Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries
Page 43
*****
Maggie sat with her airline seat tray half open and propped up against her knees, gazing blankly at the flight attendant as he methodically inflated life vests and indicated where to access oxygen masks.
She shook her head, remembering how she had wanted Elise’s death not to have been random, not to have been for nothing. And now she knew it was so much worse than that. It wasn’t at all random.
Except the person who was supposed to have died that day was Maggie.
Tears filled her eyes as she thought of all the days and months of believing the murder somehow had to do with Elise and her lifestyle. She had blamed the police for jumping at the prospect of a random drug dealer as the murderer, but she herself had been little better. She wanted so badly to believe it was Gerard because he was one of Elise’s many bad choices.
It had never occurred to her that Elise might have died as a result of a simple mistake—the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Elise was killed by someone who wanted Maggie dead. When she’d realized in the cemetery whom the scarf ring belonged to—and so, who had been there at her apartment that afternoon—it all fell into place.
Besotted with Gary, Patti Stump had killed, or tried to kill, every woman close to him.
Maggie tugged on her seatbelt, although it was already fastened and tightened, and glanced at her seatmate. He looked to be a businessman, but she was still surprised that someone would travel transatlantic in a suit and tie. He smiled at her pleasantly and she tried to return the smile.
How many times had Patti seen Gary smile jovially at Deirdre? Or seen him ask her with real animation and pleasure how her weekend was? How many times did Patti watch Gary laugh at one of Deirdre’s silly—usually unintended—jokes, all the while plotting to kill her? Maggie shivered. She had meant to kill Maggie as well.
The AC truck, the burner phone. If what the cops now believed was true, Elise was murdered by a contract killer—a contract killer who got the wrong woman.
A flush of rage seared through Maggie as she tried to remember Stump’s reaction the next day at work after Elise had died. All she could picture was the woman sitting at the conference room table and tapping an impatient fountain pen against her spiral notebook.
It was Patti who had run into Alfie in the apartment hall and ridiculed him. Patti who made the obscene phone call, and then disposed of the phone. Patti who had attacked Maggie that night in the woods.
“You okay?” Her seating companion cocked his head at her and smiled. “Are you a little nervous about the flight?”
Maggie took a deep breath and nodded affirmatively. “Yes, I guess so,” she lied. How else to explain the fact that she couldn’t sit still and wanted to run up to the cockpit and jam her foot on the accelerator lever? Get this crate moving!
“The statistics are in our favor, you know.” He had an English accent and Maggie found herself wondering what his business in America might be. He reminded her of Roger.
“Although I know that’s little comfort where hysteria’s involved.” He raised his hand as if to pat hers and then obviously thought better of it. “We’re quite safe, though, I must say. I shouldn’t worry.”
“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “Thanks.”
“The drinks cart will put you right,” her companion said affably. Maggie nodded, then turned away.
All this time, sharing office space with the woman who murdered Elise—who would’ve murdered me if she could have. When her next thought hit her, it occurred so abruptly and with such certainty that she jerked upright against her seatbelt and gave a sharp gasp that prompted her seatmate to wrap his hand around her wrist. And although she could hear him making soothing noises to her, Maggie heard nothing of what he said.
My God, she thought, gripping the armrests.
Darla...