“Ten in the evening or thereabouts.”
“And Schworm was to have met her at eight, so, yeah, I guess he’d have had time to wait for her, find her and off her.”
“‘Off’ her?”
“He had opportunity.”
“What about motive?”
“He was in love with her.”
“Ahhhh.” He pulled off the highway onto a remote road leading to an even more remote copse of trees. Maggie began to feel a little uneasy.
“Still worried you’ll be seen giving me classified information?” she asked.
“Precautions are always advisable,” he said smoothly, turning the car’s engine off.
“I have to be back in an hour.”
“No problem. But you don’t think Schworm killed her.”
Maggie unsnapped her seatbelt and climbed out of the car.
The vibrant purple of the field’s lavender had faded in the fall to a more relaxed violet color. The plants were hip high on her and seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “I think Yves knew he would never meet his wife that night. I think he knew he’d never see her alive again. I think his sending Schworm off to meet her is tied into Yves’ intention to kill her.”
“You think Yves killed his wife?”
Maggie looked at Bedard who had also left the car. He came to lean against the hood near her.
“I guess I do,” she said. “But there’s a lot of questions not answered and since you haven’t told me what you know, maybe I shouldn’t commit just yet. Come on, Roger.”
Bedard shrugged.
“The crazy pharmacist first,” he said.
“Yeah, what’s his deal?”
“He was not in love with Brigitte...”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“He loved her in a different way. Less passionately, but perhaps as purely.”
“God, you French drive me crazy! Was he having it on with her or not?”
“Monsieur Remey is a self-professed, at least under the mildest police interrogation, acting homosexual. Absolutely devoted to Madame Genet in the most platonic terms. But, as I have said--”
“Jean-Paul is gay?”
“So he insists and I’m afraid I believe him.”
“So why did he become unglued when I asked him a few questions?”
Bedard grinned and faced Maggie, his body now inches from hers.
“You were asking him whether he had had a sexual affair with his Madonna!” Bedard laughed. “In his eyes, you were grossly insulting his one and only idea of pure womanhood! It’s really kind of funny.”
“Only a Frenchman would think so.” Maggie grinned too. “So where is he now?”
“You weren’t thinking of pressing charges, were you?”
“Not unless you think he’s dangerous.”
“I don’t.”
“So, what else? Come on, spill your guts. Give me the details that only you, me and the murder could possibly know.”
“She was killed around ten p.m. She was beaten to death with a club of some kind. We haven’t found the weapon, we don’t have much hope of it. She had been raped an hour before but there was no semen save that of her husband’s...”
“Well, isn’t that indicting?”
“Maggie, Genet told you himself that he had had sex with his wife earlier than afternoon.”
“Maybe to cover himself for later on...”
“Maybe. Or maybe the murderer raped her, but did not ejaculate inside Madame Genet.”
“Did your men check the ground?”
“May I finish? There was no evidence of semen in or around the body. She was stripped of her clothes after she’d been killed--”
“Why? Maybe the murder’s blood or semen got on them?”
“Maybe. The body was found with a large ‘X’ marked across her face.”
“What? He wrote on her?”
“He exed out her face.”
“Like a hash mark?”
Bedard frowned.
“Like ‘one down, so many to go’?” she asked. “Did any of the other murders have this done to them?”
Bedard nodded.
“The nurse, Catherine, had had one,” he said. “But it was very shaky. And there were indistinct markings on Pijou, too. As if the guy were in a hurry. Until Madame Genet’s, which was deliberate and well-drawn, we couldn’t make out what the marking was on the nurse. Now, it’s clear we’re dealing with the same person.”
“An X across the face,” Maggie mused. “It means a cross-out, right?”
“Except that one would have thought that the murder itself was the ultimate cross-out. Why bother with the marker?”
Maggie shook her head.
“How was the nurse killed?” she asked.
“Bludgeoned.”
“Raped?”
Bedard nodded.
“But no semen.”
“So this guy’s very careful,” Maggie said.
