Stan’s friends weren’t just shifty, she found herself thinking. They were stupid, too. She got up and pulled the curtain across the balcony window and turned to walk back to her bedroom.
Although she supposed she couldn’t really count Denny Davenport as one of his friends. The voice on the phone had been a distinct one. And the accent, definitely Australian.
The next day, Maggie pushed the threatening phone call to the furthest recesses of her mind. She was determined to let nothing spoil her visit with Danielle.
Danielle dressed provincially as if clothing were of no use or interest to her. Maggie knew she had her hobbies—baking, quilting and gardening—but she had always been shy and happy to let her first husband think and speak for the both of them. As Maggie learned from Laurent, Jean-Luc would not allow his beloved to follow him blindly and he sought her counsel and opinion on every subject from when the grapes were ready to harvest to which socks he should wear with his workman’s jumpsuit. Maggie heard that Danielle had taken to this new way of interacting with a husband as if she had been waiting to do it all her life.
Their day was a welcome respite from the sadness and wall-to-wall busyness of Maggie’s days in Paris up to now of cataloging and packing up Stan’s apartment. The two went across the street to the patisserie for a leisurely late breakfast before taking the metro downtown to shop at Galleries Lafayette where they also lunched. It was the first touristy, just-plain-fun day that Maggie had had in over a year and she discovered that she badly needed it. She also discovered that Danielle was a sensible, intuitive woman with a slightly naughty sense of humor. Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much.
After they had trudged home to the apartment, dropped off their purchases and bathed and dressed for dinner, they walked along the Quai de St Michel until they came upon a restaurant that Maggie had heard about. It was a classic snapshot of Old Paris. Maggie was delighted to discover the restaurant a mere half a dozen blocks from her apartment.
“It’s like that brasserie in Midnight in Paris,” Maggie said. “You know the one? Where Hemingway and all of them go to?”
“I have not seen the movie,” Danielle said.
“Oh, it’s 1920’s Paris,” Maggie said, looking around at the interior of the restaurant, its ancient exposed beams in the ceiling, the beveled mirrors studding the walls and reflecting back the flickering wall sconces at each table. “A magical time,” she said. “Like when Hemingway lived here. Paris is the perfect place for a writer.”
“You were a writer before you came to France?”
“Well, sort of,” Maggie said. “I wrote advertising.”
“So you are thinking of becoming a writer in Paris? Even though your husband lives three hundred miles south? A place is more important to you than your love?”
“Whoa, Danielle, slow down,” Maggie said. “What Laurent does—his cooking—he can do anywhere. For me, that’s not the case. My foreign language skills aren’t good enough to find work outside my own country.”
“Your French is much improved,” Danielle said. “Jean-Luc and I were commenting on it just the other day.”
“Well, thank you, but it’s not so much improved that I could find a job in this country short of picking grapes. I need to work, Danielle.”
“And Paris can give you that? What about the language problem here?”
“Paris has a huge ex-pat community,” Maggie said. “If there was a chance anywhere in this country where I might fit in, it’d be here.”
“But cherie,” Danielle said patiently, “what is the point of living in Paris when Laurent is in St-Buvard? Why not just divorce him and move back to your own country where there is no problem at all?”
“No problem except I’d be living without Laurent.”
“You will do that in Paris.” Danielle leaned across the table and gave Maggie’s hand a squeeze. “I do not mean to offend.”
“I know you care about both me and Laurent, Danielle. So you can’t offend me. Say what you think.”
“For me, expecting to have everything I want is not a concept I have ever felt I had the luxury to indulge.”
“I sound spoiled to you.”
“You sound American. But the thing you will spoil forever is rare and hard to find in any country. To see you throw it away because it’s not perfect makes me sad.”
“I don’t intend to throw it away.”
“Maybe not but that will be the end result. You know your husband. Your actions will force him to act.”
The meal was everything the perfect Parisian meal in a 1920’s brasserie should be, Maggie thought, stifling a groan at how much she had eaten. How did the concept of heavy starters work with a fashionable French woman’s quest to remain a size two? she wondered. When she was single in Atlanta, she had often eaten only fruit for breakfast, yoghurt for lunch and a glass of wine with her fat-free grilled chicken salad. Laurent’s look of horror when she related this to him convinced her that he would rather see her fat than repeat the culinary habit of the single girl. If that was the case, she thought, tonight he would be very proud of me. They started with a bottle of Côtes-du-Rhone. Maggie noticed the St.Laurent Chateauneuf-du-Pape on the menu and it made her sad for a moment. She and Laurent had shared a personal joke about that wine on more than one occasion.
