The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  "I thought you didn't want me talking about that." Gerry touched a piece of cold sausage suspiciously with his fork. There were bits of green and white things poking out of it.

  "He said y'all are moving to New Zealand," Maggie said. "How do you feel about that, Darla?"

  Laurent flapped his napkin open and took a sip from his wine glass. His eyes met Maggie's briefly.

  "This is good stuff," Gerry remarked, pulling the wine bottle to him.

  "Chateau Cos D'Estournel l982." Laurent looked at him with surprise. "You are familiar, oui?"

  Gerry shrugged uncomfortably. "I've heard of it," he said.

  "I feel hacked off about it, if you want to know," Darla said to Maggie. "He's called New Zealand immigration and asked about the school year for Haley and how we can get residency and all that stuff. You should see our phone bill. Just take a wild guess how much the first three minutes on a transpacific phone call is. Just guess."

  "Oh, shut up, Darla." Gerry frowned and took a sip of his wine. "I'm calling around to get things set up and find housing and so forth. Plus, I need to find a job down there."

  "This really just seems so sudden to me," Maggie said, taking a pear from the basket of fruit that she deposited on the table. "How did you pick New Zealand? Why so far away?"

  "Did you know that Auckland is the furthest point on the globe from Atlanta?" Gerry said happily. "Except Perth, I think."

  "And that's the whole point, I guess?" Maggie looked at Gerry.

  "I'm sick of living like this," he said. "Sick of being afraid for my family and reading about mass slayings at the MacDonald's restaurants and drug killings in Cabbagetown--"

  "We don't live anywhere near Cabbagetown," Darla inserted.

  "Doesn't matter. We live in the same city with it."

  "So you thought you'd try your luck in another hemisphere?" Maggie said cutting her pear into small bite-sized chunks. "I don't know, Gar, it seems so drastic. Don't you think so, Laurent?"

  "I'm thinking it sounds like a bonne idee," he said, shrugging.

  "I thought you liked America," Maggie stopped cutting up her fruit.

  "I like wherever you are, cherie," he said simply.

  "Yeah, well, I'm thinking it sounds like the end of the world," Darla said, pushing her plate away. "Hurry up and catch this lunatic, okay, Maggie? That way we can all stay in the U.S."

  "It's not just him--" Gerry leaned across the table.

  "I know, I know," Darla said. "But it'd be a start. Soon as Elise’s killer is caught, we'll all start to relax a little."

  Maggie looked at Laurent and he covered her hand with his own.

  "I didn't get a chance to ask you how the memorial service was," Darla said gently.

  "It was good. Generic." Maggie released Laurent's hand and regarded her friends from across the table. "I mean, no one really knew Elise. She'd been away so long...nearly seven years all together. So the eulogy wasn't terribly specific." Maggie cleared her throat.

  Laurent reached for the wine bottle. He poised it over Darla's already full glass.

  "Encore du vin?" he asked.

  2

  The next morning the drizzle continued. The rain offered some relief to the sweltering city by lowering temperatures, but left behind a suffocating mugginess that left Atlantans gasping.

  "I keep coming back to Gerard." Maggie adjusted the telephone receiver against her ear and leaned against the glass wall of the phone booth.

  "Perhaps she had a boyfriend?" Laurent asked. "Did you ask? In France, there are many passionate fights between lovers. It is....how you are saying?...not unusual."

  Maggie could hear a pot lid clattering against the oven. Does the man do nothing but prepare food?

  "Yeah, well, we puritanical Americans are a little more self-contained when it comes to l'amour, Laurent," she responded. "Sorry to disappoint you. Drugs or turf or money... those are all acceptable, American things to kill for, but love just doesn't cut it as a real popular reason over here."

  "Ah, well." She could see his usual Gallic shrug and she felt a surge of love for him. He seemed to have an affectionate interest in things American. As long as they didn't actually jump into his grocery cart or keep him from smoking in restaurants or--heaven forbid--force him to perform any kind of aerobic exercise. Yet he was fascinated with Americans, with their health obsessions, their attention to cars and their neurotic attendance on their children's whims. He enjoyed watching it all and was careful to remain an observer.

