"I'll kill you, you bastard! Is that you, Gerry? She's dead, you bastard! I killed her! I killed her! I killed her!"
Kazmaroff heard the first shot, then smashed his way into the house through the living room window, bringing drapes, curtain rods, window blinds and window frame crashing down with him. Still clutching his gun, he struggled to his feet and threw the draperies and hardware away from him and lunged down the short hallway to the kitchen, kicking and knocking over packing boxes as he went, years of sentimental keepsakes, photo albums, Christmas ornaments and special family treasures smashing against the wall behind him. Holding his gun in front of him in the ready position, he bellowed as he ran, "Police! Drop your weapons!"
He arrived in the kitchen with no time to assess the situation beyond pointing his gun at a woman shooting out the back window of the breakfast nook.
"Police!" he shouted again. "Drop it!"
She started to turn to face him, her gun still level, her finger still pushing the trigger.
He shot her once, in the forehead.
Epilogue
Gerry walked away from the gate and patted down his jacket pockets. He kept his wife and daughter in view at all times. In time, I'll calm down, he thought. After a while, I'll be able to relax again.
He watched Darla sitting in one of the long lines of plastic airport chairs, a roll of magazines in one hand and little Haley's mittened hand in the other. She seemed very animated as she talked to Laurent. Only the clutching hand holding her daughter told a different story.
"I guess you got everything?" Maggie stood next to Gerry in the airport gift shop and watched him anxiously.
He tapped his inside coat pocket. "Passports, visas, beaucoups American dollars, and a representative sampling of Kiwi dollars. Want to see them? They're very pretty." He stuck his hand in his jacket and pulled out a few pastel money notes in purple and pink.
"Very nice," Maggie said.
"I was tempted to bring Monopoly money, but Darla assured me the vendors Down Under would be too sophisticated for that."
"So, I guess you've got everything."
"Yes, Maggie. I do. Calm down, okay?"
Maggie shook her head. "I just don't know what to say," she said.
"You act like you're at a funeral."
"I'm losing a friend."
"There are daily flights to Auckland."
"And applications for the next space shuttle too. Excuse me for thinking neither is a very viable possibility for me."
"You choose your own limitations."
"Oh, thank you, Dale Carnegie. Isn't it time for you to go yet?"
"Maggie--"
"No, Gerry, listen. I'm glad for you, I really am. If this is what you want, then I am just too-happy, okay?"
"Really." He looked unconvinced.
"And I officially apologize for that crack I made in the car."
"You mean the one about Kiwi fruit causing cancer? Forget it. Darla will explain Auntie Maggie's sense of humor to Haley and I'm sure we'll get her to eat fruit again."
"I'm going to miss you."
"I'll miss you too, Maggie. But you'll visit. We'll come back here for visits."
"Won't you be afraid of being gunned down in the concourse if you come back to the U.S.?" Instantly, Maggie regretted saying it.
"Well, no," Gerry said slowly. "Not being a fanatic or obsessive or anything. I think I can handle bringing my family back for a visit from time to time."
They were both quiet a moment. Gerry smiled at Darla and waved to his daughter from where they sat with Laurent.
“I forgot to ask you how you knew in the first place that it was Stump,” he said, quietly.
“Well, it wasn’t the ‘first place’ unfortunately,” Maggie said. “But Patti’s scarf ring was what made it all click for me.”
“Her what?”
"It’s something women use sometimes as an accessory with scarves. Patti lived by them. Brownie had found it in the hallway the afternoon Elise was...was killed and he'd pocketed it. The cops never even bothered to ask him to empty his pockets. Anyway, he gave it to me later, thinking it might be important only he didn't know what it was. I knew it was a scarf ring, even a familiar one, but it wasn't until I was sitting in the cemetery at Montmarte that it finally came to me where I'd seen it."
Gerry shook his head.
