The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “The pumpkin?” she asked.

  “Gaston. I’m sure of it,” he said. “And today? Over twenty good stocks destroyed. Cut at the base. Jean-Luc says it is naughty school children.”

  “So you think Jean-Luc’s involved?”

  “I am not trusting anyone for now.”

  “Eduard?”

  Laurent shrugged.

  Maggie then related what Madame Dulcie had told her in town about Connor and the American museum and Eduard’s vow to kill Connor.

  Laurent frowned.

  “You think he could have done it?” she asked.

  “Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know.

  “Laurent, are you saying it’s possible that Jean-Luc or Eduard or maybe the both of them have, like, hired Gaston to harass us?”

  “Someone is giving us a message,” Laurent said. “Tonight, I have sent them a message back. They know we will not leave.”

  “And why is it, exactly, that we won’t leave?” Maggie touched a small welt on the inside of her arm where one of Gaston’s nails had raked her.

  Laurent looked at her closely. “Can you let them run you away?” he asked.

  “What if they up the ante?” she asked.

  “Comment ça?”

  “You know, bring out their big guns, make it even tougher.”

  “We are tough, too,” he said, kissing her. “We will survive them.”

  Maggie leaned back into the couch as Laurent got up to pour the tea and to bring in some of Madame Renoir’s fougasse. For all Laurent’s strong words and refusal to be intimidated, she couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t decided to come home early tonight.

  3

  Roger Bentley gave the lapels of his Saville Row jacket a brisk tug and stepped out onto the street in front of the George V Hotel. He’d slept later than he’d anticipated, but there was no hurry, his train reservations weren’t for another hour. Nodding pleasantly at the doorman, and then again as he handed over a twenty franc note to the bellhop who piled his hand-tooled Louis Vuitton luggage into the trunk of the waiting cab, Roger settled into the back of the taxi. It was a beautiful morning, the kind of morning he always thought of when he thought of Paris. The streets, damp from last night’s rain, were alive with people. Jewelry shop owners were arranging their treasures in display windows, beautiful women were walking French poodles. The air smelled like a mixture of fresh baked sweet-cakes and a sewer. The job this time had taken less time than he’d anticipated. The pigeon had been willing, if not as tender as she once must have been, and Roger had been able to pluck her, bank the proceeds, and still leave her cooing―with plenty of time to make his escape. Not that the Paris gendarmes were a problem, he mused, smiling. They were too cynical, too busy, to listen to one more tourist’s bitter complaints about getting fleeced.

  As the cab sped off to Gare de Lyon, Roger removed an International Herald Tribune from his leather valise, and checked his watch to calculate his time of arrival in Lyons. If the train was on schedule―and, bien sûr, the remarkable TGV was always on time―he would arrive with time for a late lunch and perhaps, he hoped, be fortunate enough to meet someone like the mademoiselle he’d discovered the last time he was in Lyons. Flapping out his newspaper to straighten it, Roger smiled to himself. Out the window, he caught the wolf-eye of a young, homely prostitute standing at the base of an ancient fountain.

  Oh,now won’t Dernier be surprised to see me?

  4

  The early December morning broke clear and beautiful at Domaine St-Buvard. Maggie flung open her bedroom window and let in the cold air and the scent of woodsmoke from the surrounding farms. She looked in the direction of Avignon. The barely visible tops of Eduard Marceaus’ row of dark fig trees seemed to point the way to the city. Looking straight down into her walled garden, Maggie could imagine the elderberries, the glossy, crawling ivy and where the nettles would climb the gray stonewalls in summer. Her mother had told her there might be blackberries as well. At the time, Maggie had thought that, come spring, she’d fill all the guichets in the mas with blackberry pies. Now, the dark twisting branches looked unpromising, even a little treacherous to her.

  She could hear Laurent downstairs preparing breakfast. She hurriedly pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. Petit-Four, obviously knowing the best chances of breakfast scraps were to be found with Laurent, had abandoned Maggie thirty minutes earlier for the kitchen.

  “God, it smells great,” she said as she descended the stairs. “What is it?”