Tonight, she threw dietary caution to the wind and then took a stick and beat the tar out of it as she and Danielle both murdered a Lyonnaise each, with crisp greens and pancetta topped with poached eggs—runny and deliciously dangerous like the French do—before moving on to their main courses. Maggie had the “Américaine” Bouillabaisse although she couldn’t help but compare it to Laurent’s which had upon occasion nearly made her weep with pleasure, and Danielle had a Black Angus prime filet. Maggie always marveled how the French could take something so basic as a perfect cut of steak—and make it even better. Danielle ate her steak with roasted fingerling potatoes and wild mushrooms and the two ended their meals with a shared lemon grass crème brûlée and high-octane coffees.
When they left the restaurant, they left arm in arm, well-warmed by their conversation, the wine, the wonderful food and the lovely day they had spent together. And it was because Maggie was so contented and happy that she paid no attention to the other diners coming and going or the pedestrians surging along the busy sidewalk in front of the restaurant. She was anticipating a chilly but invigorating walk back to the apartment which she counted on to keep her at least nominally awake in the aftermath of the heavy meal and the busy day.
So she, literally, never saw it coming.
When Danielle hesitated in the middle of crossing the street, Maggie looked at her friend questioningly.
“I think I left my wallet on the table,” Danielle said, turning back toward the restaurant. Maggie, feeling relaxed and slow in her movements, had no doubt that the wallet would still be there and so felt no need to hurry. She watched Danielle walk quickly back to the sidewalk and toward the entrance of the restaurant. Maggie was still standing in the middle of the street, when Danielle turned to her and screamed.
“Maggie! Look out!”
Maggie felt her own terror reflected in Danielle’s face as she heard the sound of the car gunning toward her. Not taking the time to look to see which direction it was coming from, she launched herself onto the nearest parked car, leaving her purse and one shoe behind her in the street. The noise of the oncoming car was unbearably loud as she scrambled up onto the hood of the parked car, gashing her knee against its hood ornament in the process. The sound of metal smashing into metal coincided with the terrible jolt that flung her from her perch onto the other side of the sidewalk when the speeding car rammed the parked car. In the back of her mind, she could hear Danielle screaming over the sounds of the roaring car. Her hands scraping on the sidewalk and her knee in agony, Maggie scrambled to her feet in time to see the car’s taillights careen the wrong way down the narrow one-way street.
Danielle
was at her side within moments.
“Maggie!” She stood next to Maggie, panting. “You were nearly killed!”
Maggie was still staring after the retreating car although it had vanished from sight. She turned to Danielle and put a hand out to her. She could see she was shaking. Danielle took her hand.
“How did you happen to see it?” Maggie asked.
“I must have put my wallet in my coat pocket instead of my purse,” Danielle said. “When I realized I had it, I turned back and that’s when I saw the car…it was heading right for you.”
Maggie limped to the front of the parked car to inspect the damage. It was significant.
“Do you think it was some drunk?” she asked.
Danielle shook her head. “I…I don’t know,” she said. “Watching it happen…something about it felt…deliberate.”
Maggie looked at Danielle, and Denny Davenport’s ugly words returned to her. She felt suddenly very cold, the pleasure of the evening gone.
Danielle went to collect Maggie’s shoe and purse from the middle of the road and Maggie found herself looking again in the direction that the car had gone.
The car that looked amazingly like the one that Jeremy drove.
Chapter Nine
Somehow, they salvaged the evening. Once in fluffy bathrobes, both of them, and Maggie’s knee bandaged, they curled up together on the couch and sipped peppermint tea. Maggie did everything she could to steer the conversation away from what had happened that night. Because Danielle could see Maggie was trying so hard to pretend it didn’t happen, she spoke only of the parts of the day that had been so pleasant. When they finally parted to their separate bedrooms, Danielle knew that she had made a dear friend out of a neighbor and an acquaintance. It was a gift to be able to add to one’s roster of friends at this age, she thought to herself as she readied for bed. And she had the wisdom of her sweet husband—and his obvious caring for Laurent—to thank for it. She prayed she could help open Maggie’s heart to help her see her way to the other side of this treacherous game she was playing with Laurent.
The next morning, Maggie accompanied Danielle to the Gare de Lyon to await her train to the station in Arles where Jean-Luc would be waiting to bring her home to St-Buvard.
“I appreciate Jean-Luc letting you off the leash long enough to come see me,” Maggie said as she sat next to Danielle on the platform.
“It was his idea,” Danielle said.
“Really? I’m shocked.”
“He loves Laurent,” Danielle said, shrugging. “He wants him to be happy.”
“Did he hope you would talk sense into me?”
Danielle laughed. “Perhaps,” she said. “But, honestly, he believes that Laurent should throw you over his shoulder and bring you back to St-Buvard.” Danielle laughed.
