Chapter Ten
Laurent placed the bag of groceries on Maggie’s marble countertop. The bag was straining with gleaming bulbs of eggplant, peppers and tomatoes. He rubbed his hands together and pulled from the bag a bottle of olive oil, a baton of French bread and a bunch of green grapes.
Maggie watched him from the doorway of the kitchen. “Where did you get all that stuff?”
He turned to look at her, as if caught by surprise. “Oh, Maggie, there you are!”
“Here I have been all morning, Laurent. It’s you who’s been out doing God knows what. What is all that stuff there?” She smiled at him.
Laurent continued to unpack his groceries. “You are eating frozen dinners all the time, non?” He waved in the general direction of Maggie’s freezer, as if to imply even owning a freezer was somehow a shameful thing.
“Not all the time.” Maggie peered around him at the groceries. “I eat Cheerios in the morning sometimes.”
“Mon Dieu,” Laurent muttered. He held up a white block of cheese wrapped in plastic wrap.
“What’s that?”
“Fromage de chevre.”
“Goat cheese.”
“Very good, chérie.”
“I hate goat cheese.”
“Mix it with your Cheerios. It’s good for you.”
“Cheese isn’t good for you.” She wrapped her arms around his middle. “The whole world knows this, except the French. Fact is, we’ve been keeping it from you.”
Laurent tossed the cheese onto the counter and turned to face Maggie. “You and the whole world?” he said, smiling down at her.
“We’re very close.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him, then laid her head against his broad chest and felt the strength and security of his arms around her.
They had been allowed to return to Maggie’s apartment the evening before. Maggie felt uncomfortable living in the place where her sister lost her life. Laurent was clearly doing everything in his power to soften, if not erase, the connection.
“Your asparagus is wilting,” she said teasingly.
“Not possible,” he said, giving her bottom a squeeze before releasing her and turning back to his groceries.
“You know, I haven’t told anybody else this, but the body I identified in Cannes? The one I said was Elise? The cops told me it was an accidental death but it wasn’t. There was a bullet hole above her ear.”
“Vraiment?”
Maggie noticed that Laurent, who stood with his back to her, had stopped chopping.
“Why do you think the cops ruled it an accident? I mean, when there was obviously a bullet hole in the head?”
He shrugged. “Addicts, prostitutes…they are not valuable to the police in a town of so much wealth and influence.”
“Just couldn’t be bothered, you mean.”
“Exactement.”
“But it does make me wonder if maybe I wasn’t the only one mistaking that body for Elise’s.”
“You think the Cannes murder was supposed to be your sister?”
“I don’t know. Is murder common in Cannes?”
“I think not. But among the society of the young woman whose body was found, perhaps more so.”
“Every time I try to imagine who could have killed Elise, I come back to a single question: Why Elise? And if I answer that question, I always come up with the same answer.”
“Gerard.”
“That’s right. Gerard. He’s the only one with a motive. If his wife and child were going to be together and, presumably, happy, don’t you think it fits with his character profile that thought might drive him wild? The notion that they didn’t need him. Were, in fact, going to be better off without him?”
Laurent frowned and looked unconvinced. “Did you tell the police about Gerard?”
“Yes, but I didn’t get the impression they were listening. They did take down his name and stuff.”
“They will question him.”
“I suppose so.”
“Absolument. But I think, perhaps, they will think his reason to kill her is a little façile.”
“You’re wrong, Laurent. You, of all people, ought to know about crimes of passion.”
“Moi?” He sounded startled.
“Yes, being French and all.”
“Ahhh, oui, of course.”
“I mean, Gerard had a child by Elise. He lived with her for nearly five years. She was beautiful and she rejected him by coming here to her family. Did I tell you how he just opened up the car door and dumped her out onto the pavement? Yeah, Gerard is definitely my number one suspect.”
“You must not speak with him.”
“Laurent, don’t be silly.”
“I am sérieux, Maggie. I forbid it.”