  Laurent looked at her with surprise. “Is boiled eggs and grits, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Grits?” Maggie looked into the pot on the stove. “Where on earth did you get grits?”

  Laurent didn’t answer but began a low, tuneless humming that Maggie normally found annoying but this morning found oddly reassuring.

  “It’s a beautiful morning,” Maggie said, sitting on a kitchen stool and pouring herself a mug of coffee. Behind her a shiny array of burnished copper pots and pans hung over the four-burner La Cornue stove. The terra-cotta counter tops were clear, although Laurent usually kept every inch of counter space covered with dishes, pots, dishtowels or wine bottles. A large supporting pillar in the center of the room had been papered, over the last two months, with various wine labels from the region and Laurent’s own cellar. Maggie looked around for the small china ewer of thick cream she knew must be there as surely as there were pigeons in Paris.

  “What are you going to do today?” she asked.

  Laurent pulled two covered eggcups from a pot of boiling water and set them on the counter. He took a sip of his own coffee.

  “Je crois que...Jean-Luc will come by to look at Otto.” Otto was one of Laurent’s hunting dogs.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Maggie asked, picking up a toasted piece of French bread. She hated all of Jean-Luc’s visits, all his claims on Laurent’s time. She spooned a dollop of strawberry jam onto the roll. She resented the way he seemed to be encouraging Laurent’s vineyard dream.

  Laurent waved a hand to indicate that it was nothing, not even worth talking about. “A bruise, I think, perhaps,” he said.

  Maggie sighed with exasperation as he turned back around to unscrew the egg tians and serve up their breakfast.

  “Well, why does Jean-Luc need to come by if it’s only a bruise?” she asked.

  Before Laurent could respond, Petit-Four barked sharply and ran to the front door. Maggie hopped down from the stool and nearly collided with Laurent to look out the kitchen window. A black police car sat parked in the drive. Maggie took a quick breath.

  You don’t suppose that little rat Gaston pressed charges? “I don’t like this,” she said.

  Laurent went to meet the detectives at the front door. Maggie stayed in the kitchen listening to their solemn greetings in French, and then forced herself to join them in the foyer.

  She looked untrustingly from Bedard to his subordinate. Bedard spoke rapidly to Laurent in French. Maggie slipped her hand into Laurent’s and held it tightly. She squeezed his hand and looked up at him as he turned to her to translate.

  “He says Connor’s body...they are finished with it.” Laurent looked back at Bedard, whose face was grim. Maggie wondered whether he practiced that look or whether it came naturally.

  “There will be no funeral,” Laurent said. “Au moins, not here. The body is flown back to Boston. To MacKenzie’s family.”

  Detective Inspector Bedard spoke again, his hands resting comfortably in his pockets, his jacket mis-buttoned and stained from breakfast or perhaps even dinner last night. Maggie watched his face closely. He sounded more guttural than most of the Frenchmen she had heard, as if somehow his rolling r’s were a sign of great accomplishment or even rank. She hadn’t liked him much before, when he and his gang had set up their operations in her basement. She liked him even less now.

  Laurent gave a short sigh and spoke back to Bedard, roughly, it seemed to Maggie. His voice was louder, more com
manding than the stone-faced policeman’s. Finally, Laurent turned to her.

  “Maggie,” he said, “I must go with them for a little while.”

  “Why?” she asked, darting a glance at the two intruders in her foyer. “Are they arresting you? Is this―?”

  “Non, Maggie,” Laurent said firmly, looking into her eyes. “They are only asking me more questions. You will go to Grace’s, okay? D’accord, chérie? Go to Grace’s.”

  Maggie nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “I will call you there later,” Laurent said. He kissed her briefly, then grabbed his jacket from the rack in the hallway. Maggie stood in the doorway and watched as the three men got into the car. Bedard sat in the back with Laurent. She picked up Petit-Four and watched the car until it disappeared behind the twin olive trees at the end of the drive.

  5

  Grace opened the door, her beautiful face puckered into a sympathetic frown, and drew Maggie into the long paneled hallway of the castle foyer.

