Desiree, on the other hand, needed none of Maggie’s sympathy. She sat with Randall, sipping the espresso that Maggie knew she should have gotten, wearing six-inch heels and a skirt so tight there was no way the Frenchwoman could take a full breath.
The fact was—Jim’s drunken and incoherent confession aside—Maggie knew Desiree was still her best shot as a suspect after Olivier. Why else would she follow Maggie to Nice and steal the one piece of evidence that existed against her? Why else except to cover her guilt?
When Randall got up and left the dining room, Maggie walked over to Desiree’s table.
“Bonne matin,” Maggie said. “Did you have a nice visit in Nice yesterday?”
Desiree stirred a sugar cube into her coffee cup and didn’t look up. “You are mistaken, Madame,” she said coldly. “I was in Grasse yesterday.”
“Sure you were. You know, it occurred to me that you knew I was going to be in Nice because you overheard me talking to Mrs. Morrison on the phone about the maid giving her information.”
“Perhaps you have started drinking early? You are babbling.”
“I know you stole my purse, Desiree. And I know why you stole it.”
“False accusations are taken seriously in France, Madame.”
“You mean like me accusing you of killing Lanie?”
Desiree finally looked at Maggie. And smiled. “Exactly so. If you wish to formally accuse me, I will need to contact the authorities in my defense. But I don’t think you want to do that.”
“You really hated her, didn’t you?”
“Oui. But that doesn’t make me her murderer.”
Maggie couldn’t argue with that—especially since there seemed to be so many people who disliked Lanie—but she forced her face to remain impassive.
“Is this why you have returned to the tour?” Desiree asked. “To lay blame for the slut’s death?”
There’s that word again.
“Mind telling me where you were the night Lanie died?”
“I was with Bob Randall at the time of Lanie’s…passing.”
“You mean the night she was murdered.”
“Quoique.” Whatever. “I’ll talk to Bob about terminating your time with us on the tour. I’m sure he will be horrified to discover your true purpose. Especially from a public relations standpoint, n’est-ce pas?” Desiree stood abruptly and dropped her napkin on the table. “Meanwhile, please remember what I told you about making accusations—even ridiculous ones—while you are in France.”
Maggie took a quick step backward to avoid being physically shoved out of Desiree’s way during the Frenchwoman’s dramatic exit. Maggie stood there for a moment, watching Desiree leave.
It occurred to Maggie that while she did just learn that Randall and Desiree were each other’s alibis for Lanie’s murder, she wasn’t at all sure she’d made any real progress from her brief interview with Desiree—except, unfortunately, to warn her main suspect that she was on to her.
*****
Laurent watched Adele as she poured the drinks. He saw that she had left the bedroom door open, the bed clearly visible and inviting from the salon.
There was nothing he didn’t see. And, of course, Adele of all people would know that.
“I wasn’t sure you would come,” she purred, turning to him and holding out a glass of pastis. His eyes were on hers as he took the drink, but he knew her breasts were falling out of her silk blouse.
“How could I not? Your invitation was irresistible.” He sipped his drink and smiled at her from where he sat in the main salon. He’d taken a seat on the couch. Probably only a small tactical error, he realized, unless it became necessary to reject her, in which case it was a mistake from which he and his vineyard might not recover.
Adele sat next to him, picked up the remote control and pointed it at the far wall, which opened to reveal a television screen.
“You will see, chérie,” she said, “that I have been very busy since we last worked together.” She turned to him and smiled coquettishly. “I have been learning new tricks, yes?”
“As we all must,” he said. This balancing act was not difficult. It is not unlike so many I have done in the past with hundreds of thousands of euros in the balance.
And yet the stakes have never been higher.
Adele put the remote control down and snuggled back into the couch, her skirt riding up on her thighs, her thigh touching his.
A photograph of a wine crushing operation appeared on the screen.
“I bought it last spring,” Adele said softly. “Five brands, including Domaine St-Buvard, owned individually yet sharing joint leasing of all equipment.”
Laurent felt his pulse quicken and swallowed down the rest of his drink.
“Access to every level of equipment that, separately, the owners could never afford, includes representation in a tasting room…”
The photograph on the screen changed to show a small but tastefully appointed room lined with hanging wineglasses and stacks of bottles ringing the burnished wood walls.
“…as well as connections to local restaurants and retailers that would be unreachable independently.”
It will be the saving of Domaine St-Buvard. Laurent watched the slides, one after another, showing the operation that was the answer to his prayers. If I can pull it off without needing to bed Adele.
“Each winery is individually licensed,” she continued, “operating under an alternating proprietorship that allows them to label their wines as produced and bottled by.” Adele looked up at Laurent and he tore his eyes from the screen to see her full lips, glistening with the pastis, her eyes riveted to his, her message as clear as skywriting: It’s all yours… for a price.
“Each independent winery works under an alternative proprietorship,” he repeated.
“Yes, of course. It’s what differentiates you from custom crush. You keep control this way without having to buy all the equipment.”
“You were always so canny, Adele,” he said to her, turning toward her on the couch. Her eyes went from his eyes to his mouth, and she smiled at his praise. “And the other four brands?” he said.
