“It is a shame what happened at Domaine St-Buvard,” Madame Dulcie said, looking not at all concerned or displeased with the “shame” of what happened.
Maggie moved to the counter; the other women edged aside for her.
“Je cherche le jambon d’agneau,” Maggie said, aware that the women in the store were listening carefully to her French. She looked up at Madame Dulcie. “Avez-vous le―”
“I have the leg of lamb, yes,” Madame Dulcie replied impatiently in English. “You want the bone in or out, Madame?” She frowned at Maggie.
“Um, I need the bone taken out,” she admitted, looking briefly over her shoulder at the other women. They stood, five of them, in their brown and black cloth coats and capes, a few frowning, most simply curious. Maggie looked back at the meat case.
Madame Dulcie popped her head into the back room and shouted a few words to Monsieur Dulcie. Maggie caught a glimpse of him before the door swung shut. What she saw looked like something out of a Stephen King movie. Monsieur Dulcie stood, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, bloodied from neck to knees, an oversized butcher’s knife hanging limply from his left hand. The door swung shut before Maggie could see if the look in the butcher’s eyes was dull or bright.
“Bon,” Madame Dulcie said as she returned to Maggie. “It will be five minutes, no more.” Before Maggie could respond, Madame Dulcie looked past her to the hesitating gaggle of customers and bid them all loud good-byes, even waving her hands as one would to shoo away a flock of recalcitrant chickens. “Allez! Allez!” she said, smiling for the first time since Maggie had arrived at the shop. “Au revoir, à bientôt!” The women alternately huffed out or shrugged good-naturedly and departed with only glimpses over their shoulders. Before they were completely out the door, their gossiping chatter began again.
The door slammed shut, bouncing the attached bell hard against the door port and cutting off its ring as abruptly as a knife killing a cat. Madame Dulcie leaned over the counter until Maggie could smell her breath, fragrant with anise― probably pastis.
“Everyone thinks they know who killed the American,” Madame Dulcie said, her eyes glittering.
Maggie watched her old face, its sharp lines pulling in all directions at once, and found herself wondering, idiotically, if the old girl had had a face lift at some point.
“Really?” Maggie said.
“They think, perhaps, it was Monsieur Marceau, hein? What do you think?” The woman smelled like blood, Maggie decided.
“Monsieur Marceau?” Maggie asked, not sure she’d heard correctly.
“Oui. He hated the American.”
Maggie cleared her throat and resisted glancing at the door where her leg of lamb was being boned. “Well―” she started.
“Eduard said as much, you know.”
“Said that he’d kill Connor?” Maggie asked.
The butcher’s wife nodded sagely. “The whole town has heard it,” she said, now wiping up bits of fat and chicken skin from the counter top with a dirty rag.
Maggie didn’t believe it. Eduard had never given any indication that he didn’t like Connor.
“‘I will kill you, you filthy interloper!’ ” Madame waved her rag in the air and then tossed it back onto the counter where she attacked a stubborn brownish red stain. “Everyone heard him. More than once.”
“But why?” Maggie dug in her purse for money, thinking that having it ready might hurry things along. “Why on earth would Eduard hate him so much that he’d―”
“Acht!” Madame Dulcie replied gruffly. “Because of the American museum, n’est-ce pas? The American would build the museum on land next to Eduard’s...also he would build a parking lot right next to Eduard’s oldest vines.” The woman smacked her hands together to indicate the close proximity of this.
Maggie stared at her. “Museum?” she said, aware that her mouth was hanging open just a little.
“Bien sûr.” The woman continued to rub the counter.
“Connor...the American was going to build a museum in St-Buvard?” Maggie stared at the woman as if the woman had gone quite colorfully mad before her very eyes.
“Everyone knew of it,” Dulcie said matter-of-factly.
“I didn’t know of it,” Maggie said, flustered. “Who is ‘everyone’?”
“The whole of St-Buvard. The American did much bragging about his museum.”
“I don’t believe it.” But Maggie spoke softly, as if to herself.