“I’m surprised to hear you rule out a woman.”
“But the victims were all sexually assaulted.”
“As you say, the murderer is very careful.”
“Ahhhh, so you think the bodies could’ve been interfered with in order to slant light away from the fact that the murderer is a woman!”
“It could be.”
“Well, so do you think it’s a woman?”
“No, I think it’s a man, too.”
Maggie laughed and smacked Bedard lightly on the shoulder. In a split second, he pulled her to him and she found that, without hesitation or thought, her arms were around him and her lips were on his. After a long kiss, she pulled away and fell back against the car.
She put her hand to her mouth and moaned.
“Roger, do me a favor and help me make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
Bedard walked over to the driver’s side of the car and extricated his car keys from his jacket pocket.
“Ask me anything else,” he said.
A hundred yards away, the old hunter stood, his ancient dog at his heel. His tired ears could not pick out the words even if they hadn’t been in a language he did not know, but his eyes could see. Oh, yes, Jean-Luc thought bitterly, they could certainly see.
2
The large king-sized bed creaked under their weight with each movement. Yves made a mental note to have it replaced. Brigitte had bought it when they were first married. He grimaced at the flourish of quaint, curling wrought iron in the headboard. It was so romantic and ridiculous, he had thought. It was not a style that had ever suited him.
“You are not getting up?” The woman in the bed murmured softly as she traced a languid finger down his bare back. “I thought you were bringing coffee to me.”
Yves shook himself out of thoughts of his dead wife and turned to his lover. He leaned over and kissed her deeply.
“I am just going,” he said. “Cream, yes?”
The woman nodded, her pale hair draping the rumpled pillow like a gossamer shroud of gold.
“I love you, Yves,” she said. Her eyes watched him carefully as he rose from the bed and pulled on his silk dressing gown.
“But, of course, you do,” Yves said absently, lighting a cigarette. He smiled briefly at her before leaving the room.
Madeleine could hear him in the small kitchen next door. She listened to him assemble a tray of coffee cups and croissants. Presently, she heard the sound of the coffeemaker signaling its finish. She turned and looked out the small bedroom window. Yves’ apartment was situated on a the rue de John F. Kennedy, a quiet street. A magpie flew to the windowsill and perched there, seeming to inspect Madeleine as if trying to decide whether or not to enter the room. Finally, the bird flew away. Madeleine heard Yves open the kitchen door to retrieve a cold flagon of cream.
Soon, she knew, he would return to her.
3
Laurent carried the child easily in the crook of his arm. He stood in the middle of his viney
ard, frowning at what he saw.
“Are you late in harvesting this year?” Grace tucked the ends of her silk scarf snugly around her head. She squinted at the lush vineyard through her sunglasses.
“A little,” Laurent admitted.
“It won’t be a problem, will it?”
Laurent shook his head.
“The pickers come tomorrow,” he said. He kissed the child on the cheek. “Such a big girl is Zou-zou,” he said. “And your sister is having fun, too, eh?”
They watched Taylor run to the end of the stone-wall encased field. She turned and waved to them before returning at a slower trot.
“Exercise is good for her,” Laurent observed.
“It tends to calm her. Listen, Laurent, you know Maggie’s just trying to find her calling over here. It’s not easy finding something to do in a foreign country.”
Laurent made a disgusted sound, then kissed the baby again and handed her back to Grace.
“She needs a hat, Grace,” he said, watching Taylor in the distance. “It’s still very hot.”
“And besides,” Grace continued, hoisting Zou-zou onto her hip. “You have all this and that’s quite consuming, isn’t it?”
Laurent looked at Grace as if he expected she meant more by her words.
“I mean, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Grace said. “Running a vineyard, my goodness...”
“You don’t need to flatter me. Just tell me.”
Grace sighed.
“Darling, I love you dearly, but is there really a reason to go about being the French Country-Lunkhead? Hunting, drinking with your mates, stamping about your fields, spending more time with your dogs than Maggie?”
