you can see, my burden is great and I was wondering if I could trouble you for a glass of water before I—”

  Michelle emitted a snort of impatience and whirled on her heel. For a moment, Maggie wasn’t positive she wouldn’t come back with an even bigger knife, but when she returned she had a large plastic cup in her hand. Maggie took it gratefully and drank as slowly as she could, careful not to observe the girl over the cup as she did. Eventually, she was rewarded when Michelle slumped to a sitting position on the couch, and Maggie took the opportunity to sit, too.

  “Thank you so much,” Maggie said. “I have been tracking Monsieur Tatois for several months now and he—”

  “Tracking him?”

  “Well, my organization,” Maggie said, placing the cup on the coffee table in front of her. “We are an anti-cruelty to animals organization, which is why I knew that Madame Patrick possessed a lovebird that would need rescuing. We have been watching the two of them for quite awhile.”

  Was the girl really crazy enough to buy this nonsense? Maggie dearly hoped so.

  “My father abused animals?”

  “Oh, my heavens, yes! Very much so! Dogs, cats…that bird I rescued. Pigeons in the park. He has been on our watch list for a long time now.”

  “Well,” Michelle said crossing her arms and glaring at Maggie. “I am not surprised. The man was despicable. It is well that he should have been monitored for his disgusting behavior.”

  “Monitored, yes.” Maggie said. “My organization was very close to gathering the necessary evidence to ensure that Monsieur Tatois never bothered another one of God’s gentle creatures again.”

  “So you killed him?”

  “What? No! That’s not what I meant. We believed we could be the authors of his incarceration with the state. It is against the law, you know, to abuse animals.”

  “Why did it take your organization…what is the name of it again?”

  “Uh, the Anti-Abuse of Animals League.”

  “Why has it taken you so long to move against my father? And in the meanwhile, he has committed untold damage. Not just to stupid animals but to people! Did you know he was arrested last winter for the attempted rape of one of your countrywomen?”

  Michelle shook her head vigorously.

  “I can see you do not know! Yes, it is true. My father was a disgusting pig who deserved to die the painful, ignoble death he did—emptying his bowels on the Venetian tile of his foyer. A foyer, by the way, that he stole from my mother when he took our home from us. A home I grew up in…”

  Maggie could see Michelle momentarily warring with herself about something before she reversed course. Was this the psychosis she was seeing, or was Michelle really attempting to curb her words?

  “The husband of the woman my father attacked? His name is David Armstrong. He works here in Aix at an American software company. He threatened to kill my father.”

  “Well, I imagine he was very upset.”

  “He said it on numerous occasions. And I am not the only one to hear him.”

  “A software company?” Maggie frowned as if confused, hoping the girl would elucidate.

  “X-Trad Corporation. They are based here. The police are dolts not to have questioned him.”

  “They haven’t questioned him?”

  “He says not.”

  Maggie worked to keep the look of enlightenment from appearing on her face. It appears the errant boyfriend was taking a pair of pinking shears between the shoulder blades.

  There was one very important item on the list of things Maggie wanted to know, and she wasn’t exactly sure how to get that information from Michelle.

  “At least,” she said, hoping this didn’t get her thrown out—by way of the window— “you will have the satisfaction of Monsieur Tatois’s estate to assuage your shame of having such a vile father.”

  “Estate?” Michelle looked perplexed.

  “You are his only heir, I presume?”

  The l
augh that erupted from Michelle’s face was like the cawing of a depraved crow, ugly and strident.

  “He had nothing and left me nothing! The bastard couldn’t even die when he should! Just three more months…” But now Michelle did stop herself and eyed Maggie with distrust, as if she had been tricked into saying as much as she had.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Michelle said firmly. She stood up, ready to see Michelle out. “All that matters is that the English whore who destroyed my family will pay for it with her life. It’s my one constant. My one joy.” She held the door open and waited for Maggie to struggle to her feet and walk into the hall, slamming the door before Maggie could say another word.