Suddenly the woman barked out an impatient order over her shoulder and then looked back at Maggie. “Almost finished,” she assured her. “Your husband knows good meat, eh? When he comes to my shop for meat, he knows what he wants, exactement.” The woman smiled at the thought of waiting on Laurent.
“And precisely where,” Maggie asked, feeling a large weight seep into her shoulders and neck, “was the American going to build this museum?”
Maggie knew the answer before the woman spoke the words.
“Mais, Domaine St-Buvard, of course.”
4
Laurent surveyed the gnarling vines that poked up from the ground like spirits reaching out from a graveyard. He touched the base where the stocks had been severed, then wiped his fingers against his corduroy slacks. The sun was low in the sky, spilling an effusive display of pink and burnt orange over the countryside. The winter horizon seemed to close up on him, making him feel as if he could bump his head on the low-hanging late-afternoon clouds as they drifted by. The air was cold.
“Sort of a severe pruning, wouldn’t you say?” He spoke to Jean-Luc who watched him through serious, undisclosing eyes. Alexandre said nothing.
Some time during the night, an ax had been taken to several of Laurent’s plants. Laurent counted the damage. Twenty vinestocks destroyed. The vines were far enough away from the farmhouse to have been mutilated anytime after dark without arousing the dogs. He watched the hounds as they sniffed the ground―almost contritely, it seemed to him.
“Perhaps it is a prank,” Jean-Luc offered, looking at the damage, at the dogs.
“Yes,” Laurent said lightly. “I’m sure that’s just what it is.” He clapped a heavy hand down on the old vigneron’s shoulder, making the man jump. “I must be more vigilant, I see,” he said. “I’ve been enjoying the good life. The life of a vigneron, hein?”
“I am sure it’s just bad children from the village,” Jean-Luc said, less forcefully than before.
“You will stay to dinner?” Again, Laurent squatted next to one of the ruined plants and held the stalk in his hand, looking as if he believed he might restore it in some way.
“Merci, non,” Jean-Luc replied, removing his dirty blue cap and letting the icy breeze redistribute his sparse, gray hair. “I still have work to do tonight,” he said.
“Ah, yes?” Laurent stood up and gestured for the dogs to accompany him. “Pruning of your own?”
Jean-Luc stumbled over a loose vinestock and Laurent caught his arm, holding him tightly and keeping him erect.
“Careful, old fellow,” Laurent said, his voice cool.
5
Connor had been planning to build an American museum on Laurent’s property? A museum of what? American art or American artifacts?
Maggie had a brief image of bobby sox and Pilgrims and copies of Portnoy’s Complaint on a shelf. She parked the quirky Renault in her front drive and sat there, looking up at their farmhouse.
Why hadn’t Connor said something to her? Did Grace know? Was the business about the museum all just bullshit? Connor’s way of irritating the locals?
She bit her lip. Why hadn’t Connor mentioned that he and Eduard didn’t get on? Her mind raced to remember a conversation or a dinner where she had mentioned the Marceaus to Connor, but she could think of none.
She remembered Grace saying Connor was rich. Rich enough to get his hands on...what were the words?...investment funds. Maggie stared up at the imperious, even majestic, façade of their stone farmhouse, its antique, weather-bowed balc
ony over the massive front door, its series of three Mediterranean-blue shutters winking out from the house.
Had Connor really planned to build a museum here?
Maggie carried the hard-won leg of lamb to the front door, which she pushed open with her hip. When had they gotten into the habit of not locking it? she wondered. The foyer was dark and cold. Instantly, Maggie was annoyed.
Where was Laurent? Why didn’t he just pitch a tent amongst his precious grapevines and be done with the pretense of living with her?
She walked into the kitchen and dumped the groceries onto the counter. The kitchen was tidy―Laurent always kept it that way―so she couldn’t tell if he’d returned for lunch during the day.
