“I’d be really hacked off,” Grace said sipping her wine. She looked over at Laurent. “The rosé is merveilleux!” She gave a sly look toward Eduard Marceau. “Better, even, than the cooperative, Laurent. Très bon!”
“Merci,” Laurent said, nodding. Maggie could see he was pleased.
“Well, I am a little annoyed,” Maggie admitted, as she picked up her glass. She wondered what Emily Post said about the politeness of sending other people’s children from the table. “But you’ll like him, Dad,” she said hurriedly. “He’s quite funny and very sweet.”
“That’s true,” Grace said. “He is all those things.”
“And late,” Windsor added as he bit into a last pain aux olives.
“Or, retard, as the French say,” Grace added.
Everyone laughed.
Taylor, obviously tired of the adult chatter, promptly tipped over her glass of water.
“Look, Laurent,” Maggie said as she helped Grace mop up the flood on the damask tablecloth, “why don’t you get the coffee going? I’ll get the pies and cake in a sec.” She looked up at her mother who was lifting a portion of the cloth away from the table to try to save it from getting too wet. “Madame Marceau made a wonderful grape cake for us,” Maggie said with some strain in her voice.
“Gâteau aux Raisins et fruits confits,” Danielle said to Elspeth. “Ce n’est rien.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be delightful!” Elspeth said.
Grace had her head bent low over her daughter in a tense conference. Maggie saw Nicole scoot her chair away from the little offender.
In the kitchen, Maggie sighed loudly and leaned against one of the kitchen stools. “I guess we can’t banish the kids until they’ve had their pumpkin pie, huh?” she said to Laurent who was pouring the coffees.
“It might be noticed,” Laurent admitted.
“That kid is a walking demolition site,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.
“Now is not a good time to talk about having children?”
Maggie reached for the cream pitcher. “I’ll never understand the French sense of humor,” she said, shaking her head for his benefit. “Hey! I made an oxymoron! Get it? French? Sense of humor? Comprends-tu? “
Laurent looked up questioningly.
“God,” Maggie said, placing the cups and saucers onto a tray. “All my best lines are wasted on someone who doesn’t speak English.”
Laurent kissed her the nape of her neck. “But I speak other languages, chérie,” he said softly into her hair.
Maggie felt a tingling thrill as he spoke. “Better get the grape cake,” she said, as she lifted the tray of coffees. “The sooner we get through dessert, the sooner you can start teaching me some new vocabulary.”
“I don’t like punkin pie! Mommy, you know I don’t like punkin pie!”
Maggie walked into the dining room and set the tray down. Ignoring the squawking child, she distributed coffee around the table. “Dad?”
John shook his head. “I’ll have mine later with marc,” he said, trying not to watch the squirming child to his immediate left.
“Mommy! I told you! I don’t want―”
Windsor bent over Taylor’s chair until his face was very close to hers. “Taylor,” he said, “if you don’t stop howling, Daddy will take you home immediately, do you understand? You won’t be able to play with Nicole, you won’t―”
“Oh, swell!” Grace tossed down her napkin. “Now if she doesn’t behave we have to leave! You can’t make a threat like that and not follow through with it. All the books say―”
“Screw the books!” Windsor looked up quickly at Elspeth and Danielle and smiled weakly. “Sorry,” he said. He straightened up, to the low sounds of Taylor’s renewed whining, and faced his wife. “What would you suggest?” he said tightly.
“Why don’t you beat the snot out of her, then let her howl it out in the garden? It’s not that cold and I’m pretty sure the wolves have gone by now.”
All heads turned toward the source of the voice in the living room foyer.
“Connor,” Grace said almost inaudibly, shaking her head.
He stood in the living room in his red-checkered wool jacket, a bottle of red wine in each hand, his hair tousled from the windy night.
Maggie noted, not for the first time, how good-looking Connor was. As she took the bottles of wine, he kissed her on both cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Mags,” he said, unwrapping his muffler from his neck. “I had date problems tonight, you know? Forgive me?”
Before she could reply, Laurent was standing behind her. He and Connor shook hands solemnly.
