Murder in Nice

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  After all, what was the point? Windsor found someone else and remembering or thinking or analyzing the whys of how that happened wasn’t going to improve her day.

  Her mind flashed a memory of the smile from her lunch companion the day before in Aix and she was surprised that her first instinct was to use her thought-stopping trick on that too. No, she didn’t want to overthink that lunch and she had enough on her plate to allow herself to get distracted by such things. It was enough that she’d shown up since there was a moment there when she wasn’t at all sure she would.

  Grace approached the bicycle propped up against the house and frowned. She hadn’t ridden one since she was a teenager. She looked in the direction Laurent had gone. She certainly wasn’t walking the two miles to the village and back. She pulled the bike away from the house and pointed it in the direction of the main road. Besides, a woman on a bicycle? Laurent would never in a million years think it was her.

  Within five minutes, Grace was coasting down the incline of the road outside Domaine St-Buvard toward the village. There was very little traffic. She knew she’d have to navigate the single hairpin turn at the little cement bridge just before the village, but she’d already tested the brakes—several times—and was sure she could manage it. The surprise was how much fun it was—sailing, coasting, drifting down the road, her hair flying out behind her, her cotton skirt flapping against her legs.

  The giant plane trees lined the road, their overhead boughs thick with cool green leaves, shading her as they had shaded the marching Roman soldiers, and of course the advancing German army in the last war.

  Is there a single place in the States that can transport you back into time like this? she thought, her heart already lifted and buoyant. A single place that can make you feel both light and free and yet entrenched in history?

  The bridge was visible from the last graceful turn she negotiated and Grace backpedaled to slow her speed. She saw a car coming toward her so she coasted to a stop on the side of the road. When it passed, she rode slowly around the sharp turn, and the entrance to the village opened up immediately on the other side.

  From here she could see Le Canard, the café facing the ancient stone square, which was punctuated by a fountain that didn’t work and a trio of mammoth plane trees cemented right into the square itself. Across from Le Canard, she saw Laurent’s car.

  So he did come to the village. Grace glanced at the terrace of umbrella tables in front of Le Canard as she rode past. She had no reason to think he would look at a woman on a bike. They were not uncommon in and around St-Buvard, although the riders were usually in their seventies. Grace rode to the front of the tabac that anchored the opposite side of the square and parked her bike. She felt flushed from her accomplishment.

  Who needs a car? Who needs a taxi? She smiled at the proprietor of the tabac, who watched her enter with stark surprise and then moved to look behind her as if he expected to see a saddled elephant tied up out front. Grace slipped into the side room of the tabac and took a seat at the window. There was no coffee or cocas on offer here—not with Le Canard a mere thirty steps away—but the French liked to rest and reflect, Grace thought. There would always be a spot to sit and think even if one’s hand wasn’t filled with a drink.

  She squinted at the busy café across the street. Laurent was unmistakable anywhere he went. Too large to be hidden, true, but also because he carried himself with the affect of someone who didn’t care who saw him.

  I wonder how that worked during his years as a conman, Grace found herself musing.

  She quickly picked him out of the group of patrons seated at one of the six outdoor tables of Le Canard. She frowned. She hadn’t expected him to be alone. Laurent was very popular in the village, spending half his time exchanging kisses and handshakes with literally every person he met. So she wasn’t surprised to see he was with someone.

  She just hadn’t expected that someone to be so beautiful.

  Grace had never seen her before. She was clearly French, although Grace couldn’t put into words how she knew that exactly. Perhaps it was her easy elegance and nonchalant way she wore her beauty, perhaps it was the comfort with which she spoke to Laurent and the waiter when he appeared with their drinks.

  This can’t be what I’m seeing. Grace was stunned when the woman leaned over and placed her hand on Laurent’s arm—in a way that indicated it wasn’t the first time she’d done it. There’s no way this is what I’m seeing.

  Laurent was partially hidden from view by a table of boisterous village men but Grace had a clear line view of the woman. Grace knew a little something about the body language of women on the prowl.

