Murder in Nice

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  “And because of how he made his money before we met…” Maggie raised her eyebrows to indicate that Grace should feel free to fill in the blanks.

  “You know he doesn’t do that sort of thing any more,” Grace said. She was bouncing the baby, who was becoming more and more agitated, on her knee.

  “I know it’s in him to cut corners, grease a palm here and there, take advantage of a situation. Did I ever tell you he once told me he couldn’t promise not to lie to me because he might have to sometime?”

  “That’s actually kind of honest.”

  “Laurent has his pride. I haven’t brought a single solitary euro into the family coffers since we moved to France. It’s been all him.”

  “And now you think there’s a problem with money?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know.”

  “And he won’t tell you?”

  “He brushes aside my questions, or worse, gets annoyed with me for even asking.”

  “I see.”

  “I really wish he’d confide in me, you know? We’re in this together but he’s such a…sexist he doesn’t see that. Just find out for me, Grace. If there’s a problem I can always go to my dad for money.”

  “That’s probably the last thing Laurent would want.”

  “What is the last thing I would want?” Laurent asked as he joined them on the patio, a tray of dishes in his hands.

  Maggie mouthed the words to Grace: hearing like a bat. “For Grace to have a piece of chewing gum before lunch,” she said sweetly.

  “Sacré bleu!” Laurent turned to look at Grace with horror. “You are chewing gum?”

  “No, of course not, Laurent,” Grace said. “I just asked Maggie if she wanted a stick for later and she said—”

  “Chewing gum obliterates the purity of the taste experience,” Maggie said, as if reciting it from memory. “Oh, warm goat cheese on mesclun! Here, hand me Jem, Grace. He adores the rosemary balsamic reduction that Laurent makes.”

  “That looks amazing, Laurent,” Grace said as Laurent placed a goat cheese cake on a bed of greens and set it in front of her.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, but Maggie could tell he was pleased.

  “Laurent,” Maggie said, spearing a chunk of goat cheese, “I told you about my brother and his wife coming next weekend, right?”

  “Bien sûr.”

  “Your brother is coming to France?” Grace asked as Laurent refilled her glass of rosé.

  “He’s actually already here. Haley talked him into taking this Côte d’Azur tour. You’ve heard of the Bob Randall show? The travelogue guy who goes around Europe?”

  “Of course. Your brother’s traveling with Randall’s tour?”

  “It’s supposed to be a trial tour of some kind for the television show. Haley and I went to school with one of the tour guides, Lanie Morrison. Lanie told Haley they needed a couple of people to play tourists on the trip so Haley and Ben got to come for next to nothing.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I’m not sure. They were coming down through the Luberon.”

  “They didn’t stop?”

  “No, they wanted to do the whole tour and come see us after it was over.”

  “Has Ben ever visited you and Laurent before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you guys not close?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Maggie waited until Laurent had retreated back into the house for the next course. “Ben is a big hotshot lawyer back in Atlanta. Laurent and I have, like, zero in common with him.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Haley’s sweet. I love her to pieces, but because of Ben I never saw much of her when I lived in Atlanta.”

  “He’s that bad?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Not Lex Luthor evil. Just kind of a low-grade douche.”

  “Yikes. Your own brother. So why is he coming to see you now?”

  “I have no idea. My parents are excited about it because they think this means he’s going to reach out more to the family, but I think it’s just going to be awkward as hell. Might be a good time for you to take a little shopping trip to Paris. Maybe I’ll go with you.”

  “Not on your life. While I adore how utterly stress-free and serene life at Domaine St-Buvard is with you and Laurent, frankly I could use the stimulation.” Grace sipped her wine. “So is your school chum, the tour guide, coming to visit too?”

  “No. I thought about inviting her for like a nanosecond, but we’re not really friends any more.”

  “Some dramatic reason why not, I hope?”

  Maggie laughed. “No, we just drifted apart. I heard she got married and then divorced, and the one occasion I saw her in the last ten years she spent most of the time riffing on how much she hates men.”

