“Thanks anyway,” Maggie said, “but I think I’ll just walk myself home.”
“I really don’t think—“
She collected her purse and her pashmina from the couch.
“Please tell Bijou good night for me, Jeremy,” she said. “I know exactly where we are and Stan’s apartment isn’t four blocks from here.”
Maggie knew she needed the walk to clear her head. And to cool down. She couldn’t remember a time when she was this angry. It’s true she didn’t know Stan well but this behavior was beyond anything she would have expected from him. Maybe this was the tip of the iceberg of the reason why her family seemed to have cut off all contact with him.
As soon as she descended the long stairwell and emerged out onto the street, the quiet cocoon of Bijou’s apartment building dissipated and Maggie was assailed by the noises outside. Directly in front of the ancient building a few people stood in the street looking up at the sky. There was a nightclub directly across the street and Maggie assumed the people had left the club and were on their way home. Two men and two women. All four dressed in what Maggie would have considered outlandish costumes if it hadn’t been in the tail end of Paris Fashion Week. The two women stood on the curb while the men stood, bizarrely, in the middle of the street. As Maggie started to walk down the block, she noticed that the men were standing near a large pile of clothes centered in the road, almost as if guarding it.
Her pace slowed when she caught the men’s soft voices under the sounds of the women on the curb. One of the women was crying.
“How the hell long does it take to get a goddamn ambulance here?” one of the men said in American English. When he spoke, Maggie found herself, without knowing why, moving toward them. The two men turned to look at her as she approached and she could see there was a third man kneeling in the street next to the pile of clothes.
Only not a pile of clothes.
Maggie gasped. She dropped her purse and ran to where the men were, pushing past where the two were standing. The man kneeling by the body looked up at her but she only had eyes for the broken body of her uncle lying at her feet.
Chapter Three
The crouching man stood up as Maggie dropped to her knees in the street. Stan was lying on his back, his left leg bent at an impossible angle, the life seeping out of him in dark red rivers. His eyes fluttered.
“We saw him jump just as we were coming out of the club,” one of the man said to her. “We called the ambulance. They should be here any minute.”
In the background of her mind, she could hear the one woman continue to weep and she heard more people gathering. She knelt in the pool of blood and gently touched Stan’s hand.
“Stan,” she said. “It’s Maggie. I’m here.”
His eyes were not focused but his mouth moved. Maggie leant over him, careful not to touch him in case it mattered, and placed her ear close to his lips.
It was just a bare whisper of air with the last breath he would take, rumbling softly through his lips.
“Jimbo,” he said.
Maggie froze in case he would speak again but the noise of the crowd that had formed around her would have made it impossible to hear in any case. When she pulled back to search his eyes, she felt her stomach tighten and then churn. His eyes no longer saw, his lips no longer moved.
A wave of heartbreaking sadness swept through her and gripped her tightly across the chest. She felt hands pulling on her and she realized that the paramedics had arrived. She allowed them to help her to her feet and watched them turn to Stan.
Maggie stood, covered in her uncle’s blood, stunned and sick while the crowd in the street grew larger and noisier. Within seconds, she felt strong hands propelling her away from the scene, leading her to the sidewalk and pushing her into a sitting position on the curb. She knew he was speaking to her but she was having difficulty concentrating on what was happening. After a moment, she turned her head and vomited up all the lovely spinach puffs and Veuve Clicquot from her evening.
Two days later, Maggie sat on her uncle’s couch and stared out his long floor to ceiling windows at the relentless afternoon rain. The days had passed in a blur of activity, weeping and intermittent boredom. Not surprisingly, Stan’s apartment had stayed packed with a steady influx of loving friends. Stan was well known and well loved. The fact that he had died during Fashion Week meant everyone he ever knew was in town to pay homage and say goodbye to him. They treated Maggie as if she were the bereaved widow, clasping her hand, their faces streaked with tears, and giving their condolences and offers of shared sorrow. She was sorry to tell them, over and over again, that there would be no funeral in Paris. Her father had arrived that morning to escort the body home to Atlanta.
In a rare quiet moment when she and her father were alone and the apartment empty of sympathizers and mourners, Maggie turned to him and asked for the hundredth time, “How could this have happened?”
Her father handed her a demitasse of espresso from Stan’s kitchen and sat down on the couch next to her.
“It’s a tragedy,” he said. “For sure Stan would be one of the last people on earth I would ever have imagine might kill himself.”
“Dad,” Maggie said. “I just spent three days with him. He was full of life and plans for his retirement. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Suicides generally don’t,” her father said.
“Are you sure you want to do all this back in Atlanta? Stan didn’t know anyone there any more.”
“His family is there,” John Newberry said, sipping from his cup.
He looked suitably grim to Maggie but not particularly sad. He patted her on the knee. “Laurent couldn’t come up?”
“I guess the harvesting couldn’t spare him,” Maggie said. “As he said, it’s not like there was anything for him to do up here but hang around and drink too much and listen to a lot of people cry.”
“He didn’t say that.”
“No, but he’s clearly missing that sensitivity chip that would allow him to support his wife in her time of need.”
“Did you ask him to come?”