"Yeah, only about a million times stuck on Patti’s graceful bosom. And that's when I knew." Maggie rubbed her arms as if a terrible chill had come into the room. "She'd been there that day. She'd been waiting for me to come home. Elise got in the way." She shivered." Soon as I made the office connection--Dierdre and all that--well, the rest of it fell into place."
"You got the Laurent thing sorted out yet?" Gerry asked, switching the subject as he paid for his purchases at the counter. Candy bars, magazines, chewing gum, a paperback book.
"He's told so many lies about so many things," Maggie said. "It's hard for me to get past that. He's got a lot of good reasons for much of it all, and some very lame reasons for other stuff." She made a helpless gesture with her hand. "My folks like him..."
"I suppose that's good."
"He's not what I thought he was. Not as wonderful...and not as awful." She ran a hand through her combed hair, knocking loose a restraining barrette. "Of all the things he’s lied about,” Maggie said, watching Laurent as he talked with Darla, “I do believe he loves me."
"Quelle surprise, mon amie," he said smiling.
Maggie smiled too, then gave him a brief hug.
"Good-bye, boss," she said. "Show 'em how to do real American retail advertising down there."
"I fully intend to. The starburst price-point and the use of oversized type is about to arrive in the land of sheep and honey." He grinned. "Antipodal advertising will never be quite the same again."
"Nor on this side of the pond either, dearest."
They smiled fondly at each other.
* * * * * *
The little dog cocked its head, forcing a small scruffy ear to flop into one of its eyes. It sat, attentive and enduring, in Nicole's lap. The little girl's small fingers pressed into the animal's fur.
"Grandmère says she's got fleas," Nicole said, her face screwed into a mask of serious concern.
I'm sure Grandmère is delighted about that, Maggie thought with amusement. Dressed in a forest green velvet tunic with black leggings, Maggie stood by the fireplace in the Brymsley library and watched the flames. Christmas was a week away and she had never remembered her parents' home--all dressed for the season--looking or feeling more enchanting. The whole mansion smelled of fir boughs and toasted cinnamon sticks with the scent of even greater, impending, wonders wafting on the air. Maggie moved from her position by the fireplace and sat down next to Nicole on her parents' overstuffed settee. The puppy looked at her with solemn, large brown eyes. She touched its soft fur.
"I have a cadeau for you, Nicole." Maggie said. "An early present."
Nicole looked up questioningly into Maggie's eyes, her little hands momentarily stopped in their incessant searching of the dog's coat.
"Is it from Maman?" she asked.
Maggie bit her lip. "In a way." she said, placing the glittering bracelet of charms in Nicole's narrow lap of swansdown and cashmere. "It belonged to Elise when she was a little girl."
Nicole touched the tiny charms with her fingers, then delicately lifted up the bracelet to watch the tinkling figurines. An ice skater, a ballerina, a wee gold sailing ship, a miniature horse and rider, a typewriter, a Cocker Spaniel dog, an easel.
Nicole looked into Maggie's eyes and smiled.
"Merci, Aunt Maggie," she said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Kiernan-Lewis lives in Atlanta and writes about horses, France, mysteries and romance. Like many authors, Susan depends on the reviews and word of mouth referrals of her readers. If you enjoyed Murder on the Côte d’Azur, please consider leaving a review saying so on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com or Goodreads.com
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Follow Susan’s website at susankiernanlewis.com and feel free to contact her at [email protected].
MURDER À LA CARTE
Susan Kiernan-Lewis
My dear, above all please know that I forgive you everything and I hope that you will forgive me also. I believe that this is the best way for both of us. I have no regrets. Never forget that I will love you forever, little one.
Forever and forever,
P.
December 1946
The long, undulating dirt road dissected the vineyard landscape of ruined, black branches. The field’s vines, stripped of their rich load―picked and bottled months ago― now hung in withered, dark wisps.