“Oh, settle down. Honestly.” Maggie felt both annoyed and flattered by Laurent’s attempts to command her. “If I talk with him, you’ll be there. Okay?”
He looked unhappy with the compromise.
“I probably can’t even find him. Meanwhile, I need to talk to people in the apartment building. And don’t tell me the police have already done that, because I’m still doing it, okay?”
“Bien sûr.” Laurent turned to observe her as she picked up her house keys.
“Look, I’ll be back for lunch, okay?” Maggie continued to stand in the doorway, and realized that, for some reason, she wanted his blessing.
He turned and looked at her. “You must do it.”
An hour later, she was back.
“You are not being gone very long, chérie,” Laurent said cheerfully.
“Nobody saw anything.”
Laurent slid a golden crescent of fluffed egg onto a stoneware dish, sprinkled on a few sautéed peppers as garnish and set it down in front of her at the kitchen table. He put his hand against her cheek. “Do you want me to come too? I will tell them: ‘You better answer her questions! Or I can be very méchant.’”
“I don’t think it would help, but thanks.” Maggie picked up her fork. The eggs were light and fluffy and she realized she was hungry. “I shouldn’t assume people want to help, I guess.” She took a bite. “Laurent, am I going to get fat living with you? Because I can’t afford a whole new wardrobe.”
“Oh, I talked with your papa. When you are working tomorrow, I will go with him to his club.”
“Really?” Maggie stopped chewing.
“Is it a surprise to you?”
“Well, yeah. Dad never brings my friends to his club. I mean, I don’t think he’s even brought Brownie.”
As Maggie looked at Laurent and wondered what in him that had resonated so strongly with her father, there was a knock at the door.
“That’s funny,” Maggie said. “People have to buzz you from outside. They can’t get inside to knock on your door.” She threw down her napkin and started to get up.
Laurent was ahead of her. He went to the front door and swung it open. “Oui?”
The man in the hall seemed startled to see Laurent. It was the young man from the last apartment Maggie had visited. He and his wife were newlyweds, both recently unemployed. He’d mentioned they probably would have to move back in with her parents soon.
“I...I wanted...is Maggie here?” He peered nervously into the apartment, clearly intimidated by Laurent. Maggie jumped up and hurried to the door.
“Yes, I’m here. It’s Bill, right?”
“Yeah, listen...” He glanced up at Laurent. “We’re heading out now, but I remembered something that, if it matters—”
“What? You heard something?”
“Yeah, I forgot about it until just now. I mean, there was so much excitement and everything the night of the...you know...and the cops were asking all their questions, so it just went outta my head.”
Maggie nodded eagerly. “You want to come in?”
He shook his head and looked down the hall, as if someone was standing at his doorway waiting for him. “I remembered I saw this guy in the hallway that afternoon. I’m
pretty sure it was that afternoon. Might have been the afternoon before, you know?”
My God, Maggie thought. Had he seen the murderer?
“I mean, he just does deliveries, you know? So I thought, no big deal. And I don’t want to get anybody into trouble, okay?”
“What do you mean, deliveries?”
“From the grocer next door. Sometimes he’ll send his boy out to deliver stuff, only he’s not really a boy, more like...” and he tapped his head as if to indicate the person might be mentally unstable.
“I see.” Maggie was already thinking of her next step. “Thank you. Thanks for taking the time.”
“No big deal. Bye.” He turned on his heel and was gone.
Laurent ushered Maggie back to their cooling luncheon. “It is a good clue, yes?”
They reseated themselves and Maggie watched Laurent tuck into his omelet with enthusiasm.
“Yeah,” she said, thoughtfully. “I really think it might be.”
The shop around the corner from Maggie’s apartment was a harmonious hodgepodge of sewing notions, eyecups and prophylactics, with creaking wooden display bins filled with fruits and vegetables. Although it was not more than five minutes walking distance from Maggie’s apartment, Maggie had only been in the place a couple of times in the four years she’d lived at The Parthenon. It was so much easier just to swing into the parking lot of one of the chain grocery stores on her way home from work. Driving past the little neighborhood grocery, she’d always gotten the impression that only the elderly residents of the area shopped there. She’d seen them trudging along the sidewalk in front of the place, their wire and wicker baskets, and occasionally their walkers, banging against their knees.