“He should have offered without my having to.”
Her father smiled tiredly, sipped his coffee and said nothing.
“Dad? Was everything okay between you and Uncle Stan?”
“We were not estranged, Maggie,” her father said. “We just had busy lives.”
“And really different lives.”
“We lived on opposite coasts.”
“Were you close as kids?”
“Not particularly.”
“He was such a sweet man. I’m sorry I didn’t know him better. I really liked him, Dad. I already loved him.”
“Of course. He was your uncle.”
“And a good guy, Dad.”
“Look, Maggie. I’m very tired and I have to be up early tomorrow for my flight. Do you think you can close up Stan’s apartment until after his will is read? That’ll be some time next month.”
“In Atlanta.”
“Maggie, he doesn’t have any children. Or a wife. If there is a favorite charity he wanted his money to go to, I will make sure it goes there. But all of that can be done from Atlanta, where he’ll be buried next to our parents at Oakland cemetery.”
“When was the last time he was even in Atlanta?”
“Trust me, sweetheart, at this point, it really doesn’t matter.”
That night, after her father had retired, Maggie agreed to meet Bijou and Jeremy at Stan’s favorite bistro on the corner by his apartment. Since it was her last night in Paris and she couldn’t help but feel his friends were being cheated out of the opportunity to say goodbye to Stan at his funeral, Maggie was glad for the opportunity.
The restaurant was a favorite of Stan’s. It featured stain glass windows and dark, polished mahogany walls with ancient wall sconces which punctuated the high walls to the ornate ceiling which was crisscrossed with heavy wooden beams. The waiters appeared gloomy and dour which Maggie
couldn’t help but think was appropriate for tonight. When she entered the restaurant, she was surprised to find it full of people waiting for her. Bijou jumped up as she entered and flung her arms around Maggie. As tall as she was, she had to hunch over to wrap her arms around her. She had been to Stan’s apartment every day during the last four days and every time she acted as if she were learning of Stan’s death for the very first time.
“Let her come in and sit down, Bijou!” someone yelled. “Move over, let her sit.”
Maggie felt a warm, strong presence materialize behind her and she looked up to see Ted standing there, his hand gently pushing the small of her back.
“Come on,” he said. “We have a drink for you and the love of all of Stan’s friends to envelop you.”
“Thanks, Ted,” she whispered, grateful for his arm as he guided her to the boothful of Stan’s dearest friends. One by one, they stood and kissed her in solemn greeting. Jeremy, Ted, Diane—the American department story copywriter—and, of course, Bijou.
“Thank you, all of you,” Maggie said. “I’m so sorry to be taking him home when I know here is home, wherever his friends are who he loved so much—”
Jeremy burst into tears and Diane, who was sitting next to him, gave his shoulder a perfunctory pat without looking at him. She was a mousey kind of woman, Maggie had thought when she first met her. Quiet, shy, nondescript in every way. There appeared to be nothing about her that stood out in any way. She looked sad but Maggie couldn’t help but think there was something mechanical or staged about her show of grief. She scolded herself for thinking such a thing.
“We’re a mess,” Jeremy said, wiping the tears from his cheeks and pulling out a large handkerchief. “We’re just a wretched mess.” His shoulders shook as he cried into the handkerchief and Diane continued to absently pat him.
“We ordered brandy.” Ted pushed an old-fashioned glass toward Maggie. “Have you eaten?”
“I have, thank you,” Maggie said. Over the last few days she had heard bits and pieces of all of their stories and their connections with Stan. Ted had found a loving mentor in Stan whose blog had supported and promoted him during the hey day of his modeling years and of drug abuse. Ted had said repeatedly during what had passed for a wake at Stan’s apartment that Stan had saved his career, if not his life.
Everyone had similar stories.
Maggie couldn’t help but think it strange that no one seemed to have any trouble with the idea that Stan killed himself. These were his friends. They knew him better than she did. She took a sip of her brandy and looked at each of their faces. Jeremy continued to sob and blow his nose. It was difficult to ascertain anything with him beyond his show of grief. Bijou looked sad, it seemed to Maggie, and perhaps a little distracted. Maggie noticed she looked up frequently to look at the door as if expecting someone else to join the party. Diane was a conundrum. She looked sad but that could just be how she always looked. Maggie couldn’t help but wonder, if she was so close to Stan, why he had never mentioned her when he talked about the friends he wanted Maggie to meet. She glanced at Ted who was watching her. Neither had he mentioned Ted.
“Has anyone talked to the police?” Bijou asked the group, her eyes resting finally on Maggie.
“They’ll only talk to the family,” Jeremy said, sniffing. He, too, turned his gaze onto Maggie.
“They’re still investigating,” Maggie said.
“Looks pretty straightforward,” Ted said. “Witnesses said they saw him launch himself from the balcony.”
“Well,” Maggie said, “They said they saw him fall.”
“You think he was pushed?” All heads turned to face the newcomer attached to the voice. A tall black man in his mid forties stood silently next to Ted, causing the younger man to jump when he realized he was there.
“Shit, Denny,” Ted said, clapping a hand to his heart. “You need to get squeakier shoes or something.”