Laurent grinned and scratched his head.
“I guess I asked for this.”
“Honestly, Laurent, Maggie married a sexy, slightly-nefarious con-man--not that I’m saying that being a criminal was a good thing or anything--not a farmer...and I’m not saying give up the vineyard! I’m saying, perhaps you don’t need to throw yourself into the life and shoes of the sweaty French peasant with quite so much vigor. Oh, well, Win always tells me to shut-up about now. Maggie does too, come to think of it.”
“We never spent much time alone, you and I,” Laurent said, examining a branch of plump grapes. “Our relationship has always, how am I putting it? been reflected by the couples, or by Maggie, yes?” Laurent ate a grape, testing it for sweetness, then handed one to Zou-zou. “But you are a special friend not just to Maggie. Maybe I have not had many opportunities to tell you to shut-up, eh? but I have enjoyed your friendship.” He threw the stripped branch. “And I respect your opinion.”
“Oh, Laurent, can we hug?”
He laughed and pulled her and the child close.
“Hey, that awful man is coming! Maman! That nasty man is coming”
Grace frowned as her older daughter approached.
“What on earth are you talking about, Taylor?” she asked, shielding the sun from her eyes.
“It’s Jean-Luc,” Laurent said. He pointed to the north corner of the vineyard. The old man was descending the restraining wall, preceded by his two hunting dogs.
“Well, maybe it’s a good time to hit the trail,” Grace said. “Sometimes Jean-Luc is a little hard to take--even for me.” She squeezed Laurent’s arm. “Forgive me, darling Laurent. And give Maggie a kiss for me.”
“Ah, oui,” Laurent said, his eyes watching Jean-Luc’s determined approach. “Bien sûr.”
4
The spare, thin chef cinched his apron tighter in one nervous jerk, but aside from that one gesture, gave no indication that his concentration on a rather large wad of pastry dough was being affected. A loud crashing sound as two metal bowls came tumbling down from the shelf echoed throughout the restaurant’s kitchen.
“Le bâtard! I will cut his heart from his lying throat and serve it to his mother! En flambée!”
August Schworm, standing in the center of the kitchen, raked a tray of ceramic soup bowls to the floor with one sweep of his hand. His face was purple with rage. He turned to the the thin chef massaging the dough and barked:
“You are massacring that dough, you idiot! We are not making pizza, moron! Have you seen Yves Genet in my restaurant today?! Have you seen him?”
The thin chef looked at his boss with surprise.
“Moi?”
“Non, you imbécile! I’m talking to the casserole dishes but you are in my way! Yes, you! Crapaud! Have you seen Genet?”
The chef wiped his fingers on his apron and looked around as if searching for help.
A tall, black man quickly approached the pair.
“Monsieur Schworm--” he began.
“Ah, Bennett! You’ve seen him, haven’t you? You’ve seated the bastard at a table, haven’t you? He’s here right now, isn’t he? I’ll kill the bastard!”
“Docteur Genet is not in the restaurant,” the maître ‘d said calmly. “I told you I would notify you--”
“I want him to come!” Schworm shrieked. “I want the bastard to eat in my restaurant one last time!” He snatched up a large chopper and slammed the mound of dough on the counter in front of him. “He will never eat again! I promise you that!”
Throwing the chopper to the floor, Schworm turned and stormed from the kitchen, slamming the door to his office behind him.
The black maître d’ sighed deeply and, without speaking, returned to the dining room.
The thin chef held his trembling hands to his stomach, pressing lightly on his knuckles, where the knife had grazed them.
5
The sky had darkened early that afternoon and Maggie knew she would be driving home in the rain on the country roads. She’d called home twice but there had been no answer. The combination of the gloomy weather, her confusion over the incident with Bedard, and the fact that she seemed even further from knowing who had killed Brigitte had manifested themselves in a mood of discouragement and even sadness.
