The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “I won’t forget,” Grace said.

  “Okay,” the child said. “Goodnight, then.”

  The adults held their breath until the sound of the little patent leather shoes had been silenced by the shutting of the bedroom door.

  “She’s changing,” Grace said to no one in particular.

  “We haven’t had a major incident with her since right after Thanksgiving,” Windsor said. “Six weeks or something.”

  Laurent accepted his steaming wine from Windsor, then joined Grace and Maggie, who were sitting on the rose damask settee in front of the fire. Grace was drinking cocoa.

  “I wish we could take credit for it,” Grace said, still looking at the staircase where their daughter had ascended. “But I think it’s her new nanny.”

  “A girl from the village, isn’t it?” Maggie asked.

  “Where have you been?” Grace said with a laugh. “That was three nannies ago. No, Rochelle is from Arles, if you can believe it.”

  “Arles?” Laurent joined in the conversation. “That’s a long way to come for a babysitting job, no?”

  Windsor sat down in the overstuffed armchair across from the others, and set his drink down on the glass-topped coffeetable in front of him.

  “Except that we pay her what a hypersonic fighter pilot would get,” he said.

  Grace rolled her eyes at her husband and then turned back to Laurent and Maggie. “Let’s just say, it’s worth the drive in from Arles,” she said. She stretched her back against two silk tasseled pillows on the couch.

  “Are you really feeling okay, Grace?” Maggie asked.

  Grace nodded. “I’m fine. It’s more the effects of being pregnant than the aftermath of being worked over by our neighborhood baker. I was like this with Taylor too, wasn’t I, Win?”

  “You were worse.” He turned to Maggie. “She started to show at six weeks―”

  “You liar, I did not.”

  “―and had morning sickness right up until labor. At which point, I started to get sick.”

  “Oh, don’t listen to him.” The two of them grinned at their own little joke, and Maggie realized with relief that something had changed between them since Grace’s attack. Something had somehow been shook loose and back into place.

  “We stopped and saw Bernard and Paulette Delacore on the way over,” Laurent said.

  Grace leaned forward eagerly. “I heard he was out of jail. God, that must be a happy household about now.”

  “It really is,” Maggie said. “I guess I didn’t pick up before how close Paulette and Bernard were. Laurent knew, but I never saw much evidence of it.”

  “You only saw them together once,” Laurent reminded her. “Bernard spoke of her often to me when he was harvesting Domaine St-Buvard.” A frown passed fleetingly across Laurent’s face as he thought of the recent harvest of his now ruined vineyard.

  “Yeah, well, I guess it was hard to believe that a union of true love could really produce a Babette,” Maggie said.

  “How’s she doing anyway? Our village wunder-tramp?” Grace picked up her hot cocoa and smiled at Laurent impishly.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” Maggie said. “Paulette says she’s getting married.”

  “To the biker?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Her mother didn’t have many details.”

  “I’ll bet not!” Grace said. Both women laughed.

  “And Laurent is giving our hero, one Gaston Lasalle, a job in rebuilding the vineyard.” Maggie patted his knee. “Scraping away dead vines and stuff, clearing the land for the spring planting.”

  “Really?” Windsor looked at Laurent with surprise. “Pretty convinced he’s turned over a new leaf, are you?”

  Laurent shook his head. “Gaston is...an opportunist,” he said. “But he worked hard for me before and he could use the money.” He paused for a moment and then added: “And yes, I feel he has balanced out his crime against us.”

  “The cops said they thought he was probably breaking in that backroom window because he was intending to rob the place,” Windsor offered.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Laurent said.

  “I think the point is, Windsor,” Maggie said, “he may have originally been up to no good when he arrived, and knowing Gaston, that’s pretty believable. But when he saw the situation in the room―Madame Renoir swinging her rolling pin, Grace lying injured on the floor, me―well, he came through, you know? He could’ve just turned and left. But he decided to help instead.”