  On the drive home, Maggie tried to process what she had learned. Maggie could swear—unless the girl really was certifiably crazy—that Michelle had really thought for one moment that Maggie’s fictitious organization had put a hit out on her father. And if she thought that, even for a second, then she didn’t kill him. It was truly annoying to go to this kind of trouble only to have it result in the clearing of one your prime (and favorite) suspects. Maggie reminded herself that eliminating potential suspects was crucial to finding the murderer. And possibly, she thought with some optimism, Michelle was so crazy that she really did kill him and just couldn’t remember it.

  As Maggie pulled onto the long drive that led to Domaine-St-Buvard, she found herself wondering what Michelle meant when she said, He didn’t even die when he should? Was that a reference to an inheritance that was coming to Jacques, and therefore, eventually, Michelle? And what did she mean by just three more months? What was going to happen in three months? Maggie’s head was definitely starting to ache, and she was relieved to turn off the car and just sit in the silence for a moment before moving into the house. As she stared out over the horizon of Laurent’s vineyard in an attempt to clear her mind, it occurred to her—as it had several times on the drive home—that she needed to talk to David Montgomery. She frowned. Technically, he was a “stranger.” And she had promised Laurent she wouldn’t talk to strangers. Damn. She had to talk to him. What if he was the murderer? Was it believable that someone could repeatedly threaten to kill someone, and then when that person was murdered, not be questioned at all? Obviously, yes. Especially if Roger Bedard was in charge.

  She took a long breath and released her seatbelt. Plenty of time to noodle the details of how she could talk to Montgomery later. Maybe Grace? Grace hadn’t promised Laurent she wouldn’t talk to strangers. Grace also wasn’t, at the moment, speaking to Maggie, but that was just a detail to be sorted out.

  She walked up the slate walk to the massive front door of the ancient mas. She hadn’t touched the doorknob before it wrenched open. Laurent stood there with Zou-zou in his arms.

  “Finally! You are here,” he said as he pushed the child into Maggie’s arms, making her drop her purse.

  “What? No, Laurent,” Maggie said, hoisting the child onto one hip as Laurent picked up her purse and tucked it under one of her arms. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Is your cellphone turned off?” he asked, edging past her toward the driveway. “We’ve been waiting for you. I’ll call if I have any news.” He trotted to the car in the drive and was in and backing it down the long driveway before Maggie could respond.

  She turned when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye at the front door. Danielle stood there and held out her arms for the child. She wasn’t smiling.

  “Danielle, what is it?” Maggie handed Zou-zou to her. “Has something happened?”

  “It is Madame Van Sant,” Danielle said, kissing the baby’s forehead, her eyes distant and sad. “She is gone.”

  There weren’t many places to go. Not in St-Buvard. And of those few places, Grace knew them all better than most. Hadn’t she nearly died here not three years ago, herself nearly as pregnant as Maggie was now?

  She turned up the collar to her jacket when she felt the first few drops of rain. She knew she should have headed for the hotel bar. Not that that wouldn’t be the first place they would think to look for her. But she couldn’t bear the feeling of being hemmed in. It was partly the reason she had fled in the first place.

  She signaled the waiter for another bottle of champagne. So stupid to drink champagne of all things, especially when the last thing she was doing was celebrating. But it was her signature drink, rain or shine, in good times and bad. What she really needed, she thought ruefully, was a Rusty Nail.

  Why not make them worry? She could do nothing about all the damage she was causing. Not a single thing. She couldn’t spare Zou-zou her inevitable tears. She couldn’t erase the disgust and anger from her best friend’s face. She couldn’t stop the hurt she was causing Win. Or herself. So why care about running away? Her friends were civilized. Maggie was already mad at her, so that was a wash. Laurent was too very Laurent to say a cross word to her. And Danielle clearly wanted to adopt Zou-zou and would hardly regret her absence.

  The desire to break free had been overwhelming. She smiled bitterly, thinking of the three-mile walk to the village—the last half-mile in the rain, ruining her best shoes in the process. I would have crawled it to get away.