  “Poor dearest,” Grace said, peeling off Maggie’s heavy wool peacoat and tossing it on an intricately carved wooden bench that served as a receptacle for umbrellas and coats. “Come in and have a drink. Windsor’s just making it. I see you’ve brought your baby.” Petit-Four stared out from under Maggie’s arms with large, blinking brown eyes. “We’ll put her with Mignon―they were litter-mates, right? They should be fine.”

  Maggie looked down the long, impressive hall. Heavy gilt-framed oil paintings―landscapes and anonymous portraits―stared down on her. The tile beneath the entryway Oriental rug was expensive and Florentine, she was sure.

  “Grace, this place is a palace,” Maggie said.

  “You always say that, darling. Thanks.” Grace took her hand and led her down the hall. “Now, don’t freak, okay?” she said. “Guess who’s here too? She called right after you did.”

  They entered the first door on the right at the end of the hall into a large parlor furnished in a combination of French antiques and cozy Elizabethan tapestries. An enormous flint-gray stone mantel that Grace had found in an antiques market in Arles dominated the large room. One side of the room was wallpapered in a pattern of yellow flowers against a pale green background. Facing sofas and two over-stuffed chairs rested on an 18th-century floral needlepoint rug.

  Windsor stood up, a proffered gin and tonic in his hand, and smiled broadly at her. She could see the very straight back of their other guest, but it wasn’t until the woman turned to look at her that she recognized Connor’s winsome, difficult cast-off, Lydie.

  “Maggie, you remember Lydie, n’est-ce pas?” Grace sang out gaily as they joined the others. “She was in the neighborhood, etcetera, etcetera. Windsor, that drink looks marvelous. Got another for a thirsty wife?”

  Maggie was feeling very tired all of a sudden, and the news that Taylor was spending the night in Aix had now been balanced out by Lydie’s presence. Maggie just wanted to collapse and talk freely among friends.

  Grace reached out for Petit-Four.

  “I’ll take her into the kitchen, darling. That’s where our beastie currently reigns.”

  “Thanks, Grace,” Maggie said, wondering if she sounded as exhausted to others as she felt. “I couldn’t leave her, you know?” She sagged onto one of the large blue couches stamped in fine threads which formed a pattern of hundreds of subtle fleur-de-lys.

  Windsor left his chair and sat on the other side of Maggie. “So, what, exactly, happened Mags?” he asked.

  Maggie looked at Lydie and then at Windsor and waited until Grace had returned and claimed the drink Windsor had made for her.

  “She’s fine, Maggie,” Grace said, seating herself. “Now, what happened?”

  Maggie took a deep breath. “They just came and took him,” she said. “We didn’t even have breakfast.”

  “Did they say why?” Windsor asked. “Was it for questioning, or were they arresting him?”

  “Laurent said it was just for questioning,” she said. “But the cops looked so serious. They acted like they thought Laurent was guilty,” she said.

  “Did they handcuff him?” Lydie asked. She spoke begrudgingly, as if expected to join in but not really wanting to much.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “That’s a good sign.” Grace smiled encouragingly.

  “Were they taking him to Aix-en-Provence?” Windsor asked.

  “I...I don’t know,” Maggie said. “I assumed so.”

  “I know it doesn’t help to tell you not to worry, darling,” Grace said gently. “But the cops will get to the bottom of this and Laurent will be released. You know that.”

  “You know who the killer is, don’t you?” Maggie said suddenly, angrily. “Gaston Lasalle damn well did it, but do the cops question him? No! Do they haul his skinny ass down to...wherever it is? No...”

  “Gaston Lasalle?” Grace frowned.

  “Yes!” Maggie said, putting her drink down on the coffee table. “He was there that night, Grace. He showed up after all. Have you told Windsor about him? About how―?”

  “I told him.”

  “Maggie, drink something,” Windsor said, motioning to her glass. “Grace, find her a coaster.” He looked back at Maggie. “Why would this Gaston character want to kill Connor?”

  Maggie clenched her fists in her excitement. “Why?” she repeated.

  Grace returned from the sideboard across the room with a coaster and placed it under Maggie’s glass.

  “Gaston doesn’t really have a motive, does he?” Grace asked.