  “And he spent two hours in the hospital having a bandage applied to his nose for his bother,” Grace pointed out. “She caught him one before he subdued her, you know. I’m very grateful to him.” She looked over at Windsor. “And I expect this family to be too―in the form of a very substantial financial thank-you.”

  “It’s already done,” Windsor said.

  Grace’s eyes widened. “Really? You gave him money?”

  “He had no qualms about accepting it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Of course, I gave him money. I gave him quite a lot.” Windsor looked uncomfortable. “At the time, it was lucky for us I stopped short of signing over the title to the house.” He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “I was very grateful to him. Still am.”

  “Why, you old thing,” Grace got up and kissed him on the mouth, then sat back down.

  “Anyway,” Windsor said, clapping his hands together. “What’s this about next spring’s planting? Have you two got an announcement to make tonight? Are you going to be here for the harvest? Have you decided to stay?”

  Laurent picked up Maggie’s hand and pressed it between his thick fingers. She squeezed him back.

  “We’ve decided to stay,” Maggie said, “for better or for worse.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” Grace asked, her eyes bright, glancing from Laurent to Maggie and back again.

  Windsor looked at her in confusion. “What?” he said. “What does what mean?”

  “Laurent and Maggie, I think, have decided to stay in St-Buvard and to stop upsetting the pious churchgoers by their hedonistic and flagrant vie de pêche?”

  “Will someone please tell me what this woman is talking about?” Windsor said in exasperation.

  “Laurent and I have decided to stay...”

  “I’m up on that part.”

  “We are getting married, Windsor,” Laurent said, taking a sip of his hot drink. He made a face. “What is in this?” he asked, looking down into his cup.

  “Married?” Windsor jumped up and clapped his hands together once in a loud crack. “That’s great! Grace, did you know about this?”

  Grace smiled, her face pale and serene against the rose pillows, and shook her head. She carried her broken arm loosely against her chest. “I didn’t,” she said.

  “We want to be married in St-Buvard, probably sometime this spring, we think,” Maggie said.

  “Windsor, get the champagne,” Grace said. “Will it be a big wedding?”

  “Something in keeping with the traditions of the village, we think,” Maggie said.

  “I see, so you’re already pregnant?” Grace’s eyes twinkled.

  They all laughed as Windsor uncorked and poured a bottle of Dom Perignon. They held their glasses high in a toast.

  “To Maggie and Laurent,” Windsor said. “To a life together as exciting and complex as the last six months...” He was interrupted by boos from the other three. “I was going to say minus all the murders and stuff,” Windsor protested.

  “Oh, let me do it,” Grace said, shaking her head at him. “To Maggie and Laurent. May your married life together be as full of love and wonder as it is right now. We love you both.”

  They touched glasses and drank. Grace took a tiny sip of her champagne and replaced the long flute on the coffee table. Maggie noticed she looked tired. Radiant, as usual, but weary. For a brief instant, Maggie had an image of Grace lying on the dirty bakery floor, the overpowering, yeasty smell of rising bread mixing
with the smell of blood. The image was interrupted by Taylor’s high-pitched shout down the stairs.

  “Mommy! I’m ready!” Taylor yelled. At the sound of the child’s voice, the little dog, Mignon, burrowed further into its padded den of wool plaid blankets and cashmere lap throws.

  “I’ll refresh our drinks,” Windsor said, jumping up to open another bottle of champagne. “And then you can tell us the low down of what really happened in Madame Renoir’s bakery on Christmas Day and why. I’ve been waiting a week for this.”

  Grace stood up and stretched out her back. “Don’t you dare say one single word, Maggie Newberry-almost-Dernier,” she said, wagging a finger at Maggie, “until I return from my maternal mission.”

  “Does that mean you’re hitting the bathroom again?” Windsor said from the wet bar.

  “Very funny.” Grace walked to the foot of the stairs and called up. “I’m coming, darling,” she said. Looking back at Maggie, she said. “I’m doing the shortest of bedtime stories and then prayers and then I’m back. Ten minutes tops. Don’t breathe a word of any of your deductions until I’m back to hear it. I didn’t break this arm, get a concussion and ruin my favorite Chanel slacks just to hear the story third hand from Windsor―and he always leaves out the good bits. Comprends-tu?”