  “Well, we have that in common.”

  “It’s weird, because when we used to hang out I was actually closer to her mom.”

  “That is weird.”

  “She was a very cool mom. Always laughing and ready to share a secret. Every time I came over to Lanie’s house, I ended up talking to her mom for hours. And yet Lanie treated her like she was a hideous bore, and stupid beside.”

  “Exactly as wee Jemmy will treat you when his time comes.”

  “Shut up. He never will. Will you, muffin?” Maggie kissed the baby’s ear and squeezed him tight. He reached for her with fingers sticky with goat cheese.

  “Allo, Zouzou is ready for her lunch,” Laurent announced as he came back out to the patio, this time with a three-year-old girl in his arms, her face creased from her nap.

  Grace stood up and took her from Laurent. “Merci, Oncle Laurent,” she said. “Are you hungry, petal?”

  “You have cheese in your hair,” Laurent said to Maggie as he reached for Jem.

  “I know. My lover finds it particularly alluring.”

  “Oui,” Laurent said, his eyes glittering with meaning. “He does.”

  “Come on, join us, Laurent,” Grace said. “Oh, my goodness, is that fried calamari? Wherever did you get it?”

  “Try the lemon pepper aioli,” Maggie said, scooping a small fritter into the golden sauce. “It’s the reason I married him, I kid you not.”

  “We need more wine,” Laurent said, scanning the table with a frown.

  “We have plenty,” Maggie said. “Come and sit down. Tell us all about how plump and sweet our grapes are at the moment.”

  “I see you are being witty,” Laurent said, pouring himself a glass of wine.

  Grace laughed. “Yes, tell us, Laurent. Maggie says the harvest looks awesome this year. I don’t know ripe grapes from tennis balls, but they do look pretty on the hills surrounding the house.”

  Laurent sat down and Maggie couldn’t help notice that his usual zeal for talking endlessly about the vineyard seemed to be lacking. She knew for a fact the harvest was better than it had ever been. Something wasn’t right if Laurent wasn’t clapping his hands together in delight, ready to recount every minute detail of the vines’ growth pattern.

  “It will be a good harvest this year,” he said simply, sipping his wine.

  “Yay,” Maggie said, leaning over and taking Jemmy’s hands and making them clap together. “A ‘good harvest’ means many trips to Paris for Mommy and a nice private école maternelle in Aix for Jemmy.” She shot a covert glance at Laurent to see his reaction but, not surprisingly, his expression was impossible to read.

  “That’s great, Laurent,” Grace said. “It’s earlier this year than last, isn’t it? Or am I imagining that?”

  Maggie watched Laurent’s eyes and for a moment she thought she saw a shadow pass across his face. An earlier ripening generally meant a better quality product. So why did the thought of it seem to make him solemn?

  “Non,” he said. “It’s true. We will harvest sooner this year.”

  Maggie exchanged a look with Grace. Something was definitely not right.

  Two

&nbs
p; “Will you call her? What will you say?” Haley Newberry glanced at her husband from where she sat on the bed. He seemed tired, as if he hadn’t shaken off his jet lag, although they’d been in France for over week already.

  “The truth,” Ben said. He stood at the balcony overlooking the Promenade des Anglais. “That we’re coming earlier than planned.”

  “I hope you’ll at least present it as a request,” Haley said.

  He turned to look at her. “Why? They sit on a farm counting their money and watching the grapes grow. How could our coming a week early possibly be a problem?”

  She hated seeing him like this. Tense. Distracted. Hard.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It probably won’t be. You’ve never met her husband, have you?”

  Ben turned away again. “You know I haven’t. What was the point?”

  Right, Haley thought sadly. Because it’s not like you cared about deepening the relationship with your sister.

  “Does she think it odd that we’re visiting now?”

  Ben went to the dresser and picked up his cell phone. “I have no idea what she thinks.”

  “She was good friends with Lanie, you know.”

  “A thousand years ago.” He punched in a number and turned back to the balcony view.