“Hey, big guy,” Connor said. “Sorry to miss the bird.”
“Pas de problème,“ Laurent said. He took the wine bottles from Maggie and studied the labels. He nodded. They were good bottles, Maggie guessed. “Merci, “ he said.
“Connor, I want you to meet my parents,” Maggie said, ushering him towards the dining room table. Somehow, all the good-humor of the evening had returned―even stronger than before. Maggie found herself aware of the scent of cinnamon, marjoram, nutmeg and coffee in the dining room. There was a feeling of expectation in the air. In addition, Taylor hadn’t uttered one whiny syllable since Connor’s arrival.
4
The living room seemed to shrink with the press of bodies, moving, sitting and, being mostly French bodies, gesticulating wildly with arms, heads and hands. Maggie couldn’t imagine that Laurent had invited all these people, but every time she was able to seek him out in the crowd, he looked unsurprised and as if he were enjoying himself. Nearly one hundred villagers were crammed into the kitchen, dining room and living room of the stone farmhouse.
Several of Laurent’s wines were lined up on the kitchen counter and dining room table like bowling pins, one row behind the other. Some were uncorked, some were tightly sealed: rosé and grenache in bright green bottles with Laurent’s hand-written label slapped on each. Maggie found it hard to believe that there would be any wine left for the two of them this winter after tonight’s bash, let alone enough to fill an order at the Atlanta Cherokee Country Club.
Maggie edged her way along the wall from the dining room to the corner of the living room. The fire Laurent had built earlier in the fireplace had gone out. Just as well, Maggie thought, as she maneuvered toward the couch. The heat from all these bodies would make a fire unbearable. The children had gone to bed upstairs, exhausted and stuffed full of too-rich food.
Maggie paused to smile at a herd of dark-clothed, swarthy villagers as they drained large glasses of marc and rosé. If nature called, she wondered if they would be insulted if asked to use the garden.
Her mother and Danielle and Eduard Marceau were seated on the couch. Their heads were close together so that they could hear themselves above the din of the laughing and booming Gallic voices. As soon as Maggie reached them, they stood up and pulled on their overcoats.
“Darling!” Elspeth said, on seeing Maggie. “We’re just going out onto the terrace so Eduard can have a smoke.”
Maggie was amazed that Eduard couldn’t see, in the thick haze of Gitanes and Gauloises in her living room, that such politeness, although appreciated, was hardly necessary. She was about to say so, when it occurred to her that she could do with a breath of cool night air herself.
“I’ll join you,” she said. She made her way to the foyer for her coat and smiled pleasantly at a dumpy little man who was standing on her carefully needlepointed hassock and arguing with another taller man.
“We’ll be outside, darling,” her mother called over her shoulder.
Grace Van Sant grabbed her hand as Maggie made her way back to the French doors and the garden. “Rescue me,” Grace said urgently. “This dweeb doesn’t speak English and I have no interest in whatever he’s trying to say in French.” Maggie laughed and nodded politely to the pock-skinned young man pressing his attentions on Grace.
“Un moment,” Maggie said to him, nodding as if
speaking to an idiot. “Un moment, oui?” She pulled on her coat and tugged Grace away. “Get your coat and meet me outside,” Maggie said. “I had no idea Laurent invited the whole of St-Buvard.”
“Are you kidding?” Grace laughed. “Some of these people are from Nice!”
Maggie rolled her eyes and made her way, with much smiling and exaggerated nodding, to the French doors that led to the terrace. Once outside, she was assailed by the quiet and the clear air. The shock of the cold felt refreshing after the stale, smoky atmosphere inside. Her mother and the Marceaus were leaning against the stonewall where Gaston had broken the terra cotta pots the day before. Eduard was smoking.
“Maggie, there you are,” Elspeth said, reaching out a wool-draped arm to her daughter. “You’ve got to hear what Eduard is telling us.”
“I am sure Maggie has heard the mystery, n’est-ce pas?” Eduard smiled broadly.
“About the Fitzpatricks?” Maggie turned to her mother. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you that. Isn’t it wild?”