At the end of the road, two rows of pear trees and silver olive trees stood as close as sentinels, the gnarled limbs intertwining as they flanked the pebble drive that led to the house. It rose from a gentle swell of lawn at the end of the drive. A mas, proud and ancient. The windows, mullioned and seeming to tremble in the dying sunlight, gave the house a forlorn, fragile presence. A lone stone lion roared mutely from the slate terrace, one ear chipped, its teeth no longer sharp.
At the statue’s base, the dying woman clasped a small scrap of paper, the words already clotted into an indecipherable blur by the trickle of blood. The steps, made of porous rock brought down from the mountains a thousand years earlier, soaked up the scarlet stain.
The killer looked down at the woman briefly before turning to step over the man’s now-still body. And then, to the two small children huddled in terror by their parents’ Citroen.
The murderer shot them each once in the head, checking afterward to be sure they were dead, and that there would be no further suffering.
Chapter One
July 1996
Laurent spread out the large, unwieldy map on the tabletop. Pushing aside the bottles of Badoît, he gripped the borders of the tattered carte in his large fists as if he intended to steer the thing across the outdoor bistro table and into Aix-en-Provence’s bustling Cours Mirabeau.
“Ainsi,” he said, clucking his tongue in a manner Maggie found mildly irritating. “Here is St-Buvard, see?” He jabbed a finger at the map.
She gave a sigh. “I see it, Laurent. I saw it back in Atlanta, I saw it on the airplane, in the taxi cab, on the map you have pinned up over the sink in our hotel room...” Her long, dark, hair spilled past her shoulders and draped around her like a sleek ebony cape, accenting her creamy, pale skin.
He looked up in confusion. “I do not have any map pinned up―” he began in heavily-accented English, a puzzled look on his face.
“I’m making a point, darling.” Maggie flapped out a stiff cotton napkin and spread it across her knees. She was glad she had decided to wear slacks tonight. She’d had little idea what the weather would be like in the south of France in October. As it turned out, it was cold.
“The point being,” she continued, “yes, I see St-Buvard. Very nice red dot, surrounded by lots of inferior little gray dots. Very impressive.”
The outdoor café they chose for their first night in Aix-en-Provence was a modest bistro, slapped together with whitewashed walls and rickety tables and an assortment of wicker chairs, whose paint was peeling in various stages. Nonetheless, the food was wonderful.
“I see you are being drôle again, n’est-ce pas?” Laurent picked up his fork and pushed his food toward the rim of his plate. His brown hair was long and intruded into his face. He enacted a familiar gesture by sweeping away his thick fringe from his dark-brown, nearly pupil-less eyes with an impatient hand. Maggie thought him extraordinarily handsome
Even in early October, the air was fragrant with the scent of lavender and olive trees. The garden scents mingled on the night air with the aromas from the many culinary concoctions being produced in a half a dozen restaurants and bistros along the boulevard. It was a sensation, Maggie felt, one could experience nowhere else in the world― certainly not in Atlanta where she was from.
Maggie picked up a knuckle of bread and dipped it into the sauce of her rabbit stew. She wasn’t sure why she was cross with Laurent tonight. Possibly it was the residual effects of their long flight. Maybe it was due to the kamikaze taxi driver who had taken them from the airport in Marseille to Aix-en-Provence and had Maggie saying mental good-byes to her loved ones.
She looked at Laurent as he examined his map which was perched nonchalantly to the right of his bread plate. She watched the serious nod of his head, his heavy brows plaited together in concentration. He was big and looming and gentle. In many ways, his past was a mystery to her. After two years, he was still the most intriguing man she had ever known.
It had been two years since they had met and fallen in love. They were living in her apartment when the letter announcing Laurent’s inheritance had arrived three months earlier. She and Laurent had already decided to spend a year abroad; the inheritance simply provided the means. Laurent’s bachelor uncle had left him some land near Aix-en-Provence outside the small Provençal village of St-Buvard. The property was described briefly in the letter as covering nearly twenty hectares, most of it planted with grapes.