Surprised and pleased to see Laurent’s Renault in the gravel driveway, Maggie hurriedly parked her car and unsuccessfully dodged the raindrops to the front door.
“Laurent?” She shook out an ineffectual scarf that had been covering her hair and was further surprised to see as she entered the house, a lively fire in the hearth. “My God,” she said, following the sounds coming from the kitchen. “We’ve been broken into and the vile buggers have built a fire and are preparing a hot meal! I told you to keep the doors locked!” She entered the kitchen, a delighted smile on her lips.
Laurent, turned from the stove, and handed her a tall glass of rosé.
“Don’t ask if it’s one of ours,” he said. “It’s not. It’s much better.” He leaned over and kissed her.
“I can’t tell you what a treat it is to come home to you like this, and oh, that smells so good whatever you’re doing in here--and a fire in the fireplace!--on such a nasty night.”
“Try.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind, chérie. Why don’t you get out of your wet things? Dinner isn’t for another quarter of an hour. Change and join me in front of the fireplace. I have some things to discuss with you.”
“My God. You want a divorce. Are you sure you’ve given it enough time? I mean, we’ve only been at this not quite a year.”
“I, thank God, will never understand your sense of humor. Please. Change into dry clothes.”
Quickly, Maggie went upstairs and peeled off her wet clothes. She kicked them into a sodden pile in the bathroom and pulled on a pair of snug Polaric pants and a sweater. Examining herself in the mirror, she decided against a bra. She ran her fingers through her long hair to let it dry au naturel and hurried back downstairs.
A small tray of hors-d’oeuvres sat on the coffee table in front of the fire. Her wine glass was there, along with his. Maggie seated herself in front of the fire and took a long sip from her wine. Whatever he was up to, she decided, it didn’t have the air of trying to soften bad news. She allowed
her hopes to rise.
Laurent joined her from the kitchen. He sat down and picked up his wine glass and took a sip. Then, he put down his glass and picked up her hand.
“I would like to begin this discussion,” he said, “with a very large apology to you.”
* * * *
Several hours later, as Maggie lay happy and virtually transformed, she allowed herself the luxury of reliving Laurent’s words and, more importantly, Laurent’s promises of the evening.
Admitting he had abandoned the project he had originally started with her, he claimed insecurity as a proper chef as the reason he had repulsed efforts to collaborate on the book. He related to a shocked Maggie that he just didn’t consider himself a good enough cook to be the spine of a book on French cooking.
After a long discussion, they decided that theirs would be a mutual project and that, unlike most French cook books--after all, were they not a totally unique combination?--their cookbook would not strive to depict French cuisine with a bow to Michelin stars but, rather, to the love and execution of simple, honest, farmhouse cooking.
Moreover, Laurent apologized for escaping to the vineyard and, incredibly, promised Maggie that the cookbook would not take a backseat to the grapes. And neither, he vowed, would either project take priority over their life together and their love for each other.
To cap it off, Maggie thought, as she rolled over to watch her sleeping husband next to her. He wants to start a family. In her mind’s eye, Maggie remembered the Laurent she had met five years ago. A con man, yes, with much of his past still a mystery to her and, at his insistence, likely to remain so. But a charming, soft-hearted con man, as likely to rescue his victims as steal from them.
Or, as in her case, fall in love with them.
The question she had wanted to ask all evening stayed silent in her brain. What did it matter what had prompted this loving change of heart? This cataclysmic track-switching? More than once she had marveled at the irony and coincidence that the same day she had succumbed to a minor infraction of her wedding vows, those same vows had been strengthened and reinforced.
She watched her husband and lover sleep. His eyelids never fluttered, he never moaned in his sleep. He, who surely had had so much to trouble and shame him in his life, slept without a doubt or a shred of guilt or recrimination. Self-absolution, Maggie thought, touching the handsome profile with a light finger. There’s nothing quite like it. She kissed his lips and got out of their bed. An exquisite early dinner followed by a long evening of talking and love-making had left her unusually hungry.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 80