“Eduard says the family was killed in the house.”
“Really?” Maggie frowned and turned to Eduard. “I was told it was out front in the drive.”
Eduard shook his head. “Dedans,” he said emphatically. Inside. “All four.” He made a shooting gesture with the thumb and forefinger of his unsmoking hand. “Bang, bang, bang, bang.”
Maggie turned back to her mother. “And did he tell you why they were all killed?”
Elspeth looked politely at Eduard, smiling in hopeful anticipation of more details.
Maggie continued. “Because one of the men in the village was having an affair with the woman, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” Maggie looked to Eduard and Danielle. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
At that moment, Grace swung open the French doors, releasing a gust of smoke and noise out onto the terrace.
“God, it’s crazy in there.” She shut the door behind her. “Maggie, do you mind that some of the village women are upstairs trying on your clothes?”
“Very funny,” Maggie said. “Grace, I hadn’t told my mother about the Fitzpatrick family massacre. I can’t believe I forgot.”
Grace accepted a cigarette from Eduard with a cheerful “merci” and shivered in her coat as she waited for him to light it for her.
“It’s a great story,” Maggie said. “Connor is sure the place is haunted.”
“Have you heard anything odd at night, dear?” Elspeth asked Maggie playfully.
“No, but I try not to listen too carefully.” Maggie took in a huge breath of the November air and expelled a foggy cloud from her lips.
“The woman was a terrible woman,” Eduard said frowning, jabbing his cigarette into the air for emphasis. “She ruined many lives.”
“Not to mention her own,” Grace said, smiling benignly at Eduard. She turned to Elspeth. “The man who killed them all, Elspeth, was a village hero of sorts. Fought with the Resistance, well-loved and respected, blah-blah-blah.”
“C’est vrai,” Danielle said, her eyes flitting nervously from her husband’s face to the faces of the three women. “Patrick Alexandre était un homme magnifique.” Her husband didn’t look at her as she spoke.
“And he fell in love with this woman?” Elspeth asked.
“An Englishwoman,” Eduard said curtly.
Danielle nodded. “She drives him to do this terrible thing,” she said.
“I see,” Elspeth said, looking at Maggie, who shrugged.
“Pretty grisly,” Grace said happily, dragging on her cigarette.
“Patrick died in prison,” Eduard said. “His wife had been dead for many years. But his daughter...” He shook his head to indicate the shame of it all.
“That’s Madame Renoir, right?” Maggie said brightly. “Remind me to track her down inside somewhere, Mother. She’s been so nice to me, I can’t be rude.”
“It was a terrible thing for a young girl,” Eduard continued. “Madame Renoir is an exceptional woman.” He tilted his chin up. “She will hold her head up high!”
“Well, after all,” Grace said dryly, “she can be proud of all the Nazis he must’ve killed. I mean, it balances out, doesn’t it? After all, he only killed four measly English people, right?”
Maggie pinched Grace through her coat.
“Ouch!” Grace said.
“Anyway,” Elspeth said, “it’s a fascinating story.”
Maggie peered through the French doors at the jumble of colors and moving shapes until she picked out the biggest one. Laurent stood, wine glass in hand, talking animatedly to Bernard Delacore. A dowdy woman stood at Bernard’s side, her eyes downcast. Maggie shook her head.
Why do all French country wives act like they have large yokes around their necks?
Maggie caught a glimpse of Babette standing behind Laurent. Something about the way the girl was touching Laurent on the arm as he spoke made Maggie’s stomach start to hurt just a little.
“What do you see?” Grace turned to peer through the French doors.
“Nothing,” Maggie frowned. “Babette’s here, is all.”
“Est-ce que vous le connaissez?” Danielle asked. Do you know her? Danielle looked at Maggie and followed her gaze into the house.
Maggie forced a smile. “I’ve met her, Danielle. She’s your niece, isn’t she?”
“My husband’s,” Danielle said. Then, after a pause, “And mine too, of course.”
“You see, it is true,” Eduard said to Elspeth with a smile. “We are all related.” He turned to point into the crowd inside. “Jean-Luc? The tall, ugly one there? You have met him?”