  Maggie smiled back at her. “Parfaitement,” she said.

  “I guess the thing that finally tipped me off was when Grace told me about the baby in the cemetery,” Maggie said. She moved closer to the fire, her back to it, to better face her audience. She felt warmed by the fire, the champagne, and the affection of her friends. Telling the story, as she believed she knew it, was a sort of release for her. It helped assuage the guilt she had begun to feel toward Madame Renoir and even Grace, who certainly would not have been harmed if Maggie had pieced the puzzle together sooner. She straightened the hem of her wool sweater across her lap and picked up her warm mug of wine.

  “Up to that point, the story had all seemed pretty normal. Then, a day or so before the confrontation in the bakery, Father Bardot confirmed to me that no dog would be allowed to rest that close to consecrated ground.”

  “But that’s what he’d been told by the old priest who was here before him?” Grace pulled her slippered feet up under her from where she sat on the couch. Windsor sat with his arm around her.

  “That’s right. The first guy obviously knew what the deal was with the baby―only he thought it had died prematurely or something―you know, innocent but born with original sin and all―and was just trying to protect Madame Renoir’s reputation by telling people it was a family pet.”

  “Gruesome. He didn’t realize how much he was covering up,” Grace said.

  “But I don’t understand.” Windsor frowned. “It was Madame Renoir’s baby? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does when you consider she was having an affair with the Englishman, Robert Fitzpatrick.”

  “Oh, my God,” Grace said.

  “And it does when you consider she got pregnant by him...”

  “She was only twelve years old!” Grace shook her head.

  “Almost thirteen.”

  “So Patrick Alexandre was not carrying on with Madame Fitzpatrick?” Windsor asked.

  “Pure as the driven snow, our Patrick. Even to the point of taking the rap for his precocious and very screwed-up daughter.”

  “He went to prison for her,” Grace said.

  “He snuffed himself while he was there too,” Maggie reminded her. “That’s a pretty hefty load of guilt for our lady baker to be carrying around all these years. In some ways, it’s a wonder she didn’t snap sooner.”

  “So why did the whole village think he was having an affair with the Englishwoman?” Grace asked. “And what was Madame Renoir raving about the night she tried to kill us? All that stuff about he didn’t love you, he said he wouldn’t touch you...”

  “Grace,” Maggie said, smiling. “She wasn’t talking about her father, she was talking about the Englishman. Robert Fitzpatrick. He’d obviously promised her that he wasn’t sleeping with his wife, that Marie-France―that’s Madame Renoir’s Christian name ―was his one and only.”

  “And it was Patrick who started the rumors that he was carrying on with the Englishwoman―I mean, she was dead by then, so no harm to her reputation―”

  “To protect his daughter.”

  “Bingo.”

  “But didn’t the townspeople know Madame Ren― I mean, Marie-France―was pregnant?”

  “Evidently not. She hid her weight gain, I guess. And the baby was killed soon after it was born―”

  “She killed her healthy baby?”

  Maggie watched Grace touch her own stomach in an involuntary gesture.

  “Remember, this is the same woman who had just killed two adults and two children,” Maggie said.

  “And God knows how many traveling cakepan salesmen,” Windsor said.

  “Plus, Connor,” Maggie said. “Yes, of course, she killed her own baby. In her mind, she had to. She couldn’t start hanging out at the boulangerie with a little newborn complete with English weak chin and all, could she?”

  Then Windsor spoke: “Okay, explain to us how you figured out it Madame Renoir that killed Connor as well,” he said.

  “It all makes such sense when you piece it together with Madame Renoir at the center. She was at our place that night, of course. And she was quite upset, Grace, if you remember. When I talked to her up in my bedroom it must have been right after she killed him.” Maggie shivered beneath her heavy wool sweater in spite of the fire behind her.