“Who would murder Stan?” Jeremy said, scowling at the newcomer. “Except maybe you.”
Denny held his hands up as if to fend off any further verbal assaults from the group.
“I come in peace,” he said, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “I saw you all sitting here and am simply offering my condolences.”
“Bullshit, you venal shit!” Jeremy said, struggling to stand at the table. “If anybody is happy that Stan’s gone, it’s you. Now you have no competition in the blogosphere. None! He was a pain in your ass and now it’s clear sailing for Denny Fucking Davenport.”
Maggie watched Diane try to pull Jeremy back to a seated position in the booth. She murmured something to him and succeeded in getting him to sit back down.
“You’re the niece?” Denny said to Maggie.
She nodded, recognizing that she pretty much instantly disliked him.
“So sorry for your loss.” He gave a snappy little half bow, the smirk never leaving his face, turned and left.
“What a bastard,” Ted said as the group watched Davenport exit the bistro into the night. “He’s dancing in the street now that Stan’s gone.”
“Ça ne fait rien,” Bijou said, signaling the waiter for another round of drinks. “Whether he is happy or bereft, it changes nothing.”
“What’s the deal with him?” Maggie asked. “I never heard of competing bloggers before.”
“Oh, it’s done a little differently in the fashion world,” Diane said. “Denny and Stan both have pretty big followings and what they say can actually affect a designer’s year.”
“You mean like if Stan says Ralph Lauren’s winter collection looks like the Goodwill bag lady, Lauren’s ready-to-wear will suffer at the local Macy’s?”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Diane said. “But it could affect reputations if not sales.”
“Plus, both Denny and Stan are able to monetize their blogs,” Ted said. “They don’t take money for a positive review—or at least Stan wouldn’t—but everyone knows a positive mention in one of their posts could translate into increased business. Not the big designers, but certainly the newcomers, the accessories people. That sort of thing.”
“Stan was very good about launching new talent,” Jeremy said, shaking his head and staring at the tablecloth in front of him. “He was always discovering someone new and introducing them through his blog.”
“That’s true,” Ted said. “I can name two people who directly attribute their success today to public praise from Stan’s blog.”
“I had no idea,” Maggie said. “I didn’t know he was still into the whole fashion thing. I thought he was retired.”
“He retired from buying,” Jeremy said. “But he could no more give up his blog than stop breathing.” As soon as he realized what he said, he burst into tears. Diane patted his shoulder.
Maggie turned to Bijou. “And there wasn’t room for two fashion bloggers?”
“They crossed swords in their blogs,” Bijou said. “It was now a part of their…?” She looked to Ted who spoke quickly: “Their brand,” he said.
“Oui,” Bijou said. “It was their brand that they were contentious of each other.”
“It made for even more delicious reading,” Ted said. “In fact, I disagree with Jeremy. I think Denny will find that having the floor all to himself will not be half so entertaining as having someone of Stan’s caliber to spar with. And so, not half so profitable.”
Diane twisted her body away from Jeremy’s noisy sobs and leaned toward Maggie.
“When are you taking the body back to the States?” she asked.
“My father’s taking him back tomorrow morning,” Maggie said.
“And the reading of the will?”
Maggie felt a chill come into the little bistro.
“Immediately after the funeral,” Maggie said. “Family only, in my father’s lawyer’s office.”
“I see.”
“Are you expecting Stan to leave you something in particular?” Maggie asked, wondering what in the world Stan ever saw in this
mousy, unfriendly and decidedly unfashionable woman.
Diane picked up a napkin and folded it up carefully in front of her. Maggie couldn’t help but notice that she appeared to be drying perspiration from her fingers.
“You never know,” she said, looking away.
The next morning, Maggie said goodbye to her father and saw him leave for his sad journey back to the States with his only brother. She emptied out the refrigerator and locked up her uncle’s apartment before leaving herself. She had already given, at least temporarily, Stan’s half-feral tomcat to the woman living in the apartment next door. Since the animal spent more time roaming the streets of Paris than it did curled up on a rug in Stan’s apartment, Maggie felt the change wouldn’t be too drastic for him. In any event, she intended on checking on the cat the next time she was in Paris—probably when she came up to list the flat after the will was read.
The train trip from Paris to Arles was just under four hours and Maggie spent most of that time staring out at the brown autumn countryside of southwestern France. Even though a part of her felt like she was leaving tragedy and sadness behind, she was surprised to realize she felt worse with every mile that took her away from Paris.
Laurent was waiting for her at the train station. When she saw him in the Arles train station, she felt her usual mixture of love and amazement that this big, handsome man was hers. Laurent moved with no hint of self-awareness, no obvious clue that he was someone that most women took a second look at. Six foot four, broad chested and long-legged, he moved like a native American, graceful and sure—even when he was just placing luggage in the back of a sedan.
“A good trip?” he asked after he’d taken her into his arms for a welcoming hug.
“Pretty good,” Maggie said, relaxing into him and feeling some of the stress of the trip dissipate. “How’s everything at home?” She hadn’t spoken with him in a couple of days. It made her realize that she always called him. In the absence of that effort, communication ceased.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 88