Maggie pushed open the shop door, hearing as she did the off-kilter tinkle of the bell that announced another customer. The place smelled of Ivory soap and soft fruit. Maggie wondered how in the world it managed to survive in a neighborhood where all the real money hopped in BMWs and shopped for their Wheaties in strip shopping centers. Surely, the old-timers she saw doddering about the neighborhood weren’t enough to keep this place afloat?
“Can I help you, Miss?”
The proprietor came from behind the soda counter, wiping his hands on a towel that he’d tied in front of his slacks. His sparse gray hair capped a wise old head, it seemed to Maggie. His eyes didn’t smile so much as they drilled. They were drilling now.
“I’m Maggie Newberry. I live next door and wondered if I could ask you a few questions?”
“If I can.”
“You have a delivery boy?”
“Why?” He cocked his head at her like a bird watching a caterpillar.
“I think he may have seen something that happened in my apartment building and I’d like to talk with him about it.”
“Who says he saw something?”
Was she mistaken, or was he becoming a lot less friendly?
“Someone who saw him there.”
“Well, why not just ask the someone who saw him there what they saw?”
“Look, will you help me find the guy, or not? I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“Boy’s slow. Wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
The man rubbed his hands across his eyes and then scratched the back of his neck. “The police have already talked to him and me both. This wouldn’t be about that again, would it?”
“It was my sister who was killed.”
He didn’t respond.
“And I was wondering if I could ask him what it was he saw.”
“Well, he saw nothing.”
“Okay.” She waited.
“Didn’t see a thing. That’s what he told the police.”
“But he was there that day? I mean, he was seen there the afternoon of…”
“I have no idea.”
“Look.” Maggie had about had her limit of the exasperating old cuss not cooperating. “You’re his boss. Don’t you keep some sort of schedule of the stuff that gets delivered? You know, Mrs. Brown’s order sent out 3:l5. Stuff like that?”
“I don’t know a Mrs. Brown.”
“It was just an example.”
“When someone calls in an order I just put it together, ring it up and have Alfie take it to the address. I don’t have to write it down.”
“His name’s Alfie?”
“That’s right.” He looked less smug now. Obviously he hadn’t intended to give that much away.
“Is Alfie a teenager?”
“Seems to me a bogus air conditioning van parked out front of The Parthenon for half a day is a hell of a lot more suspicious than a poor half-witted boy.”
“There was a fake air conditioning repair van parked out front?”
“You’ll have to ask the police about that. I’ve answered enough questions. Kindly leave Alfie alone. He had nothing to do with this business. Now, if there’s nothing else I can help you with…” He turned abruptly and disappeared behind a towering stack of what looked like blue Milk of Magnesia bottles.
Maggie stood for a moment in the middle of the aisle, smelling all the conflicting fragrances and odors, and then left the shop. She hesitated in front of it, not sure of what to do next. The sun had burned off the briefly pleasant morning and was now relentlessly attacking anything and everything that cowered below. She pushed up the sleeves of her thin sweatshirt and was sorry she wasn’t wearing her sunglasses.
A fake air conditioning repair van? What did that mean? What in the world would that have to do with Elise?
Clearly, she was going to have to ask Detective Burton to do a better job of keeping her in the loop as he’d promised.
She sat down on the stone bench under the large sycamores in front of her apartment building. The bench, coated with moss and graffiti, was used primarily by Maggie’s elderly neighbors, who rested themselves as they made their laborious pilgrimages from pharmacy to lonely apartment room. Maggie had never noticed the pretty bench before.
She tried to imagine where the van would have parked. There was really no spot since the building sat so close to busy Peachtree Road.
Why would a sham repair van be parked in front of my apartment building?
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 16