Petit-Four scampered down the long staircase from the upstairs bedrooms and ran quickly into Maggie’s legs in the kitchen before doing a flopping hop-dance against Maggie’s calves designed to get Maggie to pick her up. Maggie scooped up the little poodle and nuzzled her sweet-smelling curls. God, if men could just give you this kind of welcome home, Maggie thought, I bet the world would need a lot fewer marriage counselors. Still holding the dog, she snapped on the kitchen light and read the digital clock on top of the refrigerator.
Six-thirty! Where was he?
Maggie set the dog down and pulled open the refrigerator door. She set the lamb for tomorrow’s dinner inside, then, slowly, and with much vexation, began pulling out the various tubs of leftover lapin and aubergine mishmash à la Laurent, and couscous. If Laurent wants a salad when he comes in, she decided, he can go out to the weed patch and pick it. She glanced at the clock again. It was unusual for him not to be here by now, she thought, listening to the pervasive silence of the house.
“Where is everyone?” she said softly to Petit-Four. The house felt creepy to her tonight, although she was sure that was only because of the cave and its awful secrets. She shivered and set about mixing up the dog’s dinner, straining with her ears to hear any sound of Laurent’s homecoming. As she was setting the dog bowl on the floor, she spotted a slip of paper with her name on it.
“Damn,” she said, unhappily, “what is this?” She picked it up, knowing before she read it what it was: a note from Laurent telling her he would not be home for dinner. She finished reading the brief note which ended with much “amour” on Laurent’s part. He’d gone off some place with Jean-Luc and wouldn’t be back until late. Maggie wadded up the note and tossed it into the kitchen garbage.
No longer interested in supper, Maggie opted for a large glass of red wine and a bath instead. She opened every cupboard in the kitchen before the reality of her situation struck her: If she wanted wine, she’d have to go down to the cave and get it.
She’d only been down there once or twice before and that was before they’d discovered Connor’s body down there. On the other hand, she was not going to spend a lonely, cold evening in this house―pissed-off at her lover―without a glass of wine. She scolded herself for her nervousness and turned the knob on the door to the cellar. It was locked. She twisted the lever to unlock it and opened the door.
Instantly, the tight, closed air flooded up the stairs to her. The cave smelled dank and yeasty. She wrinkled her nose. It was dark but she remembered a light switch at the foot of the stairs. Stupid place to put it, she thought as she groped her way down the staircase. She looked briefly back at the lighted kitchen. Petit-Four stood over her dinner bowl, watching Maggie, and chewing. Maggie turned and descended into the cave.
She remembered seeing a row of wine bottles stacked against the wall across from the staircase. She didn’t care if they were plunk or premium, whatever they were would be fine. She hunted for the light switch at the base of the stairs but she couldn’t find it. It didn’t really matter, she decided. The wedge of light from the kitchen cut a slim path of vision into the dark basement, illuminating the stack of wine bottles laying on their sides, punt side outward, in front of her.
Maggie stepped off the steps to the wine bottles and reached out to grab the first thing it touched.
That was when she heard the noise.
A grating, shuffling noise.
Close.
Releasing the bottle, Maggie whirled around to leap for the stairs when he grabbed her. His arms snaked around her throat and stomach and pulled her back from the light, from the stairs, from safety. In her terror, Maggie could smell a buttery-smooth odor of wine and strong tobacco on the man’s breath. She could feel his face against her own―feel his teeth behind the awful grin.
Chapter Ten
1
Maggie clawed at his face while she tried to scream, but her attacker held her tightly, suffering her impotent scratches without attempting to deflect them. Her left arm was pinioned at her side, her right crumpled uselessly against her chest. She heard someone croak out a gruesome “My God!” and realized that it was her. The large, hurting hands grabbed her blouse at the throat and roughly ripped the material away. Without releasing her, he pushed a callused hand into her bra and grabbed her breast. What felt like another pair of hands fumbled brutishly between her legs, then pulled at the elastic waistline of her sweatpants.
Maggie screamed, then latched onto an ear and bit down. Tears poured down her face, mixing with the blood from the man’s ear, but she didn’t let go. She felt him pushing her onto the floor, felt his hands twitch violently upwards, away from her breasts, to protect his ear.