  This cat was hunting.

  Maggie, where the hell are you? You need to be home dealing with this, not prancing around the Côte d’Azur looking for closure for someone else’s problems!

  She felt a light tap on her shoulder, and when she turned she saw the tabac proprietor’s wife standing there with a stern look on her face.

  “Are you here to buy something, Madame?” she asked acerbically.

  So much for the French attitude of reflection and rest, Grace thought as she got up from the seat with as much dignity as she could muster. She’d forgotten to bring any money.

  “Non, merci,” she said haughtily and exited. She released the kickstand on the bike and pointed it back out of the village, glancing briefly at Le Canard before she climbed on.

  The woman was gone but her purse still remained at the table so she would be back. Laurent was studying a paper in his hands, oblivious to his surroundings. Grace saw a thin curl of smoke rising from the ashtray in front of him.

  She rode past the café, her head turned away, and already felt a light perspiration forming on her upper lip. It had been an easy downhill coast most of the way to the village. Clearly, the return trip was going to be a different ride.

  *****

  The sea sparkled like glittering glass, Maggie thought. No wonder the world’s rich and celebrated chose Saint-Tropez as their personal paradise. Even today with the glamour of its fabled past well behind it and the encroachment of an unbroken string of t-shirt kiosks lining its main drag, nothing could detract from the natural beauty of the water—so blue it looked like a shimmering cerulean mirror.

  And as exquisite as the picture before her was, her stomach still roiled painfully when she called to mind Haley’s bruised face.

  He was hitting her. Her brother.

  And everybody on this tour knew it.

  Who are you, Ben? What happened to you?

  When her phone rang, Maggie jumped as if she’d been goosed. A quick glance at the screen showed it was Annie. Maggie hesitated, tempted to let the call go to voicemail. She had nothing to tell Annie and she didn’t feel up to lifting someone else’s spirits.

  “Hey, Annie,” she said brightly into the phone. She saw Desiree appear at the entrance of the restaurant where they’d just had lunch and motion for Maggie to come. It must be time to leave for Cassis. “What is it, eight o’clock your time?”

  “Hello, dear,” Annie said. “Yes, just a bit after. Where are you today?”

  “Saint-Tropez.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. I was wondering if you have any news about…anything?”

  Maggie sighed. This whole trip was a waste of time. Except for discovering that her brother was a wife beater, she hadn’t learned a single new bit of information. “There really isn’t much, Annie,” she said. “Except a confirmation that just about everyone here on the tour was seriously jealous of Lanie.”

  “You mean, professionally?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “I suppose that’s not surprising.”

  “You know, I have to say, it’s starting to look like Olivier isn’t such a bad choice as a suspect after all.”

  “But then why would he agree to take the DNA test?”

  “Just because he was convinced the baby was his doesn’t mean he didn’t…you know.”

  There
was a brief pause. “I really appreciate you doing this, Maggie and I know you could be home with your baby, so if you want to call it quits I completely understand.”

  “It’s just that there doesn’t seem to be anything to find out,” Maggie said. Desiree was gesturing more vividly now, her whole face was flushed with her obvious annoyance at Maggie not coming immediately when called.

  “No, I understand. Did you get a chance to talk to the maid at the hotel?” Annie asked.

  Now Desiree was stomping over to Maggie.

  “The maid?”

  “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you,” Annie said. “One of the maids approached me as I was leaving and was trying to tell me something. I guess I was distracted by everything that day.”

  “Sure, you would be.”

  “Do you think you might call and find out what it was all about?”

  “Is there a reason why you think you’re so important you can keep all of us waiting like your pathetic servants or slaves back where you come from?”

  Maggie looked into Desiree’s twisted face. “Are you serious?” she asked the Frenchwoman coolly.

  “Maggie?” Annie said on the phone.

  Without taking her eyes off Desiree, Maggie said to Annie. “I’ll check with the hotel in Nice and find out what the maid wanted, Annie, and then call and let you know, okay?”