  "I was toying with the idea of skipping dinner, my love." Maggie twisted the telephone cord around her fist and looped the hard rubber ringlets between her knuckles.

  "Pour quoi?" She could hear a tinge of hurt being quickly covered.

  "I can't eat so much, Laurent. I'm serious."

  "It is food, simplement."

  "I know, darling, but it is also fattening, artery-clogging food--as scrumptious as it is. I can't do it on a regular basis. I just want to grab a carton of yogurt or something tonight. Okay? And I'm going by to talk to the night watchman at our building--"

  "I will come with you."

  "Okay, good. That'd be good." Maggie rubbed her eyes with her free hand and watched the traffic on Piedmont Avenue from the grime-streaked window of the phone booth. "Anyway, I just want to drop in on my folks to say ‘hi’ and then I'll be home."

  "Bon."

  "I love you, Laurent."

  "I love you, too, Maggie."

  After she had hung up and dodged the raindrops to get back into her car, it began to occur to Maggie that perhaps Laurent should find some kind of job.

  3

  Maggie pulled onto the Newberry estate and through the Brymsley gates.

  Elspeth opened the front door as Maggie parked. She looked fresh and happy. She wore a soft cotton sundress of blue and purple violets on a white background and a pair of gold sandals on her feet.

  "Have you changed your mind about dinner? Your father's home for a change."

  "No, sorry, Mom, I told Laurent I'd be home.”

  "Call him, have him drive over--"

  "Mom, we'll be here tomorrow night, but I can't tonight."

  "Well, all right, darling." Elspeth led them into the house

  "How's she been doing?" Maggie asked.

  "Oh, fine. Very good. You’ll have a drink, at least?"

  "Sure, I guess. A quick one. Dad's home, you say?"

  While her mother gave drink orders to Becka, Maggie found her father sitting in his study with the evening paper and a gin and tonic.

  "Hey, Dad," she said, giving him a kiss.

  "Well, hello, sweetheart." John Newberry's face lit up as his paper crumpled into his lap. "Your mother said you couldn't come to dinner tonight."

  "I can't, either. I'm just here for a quick visit. Laurent and I'll be over tomorrow for dinner."

  "I like the man," her father said. "He's got some very interesting stories to tell."

  "Oh, really?" Laurent's story-telling abilities hadn't really come up much in their relationship. Maggie found herself intrigued.

  "Ahh, well, probably not the sort of stories a young man tells his lady love. Quite the scamp in his day, was your Laurent. Reformed by love." Her father straightened out his newspaper, folding it to a smaller size to make his reading tidier...less conspicuous?

  Although not surprised that Laurent had a mysterious past, Maggie was astonished that he might have shared any of it with the father of his lover. Or that her father hadn't been alarmed by whatever Laurent had divulged. Couldn't have been anything too dangerous, Maggie decided, as she watched John Newberry's pleasant face relax into a concentration of reading. It was true her father seemed fascinated by Laurent. And, for some reason, she found she wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea.

  "Mind if I use the phone, Dad, in the ante room?" Maggie stood up and held her notepad in front of her.

  "Of course, darling, help yourself," he murmured into his newspaper.

  Maggie stepp
ed into the small room used as the business part of her Dad's study. Here, away from the den with its books and side tables and Steiffel lamps, were the desk and fax machine. There was even a copier machine that her father seemed never to use but had insisted on having. Maggie closed the door separating the two rooms.

  Picking up the phone, she quickly gave the operator her overseas calling card code and the number in Paris. After several lengthy clicks, the line rang.

  "Allo? Chez Zouk." A woman's voice came clear and distinct over the line.

  "Oui, est-ce que Madame Zouk?" Is this Madame Zouk? Maggie asked.

  "Comment?" Excuse me?

  God, she was afraid of this. Her French was crap. Why didn't she just have Laurent make the call for her?

  "Madame Zouk. Je cherche Madame Zouk. Elle est la?" I'm looking for Madame Zouk. Is she there?