  Laurent picked up the ball. “Jean-Luc admitted seeing her go down to the cave that night,” he said. “when we were all in the kitchen―”

  “You’re kidding.” Windsor stared at him with his mouth open. “And he never mentioned it?”

  “But he’s family, isn’t he?” Maggie shrugged. “He’s hardly going to offer up that bit of info to the police: ‘By the way, my niece, the plump and well-loved village baker, went down to the cave at one point in the evening for some unknown reason. No, I don’t know why she hasn’t volunteered the fact herself.’ ”

  “Besides,” Laurent said, “she was above suspicion in Jean-Luc’s mind. He only remembered the incident because he thought it strange for her to go down there.”

  “What in the world was her motive?” Grace asked. “I didn’t think she even knew Connor.”

  “Think about it.” Maggie began ticking the points off her fingers. “Connor was foreign, first of all―reminding her of that other foreigner all those years ago. He was despised by the one member of her family she still had left, Jean-Luc. People tend to forget because Eduard was so noisy about hating Connor that Jean-Luc had just as much to lose by Connor building a museum at Domaine St-Buvard. More to lose, in some ways, since the property used to be his family’s land. He hated Connor too―just not as flamboyantly as Eduard.”

  “Anyway...” Laurent said impatiently.

  “Thirdly,” Maggie continued, “and probably most significantly, Connor had impregnated Madame Renoir’s little pet, the hardly wholesome Babette, reminding her of other, unfortunate times in her own life. That night, Thanksgiving, Connor was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Madame Renoir was in one of her unfortunate, rare states of madness, she saw her opportunity...and boom. She went for it.”

  Grace shook her head sadly. “She killed Connor.”

  “She did.” Maggie looked at Grace. “She’s a strong woman, Grace. Maybe you noticed that?”

  Grace continued to shake her head in disbelief. “She killed Connor and then went back to business as usual, serving up buns and tweaking children’s rosy cheeks. Didn’t she babysit your niece, Nicole, the very next day?”

  “And why, exactly, did she kill the Fitzpatricks?” Windsor asked. “That’s never been clear to me.”

  “They were leaving France to return to England. She wanted to stop them, stop him.”

  “She certainly su
cceeded in doing that.”

  “She was pregnant and obsessed with the man, Fitzpatrick. He was rejecting her―obviously in favor of his wife. I guess, in her tormented little mind she saw the children as products of the Fitzpatricks’ love.”

  “That’s logical,” Grace said.

  “And besides, the little mites were witnesses. Face it, if she’d spared them, she’d be just getting out of prison about now.”

  “If she didn’t get the guillotine,” Laurent added.

  “That’s more likely, back then,” Windsor agreed.

  “I don’t imagine she’ll serve time now.” Maggie replaced her mug on a coaster on the coffee table and dabbed at her lipstick with a cocktail napkin.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “She’s sick, Windsor,” Maggie insisted. “She’s not some serial killer or hit man. She’s twisted.”

  “I don’t know.” Windsor glanced at his wife. “She sounds pretty evil to me.”

  “Poor Madame Renoir. Poor Marie-France,” Grace murmured.

  “And the note that was found on the body?” Windsor said. “You know, the one that said, I forgive you but this is the way it’s got to be blah blah blah, signed Patrick? How do you explain that?”

  “Easy. It was from Patrick, that’s true, but it wasn’t meant for Madame Fitzpatrick. It wasn’t signed Patrick, if you remember, it was signed P.”

  “P for Patrick,” Windsor said, frowning.

  “Or Papa,” Grace said slowly, the truth dawning.

  “That’s right. Grace and I got the transcript for the note at the library. It looked like it was indicting Patrick, but it could be read another way. For example, if Patrick had found out about his daughter’s affair and subsequent pregnancy? He might be compelled to write a note to Marie-France saying he forgave her for everything. There was a line in there about this being the best road or way for them both to take and that he had no regrets. He was probably going to insist she have the baby, and that they’d raise it as a sort of little brother or sister to Madame Renoir. I don’t know. I’m just guessing there.”