  “Thank you, dear. And God bless you.”

  After she hung up, Maggie put her phone in her bag and stood. “My goodness, Desiree. It would be a shame to pee yourself in one of the most glamorous places on earth.”

  *****

  An hour later, Maggie was sitting in a boat in the Massif des Calanques, an inlet running along a twelve-mile stretch of beach that ran all the way to Marseille. She had spent the car ride to Cassis staring daggers at Desiree and concomitantly trying to mull over what possible news a maid could have wanted to pass on to Annie. Twenty minutes into the ride, she called the hotel but was told it was hotel policy not to reveal the names of their employees on the telephone.

  “Beautiful Cassis,” Desiree intoned from where she stood at the helm of the small boat. “Home to the Calanques, steep-sided valleys enclosed by majestic limestone cliffs that are actually Mediterranean fjords.”

  Maggie sat opposite Jim and Janet Anderson in the small six-person boat. Dee-Dee and Desiree stood at the head of it taking turns steering and presenting their recited tours.

  When Desiree finished the first part of her spiel, she sat down and reached for a water bottle. She looked at Maggie. “Because our program does not target armchair travelers,” she said, “Bob insists we hike or kayak to many of the Côte d’Azur’s special destinations spots. He is very attentive to the true French experience.”

  “I notice he isn’t hiking with us today.”

  “He has done this tour many times. The first time I saw him was on his show. He was standing at the tip of the Calanque d’En-Vau, stripped to the waist, explaining how the sea level would rise—”

  “Where was the mic clipped?” Maggie asked.

  “Comment?” Desiree turned to her in exasperation.

  “Well, you said he was stripped to the waist. I was just wondering—”

  “There was a boom mic.”

  “Oh, sure. I can see that. On a ledge of a fjord. Wow. No wonder he’s the best. That’s some good television.”

  “I don’t need to be fluent in your language, Madame, to comprehend your sarcasm.”

  “Oh, I think you are totally fluent in my language, Desiree.”

  Desiree bristled and turned to face the Andersons, who were gripping the side of the small boat with matching grimaces on their faces. Janet wore a broad-brimmed straw hat in clear hopes of avoiding the sun. Jim just winced into the light with a let’s-get-this-over look on his face.

  “For many travelers to this area,” Desiree said, standing again and addressing the little group, “the most calanque merveilleux is the Calanque d’En-Vau, which is an easy two-hour hike that—”

  “Is she supposed to use French words?” Dee-Dee said loudly. She held her phone to her mouth as if it were a walkie-talkie. “Bob? Desiree is using a mixture of American and French words.”

  “Tell Desiree to stick to the script,” Randall said over the phone’s speaker. Maggie could hear the noise in the background of wherever he was. Sounded like a bar.

  Desiree gave Dee-Dee a sour look and then readdressed the Andersons and Maggie as the facsimile of her someday TV audience.

  “The most extraordinary calanque," she said, "is often considered to be the Calanque d’En-Vau, which is an easy two-hour hike that plummets to a thrilling and quite steep descent to the beach below.”

  “Like hell I’m going on that mother,” Jim said flatly.

  Desiree sat down in the boat with a thud. “I cannot believe I must do this without a cameraman,” she said. “I could kill that stupid Olivier for his selfishness!”

  Before Maggie had a chance to react, she heard a violent splash and a startled squawk. She twisted in her seat to see Dee-Dee standing at her seat in the boat, pounding her fists against her thighs in fury and frustration.

  “Damn duck!” she screamed. “He bit me! Did you see that? Goddamn him!”

  What Maggie saw when she turned to the vortex of churning water off the side of the boat was a flurry of feathers and bursts of foam. She held her breath, hoping she wouldn’t see blood, too. Bobbing on top of the maelstrom of agitated, escaping duck, was a sparkly periwinkle blue cell phone case that quickly submerged and sank from sight. Maggie looked at Dee-Dee, who was now shaking her fist at the wounded animal—her omnipresent blue cell phone nowhere in evidence.