  “He’s a low-life scumbag!” Maggie said, raising her voice. “Isn’t that motive enough?”

  Windsor placed a calming hand on Maggie’s shoulder.

  “I know this Gaston,” Lydie said, her face pinched in concentration. “He is bad. But he is not a killer.”

  Maggie looked at her. “What is he, like, a friend of yours or something?” She asked.

  “He is not evil,” Lydie responded. “He wouldn’t have killed―”

  “Oh, what do you know!” Maggie turned from her in disgust.

  “I know I loved Connor,” Lydie said, her eyes flashing. “I know I was to become Madame MacKenzie.”

  Maggie turned to Grace who looked at her with a mild reproof on her face. “Did you know about Connor’s museum?” she asked.

  Maggie saw the briefest of aroused emotions flicker across Grace’s smooth face before she covered the betrayal with an arched eyebrow.

  “The Museum of American Art?” Grace took a sip of her drink. The ice cubes had melted to slivers even in the coolness of the house. “He talked about it.”

  Maggie looked at both Windsor and Grace. “Did he talk about where, exactly, he was planning on building this museum?” Her words were cold.

  “Who have you been talking to, Maggie?” Windsor spoke quietly, his voice laced with concern.

  “You both knew?” Maggie felt the emotion that she had held in check about to explode.

  “Knew? Knew what?” Grace smiled at her in confusion. “He’d talked about building this museum but he’d been talking about it forever. Maggie, you knew Connor, he wasn’t a businessman―”

  “He was an artiste,” Lydie pointed out. “The museum would have many original MacKenzie pieces―”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Grace said impatiently. “It was just talk, don’t you see? A way to get up the collective noses of the people of St-Buvard, a way to-”

  “You know,” Maggie said bitterly, “Connor sounds sweeter and sweeter the longer he stays dead.”

  “Tais toi!” Lydie jumped to her feet and faced Maggie aggressively. “I was to be his wife! Don’t say anything about him, you...américaine!”

  “Oh, get her away from me!” Maggie snarled.

  Windsor patted Lydie’s arm and looked with some confusion and helplessness at his wife.

  “Maggie, darling,” Grace said smoothly. “He wasn’t really going to build a museum, it was just Connor-talk―”

 
“You said he had the money for a project―”

  “I also said he wasn’t the commerce type. Now, come on!” Grace motioned Lydie to reseat herself. “Everyone’s sort of edgy, it’s understandable.” She gripped Maggie’s wrist. “Laurent is going to be okay, Maggie. He is.”

  “And what about Connor?” Lydie whined, wrenching free from Windsor’s mindless pats. “Is Connor going to be okay?” She looked appealingly to Grace. “We were friends, Grace? You and me and Connor and Windsor, yes?”

  Maggie noted a look of hesitancy in Grace’s smooth, controlled features.

  “You will help me get what belongs to me, yes?” Lydie looked from Windsor to Grace. “Connor was to make me his wife,” she said urgently. “He said I will be in his...what?..his...?”

  “His will? “ Grace asked her, frowning.

  “Oui! His will! You must help me, Grace. His family, they do not know that I was to be his wife.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Maggie said and reached for her drink.

  Grace shushed Maggie. “Lydie, dear,” Grace said, “you have nothing to worry about. The American legal system is such that you will get all that is entitled to you by Connor and his will. Comprends-tu? His family will not hide it from you.”

  Lydie looked eagerly at Grace, the greed and desperation turning her young face ugly. “Tu es sûr?” she said.

  “Oh, bien sûr,“ Grace said, smiling benignly at the girl. “I am quite, quite sûr.”

  After Lydie had gone, happier and richer of mind than when she’d arrived, Maggie polished off her second gin and tonic and curled up on the couch, her irritation with the Van Sants gone. Grace had changed from her country Chanel costume of a golden-chained blouse tucked into her tailored straight skirt and was now wearing a simple black cashmere catsuit. It fit her flawless figure like a coat of paint.

  Maggie sighed and watched Windsor prepare yet another drink for Grace and found herself wondering what stage the two of them were in their quest for pregnancy. Should Grace be drinking so much if she’s trying to get pregnant, Maggie wondered?