  "Ahhhh! Madame Zouk, elle n'est pas ici . Elle a vacance en Provence. Comprenez?"

  On vacation in the South of France? Maggie let out a long, breath. Her expectations and hopes draining out with the breath.

  "Oui, merci, Madame. Merci beaucoup. Au revoir, madame." Maggie hung up quickly just as the door opened and Becka entered with a small silver tray. On it was a lone Waterford goblet sparkling with her gin and tonic. A fat green wedge of lime bobbed to the top.

  "Oh, thanks, Becka. Could you tell my Mother I'll be out in a minute? I've just got one more phone call to make. Thanks." The maid nodded and left.

  On vacation. That figures. It's August. All of France is on vacation and probably in Provence too. She took a long sip of her drink and felt immediately revitalized.

  Well, that puts off visiting Paris until September, she thought. Just as well. She was still not asking the right questions and she needed to at least have that part down before she put a six hundred-dollar-flight-plus-hotel on her American Express card.

  She picked up the phone again and dialed.

  “Brownie? Hey, this is Maggie. Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

  “Maggie? Maggie who?”

  “Very funny. I’m really sorry. I’ve been busy, you know, trying to figure out this thing with Elise.”

  “Figure out what thing with Elise?”

  Maggie took a sip of her drink. He wasn’t going to make this easy.

  “Look, Brownie, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch, so there you are. Now I’ve got a couple of questions I’m hoping you can help me with or you can continue to be a jerk and I won’t even blame you, okay?”

  Brownie paused on the other line.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “Thanks. First, do you remember seeing anything weird the night you came to my apartment for dinner when Elise was killed?”

  “You mean other than all the cops and the people hanging about in the hallway?”

  “Please, Brownie.”

  “Well, I remember the cops were really kind and sweet to me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I could have been the killer as far as they knew, right? But they never checked my pockets or anything. I could’ve had a knife on me, you know. In fact, I did have one.”

  “What? A knife?”

  “You know the one I always carry? The Swiss Army knife?”

  “Well, you don’t need a coroner to tell you Elise wasn’t killed with a little ol’ Swiss Army pen knife.”

  “Excuse me, Maggie, but they didn’t even check to see if I had a big, bloody butcher knife. Plus, I even picked up some crap coming into your apartment and they could care less, you know?”

  “You picked something up in the hall?”

  “Yeah, at first I thought it was garbage, but it was sort of shiny and then I thought it looked valuable so I picked it up.”

  “What was it?”

  “Who knows? I still don’t know. A kid’s toy, maybe? I thought I’d give it to Nicole.”

  “You’ve still got it?”

  “You can’t seriously think this is important?”

  “It’s one more thing than I had fifteen minutes ago.”

  “It’s a piece of junk, a kid’s toy--”

  “We don’t have kids in the apartment. It’s a singles complex. When can I see this thing? What’s it look like?”

  “It’s gold, looks kinda cheap...I don’t know, like a ring of some kind but not for your finger.”

  “Can you drop it by my folks’ house?”

  “Your flat off-limits now that your frog boyfriend’s taken up residence?”

  “I just thought it’d be more convenient for you. Drop it off at my place if you want.”

  “Forget it. Yeah, I’ll drop the thing off at your folks’ place. If you’re not there, I’ll give it to your Mom.”

  “Thanks, Brownie.”

  Maggie hung up and took a large swig of her drink, nearly draining it. She rattled the ice cubes against the crystal and stared, unseeing, at the large hunt print her dad had mounted over the desk. Very slowly, something seemed to be forming, gelling in her mind. Was it a picture of Elise's killer?

  Maggie finished the rest of her drink and stood up. Whatever it was, she had to trust that it would develop in time. Her eye fell on a small gilt-framed photograph nearly hidden on her father's desk. It was a black and white snapshot of twelve-year old Maggie and ten-year old Elise and their dog "Little", from another summer many years ago. Both girls were tan and smiling, their lithe arms intertwined around each other's shoulders. Elise wore a jaunty sailor's cap and behind them both was the boathouse and dock at the family's lake house. Maggie carefully picked up the little picture taken so long ago. She had never seen it before. Her father's happy girls. His two first mates. Her father had sold the lake house during Maggie's senior year of high school. By then, she and Elise had long since tired of baiting hooks and playing first mate or reading in the boathouse during an afternoon rain.