  Haley waited. It was hard to imagine death in the midst of such intense beauty. The azure-blue of the Mediterranean seemed to frame everything around it with a storybook semblance that belied everyday woes like hangnails or indigestion…or death.

  “Hello, Maggie. This is your brother, Ben. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

  Haley allowed herself one more glimpse of the sea over Ben’s shoulder and then retreated to the bathroom for her shower.

  *****

  Maggie waved her hand to command quiet from Laurent and Grace in the kitchen where they were feeding the children their breakfast. She handed a spoon of stewed apricots to Laurent and settled on a barstool.

  “Hey, Ben,” she said, “we’re really looking forward to your visit next week.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. There’s been a change of plans.”

  “Oh?”

  Maggie was surprised to realize the thought that he might be canceling prompted a surge of relief. She looked at Laurent, who was studying her over Jem’s head.

  “Yes, there’s been an accident here on the tour,” Ben said. “Haley and I are having to drop out.”

  “An accident?” Maggie focused her full attention to the phone call, but still saw Grace out of the corner of her eye turn her body toward Maggie.

  “Actually you know her,” Ben said. “Lanie Morrison? I think Haley mentioned in her email to you that she was one of the tour guides?”

  “Lanie had an accident?”

  Maggie detected the brief hesitation before her brother answered. “She did,” he said. “She was found this morning. She was…unresponsive.”

  Maggie stood up. “She’s dead?”

  Laurent tapped Maggie on the wrist to get her attention. He mouthed qui?

  “Lanie Morrison,” Maggie said to him. “The one I went to school with. Ben says she was found dead this morning.”

  “And so of course the remainder of the tour is cancelled,” Ben said on the line. “Haley and I were hoping we might come to Domaine St-Buvard earlier than planned.”

  “Yes, of course,” Maggie said, trying to process this news. “How did she die?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Well, how did you find out about it?”

  “Maggie, I’m happy to answer any questions you have when Haley and I arrive, which, if it’s all the same to you, will be tomorrow evening.”

  “Is her mother coming over?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Lanie’s mother. Ann Morrison. I assume she’s coming to Nice to bring…Lanie home?”

  “I don’t know about any of that. Will you or someone meet us at the train station? And is Arles the closest one?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Arles. Call us when you’re about an hour out and one of us will be there with the car.”

  “Very good.” He hung up.

  Maggie sat and stared at her phone. “God, he’s a jerk.”

  “Lanie died?” Grace asked, holding Zouzou on her hip, a spoon in one of the child’s chubby fists.

  “That’s what he said.” Maggie shook her head. “She was only thirty-five. How did she die, I wonder?” She looked at Laurent. “As I understood it from Haley, this was Lanie’s chance to earn a permanent slot on Bob Randall’s television show.”

  “Maybe she had health issues?” Grace asked.

  “Maybe.” Maggie looked around the kitchen. “Can you guys finish up breakfast without me?”

  “Why?” Laurent asked, frowning.

  “I just want to look at something on the Internet,” Maggie said as she gave Jem a quick kiss and hurried into the living room where her laptop was. Booting up quickly, she typed in the name Ann Morrison and found the phone number she was looking for.

  *****

  If it had been tricky finding reasons to leave Domaine St-Buvard before Jem was born, it was positively onerous now, Maggie thought as she accelerated on the A8 heading toward Nice and the coast. Unlike Laurent, she needed a break from time to time from the constant monotony of rural life. Having Grace live with them helped immensely. But even a glass of wine and your best girlfriend is no substitute for a weekend shopping trip to Paris, she thought with a smile.

  Maggie reviewed her conversation yesterday with Lanie’s mother. Annie Morrison had been distraught, of course, but her relief was palpable over the phone line when Maggie offered to meet her at the Nice Côte d’Azur airport. Maggie had never met Lanie’s father. He and Annie had divorced years ago and he’d long since passed away. For reasons she couldn’t put her finger on, Maggie wasn’t surprised to hear that Annie had never remarried.