Adele placed her drink on the counter. She took his hand and held it against her breast, but before Laurent could react she touched the wedding ring on his hand.
“Is this a deal breaker?” she asked softly.
He held her eyes for several long seconds and then gently removed his hand from her breast. “You tell me,” he replied.
She watched him for a moment and then turned and picked up the remote control from the table.
“The four other brands, besides your neighbor Jean-Luc Pernon, are located in the Luberon, and one in Spain,” she said. “I have arranged for them to come to St-Buvard to meet with us.” She glanced at Laurent, her expression veiled. “To meet with you, your American wife, and myself. We will sign the papers then.”
Laurent picked up Adele’s hand and kissed it. “Merci, Adele,” he said, standing. “I will not forget this.”
For the first time in four months—virtually since the moment he knew Ordeur was splintering the co-op—Laurent felt a weight lift from his shoulders and his heart. And he felt like laughing.
*****
The Arles Amphitheater was always an impressive structure Maggie thought as she walked up the smooth flat stone steps that led into the main arched entranceway. She’d brought both her parents here when she and Laurent first moved to Provence.
There was something about walking the same stone hallways that people had done two thousand years ago that gave her chills just to think of it. The imposing, ghostly structure had a way of connecting her with the people of 90 AD Arles. After all, could they really be so different?
Olivier carried an unwieldy tripod on his shoulder—the video camera securely attached to it—and entered the arena ahead of her. Jim and Janet Anderson walked slowly, almost reluctantly, behind Maggie. The few glances she’d spared in their direction showed them both looki
ng elderly, even ill. Janet stumbled at one point on the stairs and Jim did not reach out to help steady her.
What had she really heard last night? Maggie wondered. Was Jim being blackmailed by Lanie? And if so, where did that fit in?
“Ça va, Maggie?” Olivier called to her. He was about to disappear into the dark shadows of the amphitheater. Even the brief walk from where the car was parked to the structure’s entrance had been hot enough to make a line of sweat visible on his t-shirt. He was, nonetheless, smiling.
“Yep,” she said, waving him on. Desiree and Randall were still back at the car for some reason, but it didn’t matter. This was Dee-Dee’s part of the tour and she would make sure everyone was seated and watching before she started. When Maggie reached the top step, before entering she turned to glance over her shoulder. With the arena built right in the center of town, all she could really see was the first line of restaurants and shops that faced the amphitheater. She turned and went inside.
The coolness of the interior gave her relief from the walk and the heat of the morning. She saw Olivier disappearing through one of the stone archways that led to the seats and the viewing area. She remembered when her father first saw the arena below, ringed by the seating galleries. It literally took his breath away. Maggie smiled at the memory. She hadn’t seen her folks since last Christmas. Jem was a newborn then. She couldn’t wait for them to see him now. Thanksgiving and Atlanta seemed like a long way away.
Following Olivier through the archway, Maggie gave herself a moment to take in the impressive sight of the four tiers of seats ready for an audience to enjoy barbarous entertainment. She couldn’t look at the arena without thinking that it wasn’t always used just for bullfights and gladiators.
There had been the odd hungry lion and Christian, too.
“Bon, Maggie,” Olivier said. “I am setting up here so you and the others should sit over there.” He waved to a tier of stone seats off to Maggie’s left and up two rows. She saw Dee-Dee, notecards in hand, rehearsing silently, standing in front of where Olivier was putting his tripod. He had positioned her with the dramatic oval of the arena behind her.
Maggie climbed up the rows, sat on one of the stone seats and arranged her purse at her feet. Jim and Janet came through the archway and squinted into the sun until they saw her. Without smiling or waving, they put their heads back down and made their way to where she was sitting. Maggie didn’t expect any conversation this morning, and she didn’t get any. She watched Janet, wondering if she was at all concerned at the possibility that she’d been overheard last night, but clearly whatever nightmare hangover she was dealing with blotted out all other concerns.
The weather in Arles was good today, if a bit warm. There were no clouds and, fortunately for the tour, no other tourists. Even though it was well past seven in the morning, Randall had guessed correctly that it would be too early for most tourists to venture out. When he and Desiree finally entered the amphitheater, they glanced at Maggie and the Andersons then moved to a row on the same side but out of earshot.
Maggie thought Desiree was working particularly hard to avoid eye contact with her. She felt her foot vibrate where her purse lay against it. She reached in the bag to look at the cell phone she’d tucked in there. It was Annie. Maggie pressed Decline. She’d have to call her back.
“Can you imagine?” Dee-Dee said as she walked to the railing that overlooked the sandy arena. She turned and looked into the lens of Olivier’s camera and smiled. “Sitting here more than two thousand years ago waiting for the show to begin?”
Maggie got goose bumps when Dee-Dee spoke. She’s good, she thought with surprise, rubbing her arms.
“Although it was built in 90 AD, the Arles Amphitheater was the reality TV of Roman times—from chariot races and bullfighting, to bloody hand-to-hand battles. Think of it.” Dee-Dee leaned toward the camera with an earnest look in her eye, as if she were connecting with each member of the audience.