  I am such a bad person, she thought as she allowed the boy to open her bottle and pour her glass. A bad mother—that goes without saying. A terrible wife. A bad friend. Was there ever something I was good at? Before I started destroying all these people’s lives? Daddy never even looked in my direction. Smart man. He must have known how much grief I would cause.

  “This is not a very good hiding place.”

  She was glad it was him and not Maggie. She didn’t have the energy or the wit to fight.

  “Maybe I wanted to be found,” she said.

  “Je sais.” He sat down opposite her and she watched the waiter scurry to bring him a clean glass. She watched him over her glass, grateful she hadn’t started weeping before he showed up. It had been close.

  “I hope I didn’t worry you.” She didn’t really give a shit, but it was what people said. She watched him pour his glass and hold it up to her as if to toast. If it were anybody else but Laurent, she would have thought he was mocking her.

  God, I hope Maggie knows what she’s got in this guy.

  “For all that you do have,” he said, and then drank.

  “Okay, I’ll bite.”

  He gave her a confused look that made her laugh. “It’s an American colloquium,” she said. “I would have thought Maggie would have taught you all of them by now. It means, sure, tell me.”

  “You are still beautiful.”

  Grace nearly choked on her sip and Laurent had to stand up to pound her on the back as she coughed painfully. “I thought you were going to say my kids or my wonderful husband or something. Oh, my God, leave it to the French. Thank you, darling Laurent. I needed that.”

  When he sat back down, he sat down in the chair next to her, and before she knew what she was doing she was in his arms crying as quietly and as helplessly as she could. A part of her brain knew how painful this kind of public display must be to someone like Laurent. The man used to be a Côte d’Azur conman, for crying out loud! The only thing he did run from was public attention. She struggled to control herself, but only succeeded in producing loud hiccoughs in addition to the sounds of her muffled wailing.

  “I’m so sorry, Laurent,” she said, snuffling into his chest. “I can’t believe I’m putting you through this.”

  He made soothing clucking noises and patted her on the back. When she finally pulled away, he handed her a clean handkerchief and she mopped her face the best she could.

  “I’m a mess,” she said, shaking her head. “A total, drunken, mess.”

  “Non,” Laurent said, his hand on her back, large and warm and reassuring. “You are never that.”

  They sat without speaking for a moment, and then Laurent poured champagne in both of their glasses and placed hers in front of her. He signaled for the waiter and ordered two large coffees
and cake. Grace wanted to protest but didn’t. She knew that most of Laurent’s solutions to any situation involved food.

  “Grace,” he said, solemnly. “It is too late?”

  She took a long, rattling breath and fortified herself with a sip of the champagne before answering. “It is.”

  “Je suis desolée,” he said. “Is it Windsor?”

  She closed her eyes tight and shook her head. “No, it’s me.”

  “Ahhh.”

  The coffees arrived and Laurent took her hand. The two sat quietly, side by side, while they finished their coffees.

  “You want this now,” he said. “But a year from now? Will you be glad you left?”

  “I don’t know. How can I know?”

  Laurent accepted that. The unanswerable question.

  “I can talk to Windsor.”

  “Thank you, Laurent. He’ll need a friend.”

  She laughed at his eyebrow raise. “Yes, it’s true he has one of those, but he’ll need a guy friend.”

  “You will be fine, Grace. Not just because you have to be for Zou-zou and Taylor. You are strong.”

  “I know. It just hurts. And I don’t feel like I have the right to come to anyone for sympathy since I’m the one causing all the problems.”

  “Maggie is impulsive,” he said. “You know that.”

  “She’s only saying what my family and everyone else is thinking. I don’t blame her for being disgusted with me.”

  “Not disgusted, Grace. Frustrated. She will go around.”

  “Come around, I think you mean. I hope so.”

  Both of them looked up in time to see Danielle and her husband, Jean-Luc coming into the café.

  “I guess Maggie is on solo baby duty,” Grace said, watching the two as they chose a table in the dining area.

  “It will give her some practice for later.”