  Maggie replaced the picture and turned to leave the room, wondering how many times one can continue to lose the same person.

  Chapter Thirteen

  1

  Laurent led the way down the darkened corridor of the basement of the Parthenon. Cobwebs hung in large wattles in the corners, dripping into his face as he and Maggie made their way down the hall. It was hard to believe that someone actually worked down here, actually packed a lunch and hummed himself off to work only to arrive at the creepy bowels of a hundred-year old building.

  Maggie slipped her hand into Laurent's and squeezed it.

  "Allo?" Laurent called as they neared a doorway at the end of the hall, light spilling out onto the cement floor. "Allo? Monsieur?" They stopped in front of the door and peered inside.

  "Mr. Danford?" Maggie called softly.

  "With you folks in just a minute," a voice said.

  Laurent and Maggie looked at each other and then entered the small broom closet of an office. A metal desk was shoved up against one of the cement walls. A half-sized window hovered over it. From the outside of the building, the window would be eye level with one's Reeboks, Maggie noted. Little had been done to make the office comfortable or attractive. No plants or pictures on the walls, no rugs across the cold and uneven concrete floor, not even a lamp with a shade to make the night watchman's station less wretched.

  "You're the girl whose sister was killed last month?" The man finally extricated himself from behind his six-foot filing cabinet and maneuvered around two metal folding chairs to stand in front of Maggie and Laurent. He held out his hand.

  Laurent shook it. The man withdrew his hand before Maggie could shake it too.

  "Yes, that's me," Maggie said. "I was hoping you could--"

  "Told the police everything. Didn't see nothing. I'm on duty at night, you see. Didn't happen at night, did it?"

  He settled himself into a large swivel chair situated in front of the desk. He sort of resembled Barnie Fife with a touch of mange, Maggie thought. His balding head supported long wisps of hair, witnesses to a losing battle. His eyes were bloodshot and watery and Maggie found herself scanning the of
fice for liquor bottles.

  "No," Maggie said, turning her eyes back on the skinny little man. "But maybe you've seen strange people around at night. You know, shady characters that might be involved?"

  Mr. Danford scratched the back of his head with a long, crooked finger.

  "Thought the cops said this was a spur of the moment kinda killing."

  "Monsieur, do you know if any peoples come here at night? Bad people?"

  Maggie wondered what the old guy would think of this big bruiser with the French accent.

  Danford finished scratching himself and looked up at Laurent.

  "Sometimes I seen some weird characters around here. In the winter, mostly. Trying to get in to sleep it off for the night, you know? Someplace warm."

  "And in the summer?" Maggie asked impatiently.

  "Well, summertime's different. People want in for different reasons in the summertime. This here drug dealer the cops was asking me about? He comes by from time to time. I reckon he's got a customer in the building somewheres, don't you? Else why would he keep coming by?"

  "What's he look like?"

  "Looks like crap, you want to know. Got this long nasty yellow hair, you know how they wear it these days?" Maggie hadn't a clue, but she nodded encouragingly. "And clothes all ripped to hell. Big holes in the knees of his trousers and his seat too, sometimes. Can't be making much money as a drug dealer, that's what I told Cissy. Cissy's my wife."

  "I met her the other day," Maggie said.

  "That's right. She said you come by. Ol' Cissy makes sure I get my sleep. She won't wake me if my own mother was to call, the last breaths of life a-squeezing outta her. My Cissy looks out for me."

  "That's great. So, this drug dealer--"

  "I done told the police all of this."

  "I know, Mr. Danford, but if you could just run over it one more time for me. Please."

  The old man shrugged and stretched back in his chair.

  "Can't take too long. Gotta make my rounds pretty soon."

  "Thank you for your time, Monsieur Danford." Laurent nodded at the man but made no moved to leave.

  "This drug dealer," Maggie said. "Have you ever talked with him?"