  It took three hours to drive to the coast from Domaine St-Buvard, and as Maggie drove she reran the tapes in her head of her efforts to convince Laurent that she needed to go. Not surprisingly, he resisted the idea. She knew he didn’t mind taking care of Jem. That little duty he embraced with enthusiasm. Maggie was lucky to pry the child out of Laurent’s arms. Her husband had always begun his day patrolling his vineyards, only now he did it with Jem tucked in one arm. Thinking of the image of Laurent and Jem outlined against the horizon this morning as they returned from their vineyard walk reopened a kernel of worry in Maggie.

  There was definitely something going on with the vineyard and with Laurent. Normally, he would return from his walk with a spring in his step. He used to say it was like visiting a special lover—you always felt great afterward.

  Maggie shook her head and grinned in spite of herself. The French.

  But lately there had been no spring in anybody’s step and no cheerful mood spreading into the late morning and the afternoon. Lately there had just been motions being gone through and items ticked off a vast to-do list.

  Not at all Laurent’s style.

  Maybe Grace would have some luck finding out what was up, Maggie thought. This was actually a perfect opportunity for her to use her quiet skills to find out those things Laurent worked to keep hidden—Laurent, who was the most closed, private and secretive of men. But then, Maggie thought with a smile, he’d never really been up against a true Southern belle in her prime before.

  She took the airport exit and parked the car, focusing on the task at hand. She hoped Lanie’s mother would lean on her. Annie admitted on the phone that she spoke no French, had in fact never been to France. Maggie hurried to the receiving line of the incoming flight from Atlanta and scanned the crowd for sight of her, wondering if she’d have trouble recognizing her. The last time she’d seen her, nearly eleven years ago now, the woman had been seriously overweight.

  Annie was easy to pick out in the crowd, and Maggie realized with a sinking heart it was not because Annie was heavy. While everyone else was moving quickly—
to locate luggage, greet loved ones, find ground transportation—one woman was trudging, head down, through the throng as if looking for something on the ground. Maggie’d had plenty of time on the drive over to imagine the horror of losing your only child. Now that she was a mother herself, the thought was especially harrowing. She couldn’t imagine what Annie was going through. And she didn’t want to.

  “Annie!” she called to the heavyset woman walking toward her. Annie lifted her head, her face flushed for a moment, but the light that flickered in her eyes quickly extinguished when she saw Maggie.

  For a moment she thought it might be…

  Maggie moved to her side and put her arms around her. As soon as she did, Annie began to weep, her shoulders shaking in Maggie’s embrace. Seeing the naked pain of Annie’s grief was almost unbearable. But when Maggie reminded herself of what Annie was attempting to bear, she held her tighter and let her cry as long as she needed to.

  An hour later, they were driving up the coast to Nice. Annie spoke very little. When Maggie’s hand wasn’t on the gearshift, Annie was reaching for it.

  “Where did you book?” Maggie asked gently.

  “I…Lanie’s hotel,” Annie said, her voice raspy and hoarse from hours of crying.

  “The Soho,” Maggie said. “Do you want to check in first?”

  Annie shook her head. “No. I want to see my baby.”

  Her words raked a chord of pain across Maggie’s heart. They’ll always be our babies, she thought as she pictured Jem laughing and clapping his hands; her gut twisted painfully.

  She drove to the Bureau du Coroner off the Rue de la Prèfecture and parked in the public parking lot. Hand in hand, she and Annie walked into the police morgue where Lanie awaited them.

  After giving their details to the officer at the front desk, Inspecteur Alphonse Massar met them in the lobby. Maggie was surprised to see he was elderly. In fact, he looked to be nearing retirement. A tall man with grey hair and a tightly trimmed, grey pencil mustache, he entered the lobby and bowed curtly to both women. He had such a strong military bearing about him that Maggie half expected him to click his boot heels together. He glanced at her, but without much interest. If Maggie had been expecting him to reach out to Annie with words of comfort or solace, she was disappointed. She held Annie’s hand tightly and stayed close.