Suddenly, a light snapped on, seemingly in her head, and her assailant’s face was instantly illuminated.
Gaston Lasalle.
Laurent was shouting hoarsely in French. He grabbed the Frenchman from behind and threw him across the basement. Maggie could hear the sounds of wood splintering as the man hit.
Laurent pulled her to her feet. He touched her face with his hand. His eyes were filled with anger and uncertainty.
“I’m okay, Laurent,” she said clutching at her shredded blouse. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m okay.”
She could feel his arms trembling as he held her. Gently, he pulled away from her and held her by the shoulders.
“Go upstairs, Maggie,” he said.
Maggie could hear groans from Lasalle as he lay on the ground. She watched his shadowy figure lurch to his feet.
“Go upstairs. Vas y!” Laurent said to her, giving her a small push in the direction of the stairs.
Just then, Lasalle swung at Laurent with a full wine bottle that he had hidden behind his back. Laurent caught the bottle with the flat of his large, meaty hand and wrenched it from the gypsy’s grasp. With his other hand he slammed his fist into Lasalle’s face. Maggie thought she could hear the cartilage shattering from where she stood on the foot of the stairs.
As Lasalle folded to his knees Laurent hit him a second time in the solar plexus. The man emitted a strangled oof and doubled over. Laurent grabbed him by the hair.
“Laurent, don’t!” she screamed.
Laurent hesitated, holding the man’s head like something that had sat, piked and dishonored, on London Bridge for a week.
“Maggie, go upstairs,” he said, rasping.
“Don’t kill him! Laurent, please.”
Laurent released the hair and Lasalle collapsed like a rag doll at his feet. “I will not kill him, chérie,” he said. “Please, go upstairs and leave me with him.”
Maggie heard Lasalle’s groans and hesitated. Then, she turned and ran up the stairs, biting a neat hole in her lower lip as she ran.
2
Maggie watched Laurent from the living room as he poured water from the kettle into the teapot and then positioned the cozy over the pot. He returned to where she was sitting on the couch, an afghan around her, Petit-Four in her lap, and a roaring fire in the hearth. He took her empty brandy snifter from her hand and set it down on the coffee table in front of them. Then, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her to him. Maggie could smell woodsmoke in his hair from his recent errand to fetch more wood from the side of the house. She nestled closer to him and felt the effects of
the brandy coursing through her.
He had returned early, deciding, simply, that he’d rather be home tonight than drinking with the villagers at Le Canard. Petit-Four’s frantic barking had alerted him immediately to trouble from within the house. Maggie had never even heard the dog. She hadn’t seen Lasalle leave the basement after Laurent had finished with him. She assumed that he left the way he had come―through the outside entrance in the garden. She hadn’t asked Laurent for details.
“He was here the night of the dégustation,” she said to him now. She wasn’t indicting Laurent. She wanted him to know that there was no more reason for secrecy. Laurent nodded.
“I sort of glossed over my other two run-ins with him,” she confessed, looking into the fire.
“Je sais,” he replied, holding her tighter. I know.
“Why aren’t we calling the police?” She shifted Petit-Four to Laurent’s lap. “Because they think you’re a suspect in Connor’s death?”
Laurent shook his head and patted the little dog. “Non, non,” he said. “The police can do nothing.”
“They can make Gaston leave us alone.”
Laurent pushed a dark lock of hair from Maggie’s eyes. “Lasalle will not come back,” he said.
“Why don’t you think he killed Connor?” she asked, “He was here, he’s an obvious sociopath...”
“I think Gaston had nothing to do with Connor’s death,” Laurent replied. And with that, Laurent explained to a surprised Maggie his theory that Gaston Lasalle was only a tool used by others to encourage Laurent to sell St-Buvard.
Maggie listened in silence, stroking the dog and watching the flames of the fire. After he was finished speaking, and she had had time to process what he had said, she knew she would not feel safe in St-Buvard any longer.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 49