“Gladiators fought wild animals here to the delight of twenty thousand screaming fans. She turned and pointed to the dark archway that led to the bottom arena. “That was where the Christian martyrs were led in…and there was no other way out.”
That’s just what I always used to think, Maggie thought, feeling the mystery and the eeriness of the place settle into her bones.
“Some people say the Arles Amphitheater is confirmation of the emphasis the Romans put on sports and that’s probably true,” Dee-Dee continued. “But I think it’s much more. Measuring four hundred and forty-six feet in length and three hundred and fifty-eight feet wide with one hundred and twenty arches, the amphitheater is two-tiered to allow a system of galleries for optimum viewing of whatever was going on in the arena—gladiators, wild animals, or bullfights.”
Dee-Dee walked back to the railing and swept an arm in the direction of the arena. The feeling that she was building up to something was palpable. Maggie held her breath, surprising herself by how Dee-Dee’s words were creating a feeling of expectation in her. She leaned in closer.
“The floor of the arena was sand, in order to absorb the blood better. Necessary all those years ago, as well as today when bullfights are held here each year.” Dee-Dee nodded wisely into the camera, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “And not unlike the entertainment of two thousand years ago, the fights are dramatic, thrilling and bloody. Simply put, no matter what happens down there…” She nodded in the direction of the sandy oval below. “…somebody is not walking away afterward.”
She turned to Olivier behind the camera with one hand on her hip. “Then I thought I’d segue into a bit I’m working on about how Van Gogh settled here in the eighteen hundreds but always felt like he left a piece of himself behind. You know, the ear thing. What do you think?”
Behind Maggie was the single and steady clapping of one person in the stands. When she turned, she saw it was Randall and that he was standing.
Huh, she thought. A standing ovation for the one who doesn’t stand a chance of getting the slot? She saw that Desiree, on the other hand, was staring at Dee-Dee in open-mouthed astonishment.
*****
“You were truly awesome, my dear,” Janet said, patting Dee-Dee’s hand an hour later at one of the outdoor restaurants at the foot of the steps leading down from the amphitheater. “Inspiring. Wasn’t she, Jim?”
“Really good,” Jim said, handing his menu to the waiter. “Just bring a bottle of your best Rosé,” he said.
“I’ll have the artichoke risotto with the grilled cod,” Janet said to the waiter.
“You’re just ordering that to make me ill,” Jim said in a low voice. “I swear I’ll change seats.”
Dee-Dee turned to Maggie. She was so proud of herself she glowed.
“What did you think, Maggie?” Dee-Dee asked. “Would you say it was the best presentation of the tour so far?”
“Well, it was really, really good,” Maggie said. Would Randall change his mind about Dee-Dee after her performance today?
“Good?” Olivier said with surprise as he leaned across Maggie to reach the olive bowl. “It was by far the best presentation yet.”
“Really?” Dee-Dee said, grinning at him. “Do you really think so?”
“Absolument.”
Weird, Maggie thought. Surely, Olivier would think Lanie’s was the best? She shook off the thought. Probably just being nice.
“Thank you, darling Olivier,” Dee-Dee said, grabbing him and kissing him loudly on the cheek. “Did you hear Bob after I finished? I mean, did you hear him?” She giggled as she remembered it.
“He was very impressed,” Maggie said.
“I’ll say he was,” Dee-Dee said. “He told me he didn’t know I had it in me. He said he was spellbound. He actually said I had je ne sais quoi! In front of Desiree, he said that!”
“Pretty historic,” Maggie said. The look on Desiree’s face when he said it was pretty historic too, she thought. In fact, until the moment when Desiree donned a strident shade o
f scarlet while Randall was over-praising Dee-Dee, Maggie would have said she was a pretty woman. At the time she looked like a strangling pufferfish.
“Well, it was worth the hours of research and practice in front of the mirror that I put in,” Dee-Dee said. “That’s all I can say.”
“Where are Bob and Desiree?” Maggie asked, looking around the terrace.
“Desiree said she was ill,” Olivier said with a grin, “which does not surprise anyone. And Bob said he had to write a check to the hotel or something. He will join us for cheese and coffee.”
“I think Bob is giving me a ride home,” Maggie said. “What’s everyone else doing?”
“We are all taking you to St-Buvard,” Olivier said with a grin. “I have heard so much of your husband from Bob, I must see this for myself.”
“Well, don’t believe everything Bob tells you,” Maggie said.
“I never would,” Olivier said, winking at her. “And now, we must have a bottle of Champagne, no? Are we all agreed?”
Olivier turned to Dee-Dee, but she was intently studying her smartphone.
“Dee-Dee?” he said. “To celebrate your amazing day?”
She looked up, her face flushed and her eyes darting to the entrance of the restaurant.
“Are you all right, chérie?” Olivier asked her.
“I am,” she said, shoving her phone in her purse and grabbing her cardigan from the back of the chair. “But I just remembered something I need to do.”
“Surely, you are not leaving,” Olivier said, as she rose from the table.
Maggie frowned. Did it make sense that Dee-Dee would leave her own party? At her moment of glory?
“I have to. You go on and have fun,” Dee-Dee said, leaving the table. “I’ll see you…you know…later.”
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