*****
Elspeth Newberry picked up the newspaper, careful not to get newsprint on her fingers, and placed it at her husband’s breakfast place. The headline shouted: Local Banker Confesses to Buckhead Murder.
“Good morning, my dear.” John Newberry turned from the breakfast buffet in their dining room, his Belleek plate sparsely adorned with a scrambled egg and a melon slice. “I didn’t know you were up.” He kissed her absently on the cheek as he set his plate down.
John’s thick shock of white hair was trimmed neatly in a cap around his head. His eyes were cerulean blue and a pink flush was on his high cheeks. Last night’s schnapps and a generally happy disposition contributed to his good coloring. He was a man happy with his world. He never doubted the future, never regretted the past. As a result, he thoroughly appreciated his present. He was a man with the incredible propensity to always feel in step with life. It showed, too, in his overall affect, in his relations with others, and in his nights of sound, dreamless sleep.
Elspeth sat next to him at the long table set with china and silver for a simple Friday morning breakfast for two. She poured his coffee from a large silver pot and then added a small amount of skim milk to it.
He frowned. “Honestly, El, what could a speck of cream hurt?” He knew it was a waste of breath, and his wife didn’t bother responding to him.
“Did you see the headlines?” she asked.
John looked at the solitary melon slice on her plate. “Is that all you’re having?”
“The police say he confessed to it. There’s a picture of the man. He looks a little like Uncle Jim.”
“Hmmm.” John took a bite of eggs and glanced at the newspaper. “Who is he?”
“They say he is a bank teller at a Buckhead bank.” Elspeth sighed and poured her coffee. She took it black. “A Robert Donnell.”
John wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed a large hand over her small one.
“And how, exactly, does it affect us, my dear? Elise is gone and all the suspects in custody in the world will not bring her back.”
Elspeth withdrew her hand and picked up a spoon to carve open her melon slice. “It affects us, John, as long as we still have a daughter alive and living in Buckhead.”
John looked at her with surprise. “You think Maggie is in danger?”
“I know she still lives in the apartment where her sister was brutally murdered.” She looked at him. “If you took the time to read the story you’d see that the media seems to have reason to believe this confession is not authentic, which would mean the maniac who actually killed Elise is still on the loose.”
“The media is trying to sell papers. They don’t know squat. And as for Maggie, she’s living with that great big brute of a Frenchman, for pity’s sake!” he said, not hiding his exasperation. “Practically his only full-time job is to look after our daughter.”
“I’m not sure what I think about Laurent Dernier,” Elspeth said, returning to her melon. “There’s something about him that doesn’t feel right.”
John took a sip of his coffee. “Well, I think I can set your mind at rest about that point at least. It is my belief that Laurent is the one stable, normal thing that our daughter has had in her life for a long time.”
“And what do you call Brownie?” Elspeth pushed her fruit plate away and stared at him.
“I’m not saying anything against Brownie. I always liked the boy. But he wasn’t right for our Maggie and I wouldn’t have liked to have seen them get together.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this. Brownie comes from the finest family.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t.”
“He adores Maggie.” Elspeth looked around the room in agitation. “He has practically grown up with her.”
“All I’m saying is the girl doesn’t love him and I don’t blame her. Nice chap, but I’ll pass on the son-in-law part, if you don’t mind.”
“I cannot believe you are saying this,” she repeated. “And you’d rather have this...Laurent Dernier, instead, I suppose?”
“I would.”
“He doesn’t have a job! He barely speaks English.”
“Maggie understands him. Come to that, you have no trouble understanding him either.”
“I’m not against Laurent.” Elspeth stood up from the table, her gold bracelets jangling softly as she did so. “But I think to compare him to Brownie is preposterous.”
“I quite agree.”
“I cannot believe this is what you would want for your daughter—an unemployed foreigner. Charming and handsome, yes, but marriage material for Margaret? You must be mad.” With that, she turned to make an elegant exit, in complete possession of the last word.
Newberry replaced his napkin and finished his coffee. He grimaced and added more milk to the cup. Idly, he flipped the paper to the sports section and got up to find a small sausage on the quickly cooling buffet table.
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 27