  These people are insane.

  *****

  Grace laid out the tablecloth on the grass and set down the picnic basket. Her morning bike ride had pretty thoroughly depleted any desire to do much of anything for the rest of the day. After a long, cool shower and a vow never to get on a bicycle again, Haley’s suggestion of a picnic seemed to perfectly fit Grace’s energy level.

  She shielded her eyes against the sun, though the spot they’d chosen was mostly shaded. A large Cypress tree spread its limbs overhead allowing the stark sun to peer through in speckles and flashes. The distraction did little to keep her from focusing on the fact Laurent might very well be having an affair.

  “Just put him down on the cloth,” she said to Haley, who knelt next to her with the baby in her arms. “He can’t walk yet, thank God, so that’s one less thing to worry about.”

  Haley gave the infant a quick hug and set him down on his tummy. Instantly, he grabbed at the cloth and army-crawled to the edge where the grass was.

  “Not that you can totally ignore him,” Grace said, laughing as Haley pulled him away from the grass.

  “Mama!” Zouzou said, running over to the women and tumbling down onto the cloth. “J’ai faim! Really, really faim!”

  “I think it’s precious that your little one speaks French,” Haley said.

  “Well, it’s really sort of Franglais. I have the only four-year old who is fractured in two languages. Her English is as misguided as her French.”

  “I think it’s charming.”

  “I hope her teachers share your opinion when she starts school next month.”

  “Is there a school in St-Buvard?”

  Grace opened the wicker basket and pulled out a banana. Zouzou grabbed it and bounded away.

  “Don’t go beyond the boundaries,” Grace called to her.

  “Boundaries?”

  “Oncle Laurent walked the perimeter of where she’s allowed to go, which is basically not out of my sight. Zouzou likes rules. Laurent always knows how to handle her.”

  “Is he good with children?”

  “Laurent?” Grace looked at Haley with surprise. “Laurent is good with everyone.” As soon as she said the words, she flinched. Too good, maybe?

  Haley pulled Jemmy back onto the cloth and then turned him over on his back and ti
ckled him until he giggled.

  “But to answer your question,” Grace said, “yes, there is a kind of school in the village. I’m not sure Maggie and Laurent won’t allow Jemmy to go there at least for a few years. It’s Catholic, of course. And it’s close by.”

  “But not for your little girl?”

  Grace pulled out a plate of deviled eggs and pulled the clear wrap from the top. Laurent had made the eggs earlier that morning using aioli instead of mayonnaise. Grace considered it a major strength of character that she hadn’t eaten them all before the picnic.

  “I don’t intend to live with Maggie and Laurent forever,” she said. “In fact, I was looking at apartments in Aix last week. There’s a wonderful école maternelle there.”

  “The tour group spent an afternoon in Aix last week,” Haley said, her voice serious now. “On our way to Nice. It was beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is. And so are these gougères. Where Laurent gets the time to get his vineyard ready for harvest and make gougères I have no idea. The man’s a marvel.”

  “Is that why Maggie found an excuse to leave yesterday? Because she’s married to such a wonderful man?”

  Grace turned to look at her. “Maggie and Laurent are very happy.” Am I trying to convince myself?

  “If you say so.”

  Grace looked out at the horizon of the vineyard until she spotted Zouzou’s form skipping through the vines. She had awakened this morning to the sounds of sobbing that, irrationally, she thought must be Zouzou’s until she burst into the little girl’s bedroom to find the child sleeping. It was when Grace returned to her own bedroom that she heard the harsh male whispering coming from Haley and Ben’s bedroom and realized the crying sounds had come from there.

  “Maggie is on the coast,” Grace said carefully, setting out a large bowl of olives, “because she made a promise to a friend and, take it from me, I know what those promises mean to her.”

  “But Maggie barely knows Annie,” Haley said, frowning. “Is it possible she’s finding motherhood harder than she thought it would be?” Haley ran a gentle hand over Jemmy’s head as he swiveled it around to regard her.