They’d quickly wrapped up their lives in America. Laurent had begun a one-man self-education program on grapes and wine-growing in the Provençal region. All the intense study had worried Maggie as she had no desire to become a permanent expatriate. But Laurent insisted it was just so he would know the operation well enough to get a good price for it when it came time to sell. They would live in the area and try to work the vineyard―if it was even workable―or at least keep it from falling into ruin, and then sell the property when their year was up.
There were good-byes to friends, to her mother and father. Maggie had taken a year’s leave of absence from her job at the advertising agency where she worked as a copywriter, with the understanding that there might well be no position to return to when her year abroad was up. She thought it worth the risk. In fact, she thought it might even push her into doing something else for a living when she returned. Time to start thinking about the environment, not how many truckers you can sell multi-directional flashing back-up lights to.
And so she found herself in France. She was going to hammer away at her wobbly language skills, and enjoy a romantic adventure in one of the most romantic areas of the world.
She looked at Laurent, now hunched over his map. They’d been through so much together. And although his passionate French nature could have him in thralls of ecstasy about a just-picked melon or a sauce that refused to curdle, she was still surprised at the high voltage between them. She felt a sudden surge in her love for him.
“How’s your lamb?” she asked.
“It’s good to be back,” he said flatly.
That means he’s had to put up with bad American food these last couple of years.
“My rabbit’s a little tough,” she said sweetly.
“I do not believe it.” He looked up and his eyes smiled at her although his lips did not. “It is a long trip for us both,” he continued, pouring her a large glass of red wine. “And we have many things to—”
He was interrupted by a scream from a table on the other side of the restaurant. A group of four sat at the table, although one of the party―a young, scowling girl―now sat sprawled between two of the chairs. A man at the table, blond and unevenly shaven, jumped up, knocking his chair back against the hard stone with an ear-splitting clatter. He grinned roguishly as he grabbed the girl’s hands and jerked her abruptly, but not unkindly, to her feet, then made a charade of dusting her off with his hands. The other couple at the table laughed and looked self-consciously around the restaurant.
The retrieved girl pushed the blond young man away and slumped down, pouting, into her seat. She crossed her arms and looked away. Her friends burst into laughter. Angrily, she snatched up a cigarette and lit it.
“Tais-toi!” she said crossly to them. Then, noting Maggie staring, she stuck out her tongue at her.
“Di
d you see that?” Maggie said indignantly to Laurent, who had returned to his map. “Oh, look, just study your map, will you?” Maggie pushed her dish away.
Laurent looked up at her questioningly.
“St-Buvard,” she continued, now beginning to enjoy the pique she had earlier been trying to stifle. “You said yourself, it’s French for ‘Saint Blotter,’ for crying out loud. What kind of a name is ‘Blotter’ for a town? And who would canonize a stupid blotter―?”
“Excuse me.” A voice spoke to her from behind.
Maggie started, knocking over the tumbler of Badoît with her elbow. Laurent pulled his map away as if acid had just been released onto the tablecloth.
“Oh, no! Now I’ve made it even worse,” the young man said in an American accent, as he began to mop up the mess with his napkin. Maggie could hear his table of rowdies across the room cresting new plateaus of mirth.
“My little group of brigands over there...” he gestured back toward his table. “...we felt we were intruding on your quiet dinner, you see. And then!” He slapped a hand against a slim thigh covered in expensive cotton and shook his head. Maggie had the mild impression that this was rehearsed, performed many times in the past.
“And then,” he said, “I heard you speak and I said to myself, ‘an American!’ I have to speak to them.”
“Bonsoir,” Laurent said gruffly. “I am not American.”
The young man threw back his head and laughed. “No shit!”
Laurent, unsure of how to respond, simply smiled.
“I guess I was really talking about votre femme here. She’s the one I heard.” He turned to Maggie. “You are American, n’est-ce pas? Look, mind if I join you?” He scooted up another chair next to Maggie and seated himself. A little taken aback by his forwardness, Maggie, nonetheless, found herself charmed by him.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 31