Elspeth shook her head.
“A scoundrel,” Eduard said.
“He is the brother of Patrick Alexandre,” Danielle said. “Son frère.”
“Ah, I see.” Elspeth smiled encouragingly at the woman who was now, it seemed, watching her husband with some nervousness
“He was not shamed by his brother’s crime,” Eduard said. He shook out another cigarette and offered it to the group, all of whom politely declined. “He déteste his brother, you understand? When Patrick went to prison...” He threw up an arm as if to ward off a perching pigeon, “Poof! Jean-Luc is a landowner, n’est-ce pas? Très riche, you understand?”
Again, Elspeth nodded politely and made the appropriate noises of comprehension.
Maggie watched Babette giggling and clutching Laurent’s arm. She watched Laurent cheerfully ignore the girl’s attentions.
“She’s really slogging it down for someone who’s three months pregnant,” Grace noted, crushing out her cigarette on the flagstone terrace with the toe of her shoe. She looked up abruptly at Eduard. “Oops,” she said. “Sorry.”
He waved away her concern. “Cela ne fait rien,” he said dismissively. “The whole village knows. It is not a secret. My brother, Bernard, will handle it.”
I wonder, exactly, how he intends to do that, Maggie thought. She watched Babette―looking unfortunately pretty tonight with her long blonde hair and her French pouting lips―pull Laurent away from her parents and into the relatively private confines of the kitchen.
“Want to join them?” Grace said quietly to Maggie.
Maggie shook her head. “Je le fait confiance,” she said. I have faith. She took another deep breath. It had gotten very cold on the terrace all of a sudden.
Grace fluffed her hair with a slightly drunken hand and stared into the bedroom mirror.
“I look like shit,” she said.
“You do not,” Maggie said. She sat on the edge of the bed. The noise downstairs was making the mattress vibrate gently. “God, when will they leave?”
“Oh?” Grace turned and smiled at Maggie. “Laurent didn’t tell you?”
Maggie laughed in spite of her fatigue. “Don’t make me laugh, Grace,” she said. “I don’t feel like laughing. I feel like sleeping and then having you clean my house.”
“You are tired!” Grace straightened her sweater set and wet her lips. “Seen
Windsor lately?” she asked lightly.
“Are you kidding? I haven’t seen anybody I know or recognize in the last thirty minutes. It’s getting worse, not better.”
“He was talking to Connor about an hour ago.” Grace added powder under her eyes. “They both looked drunk.”
“Well, quelle surprise,” Maggie said, laying out flat on the bed.
“Madame?” Portly Madame Renoir stood in the door way, hesitant and awkward. Instantly, Maggie sat up.
“Oh, Madame Renoir,” Maggie said, rubbing her face in a gesture of exhaustion. “I am so sorry not to have talked with you before now. Does she understand me?” she said to Grace.
Grace quickly translated for the woman and then edged toward the door.
“You’re leaving?” Maggie asked with dismay.
“Gotta do a husband check,” Grace said brightly. “I’ll leave you two girls to your little chat.” She turned to the heavy-set baker and patted her on one meaty shoulder. “J’adore le pain aux olives, Madame! C’est magnifique.”
Madame Renoir mumbled her thanks as Grace escaped out the door in a scented wake of Chanel No. 5.
“Madame Renoir,” she said to the baker. “je suis si sorry to talk with you comme ça...” Maggie sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy without a translator.
“Please, je vous en prie,” she said. “Sit down. Is something wrong?” God, just what she needed, Maggie thought, tiredly―to work through the problems of the village baker at midnight on the longest Thanksgiving Day in the history of the holiday. She patted the woman’s hand in a gesture she hoped the woman wouldn’t find too intimate. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” she asked. What’s the matter? She noticed the woman seemed quite distressed.
Obviously encouraged by Maggie’s French, Madame Renoir immediately burst into an agitated monologue of incomprehensible phrases accompanied by much hand wringing and head shaking.
Maggie nodded sympathetically and then patted the older woman’s hand again.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 44