“Laurent is not like that,” Maggie said.
“No, of course not,” Danielle said. “My husband is from a different generation.”
“I don’t suppose I could ask you not to mention the incident last night to Laurent?”
“With the car? I’m sorry, Maggie. If it were for any other reason than your safety, I would do so happily. But he would consider it unforgivable for me not to tell him. And he would be right.”
“Okay. It’s just that it will only confirm to him that I shouldn’t be here.”
“What will it take to confirm it to you?”
“Danielle, you have to believe me when I tell you I love Laurent and I don’t want to lose him.”
“I believe you are in danger of doing exactly that.”
“God! Why does it have to be so hard?”
Danielle picked up her valise and stood next to Maggie.
“Life is hard, cherie,” she said, “which is why we need a good man beside us as we forge ahead.” She kissed Maggie briefly on both cheeks. “I know you will find your way.”
Clearly, Danielle didn’t even wait until she was back in St-Buvard since Maggie’s cell rang as she stepped back into her apartment after taking her friend to the train station.
“I can’t believe she called you from the train,” Maggie said. “It’s not that big a deal, Laurent. Really.”
“Someone obviously thinks your uncle revealed the name of his killer to you before he died.”
“Jimbo?”
“If that is, in fact, what he said.”
“That’s crazy. Do I act like I know who killed Stan?”
“Perhaps they fear you will put two and four together?”
Maggie was silent for a moment. It was true. If Stan had revealed the identity of his killer to her, she was in danger—in spite of the fact she had not yet figured out who that person was.
“I guess it’s possible they might try again,” she said slowly.
“Why are you doing this?” Laurent said. Maggie could hear the anguish in his voice.
And things had been going so well up to this point.
“I think I am getting close,” she said.
“And so, obviously, does the killer,” he said.
“Would you let my killer get away with murder? Would you let him go on eating profiteroles and enjoying life if you knew who it was?”
“You don’t know who it is.”
“I have confidence that I will. Look, Laurent, the day you start trusting the police to handle anything beyond taking bribes and fixing parking tickets is the day I start to cook four-course meals. Okay?”
Was that grunt she heard a muffled chuckle? Is it possible, he was unbending from his position just a little?
“I knew you would end up getting hurt,” he said, rerouting the conversation back to the original line of attack.
“I didn’t get hurt.”
“This time.”
So much for the hope that they were moving forward.
The following week, Maggie went out every night with Bijou. They went to the dance clubs, the bars, and all the late night bistros on the Left Bank. Maggie began to fancy herself part of a modern day Hemingway crowd. At the same time, Ted and she talked for hours about the manuscript he was working on
She had to remind herself that what she was doing—while it didn’t feel like investigative work—was at least as important as asking questions and tracking down clues. Going undercover to become a part of this group, to gain their trust—in so far as that was possible—was going to be more useful to her and finding answers than lining people up and firing questions at them.
One evening after she had begged off going to the clubs with Bijou, Maggie made herself a simple cheese omelet, poured herself a glass of Pinot and sat down at Stan’s desk in the living room in front of her laptop. She looked over the notes she had made during the week of bar-hopping with Bijou and Ted and realized that her observations and even direct snatches of dialogue that she remembered and captured were beginning to take a form that she could not have imagined. She read her notes from her computer screen and then printed them out on Stan’s printer. In her excitement, she pushed her dinner plate away with most of the omelet uneaten, and reread her notes from the printer.
As she read, she realized that the week of talking and laughing and drinking and, yes, even flirting, had given her a boots-on-the-ground point of view that she hadn’t anticipated. The notes—virtually useless at this point as far as helping her figure out who might be guilty or not—were invaluable as a testimony to the kind of life Maggie preferred. She was able to see—almost as an objective third party—that the life she was experiencing here in Paris was one that suited her. She was able to see that a veil of depression had lifted—at least a corner of it—on her world view and the kind of life she was trying on for size here in Paris with Stan’s friends—was one that resonated with her and the kind of person she was. Deliberately shutting out any thoughts of what this might mean for her life with Laurent, Maggie focused on what her notes revealed about her life in this one week.
Suddenly, she saw that the notes also revealed something else.
Maggie g
ot up from the desk and walked to the balcony window that faced Notre Dame Cathedral. She held her notes in her hands as she gazed out at the ancient church, half shrouded in the night’s darkness and fog. She glanced down at what she’d written and realized that the way she had written her notes made the content read like a novel. She hadn’t been aware that she was writing it like that, but when she looked at it closely, she could see the bones of a fictionalized mystery, complete with tension and character studies and a plot. As she turned to look back at the great Cathedral, she felt an overwhelming thrill vibrate through her at what she seemed to be creating that she had literally not felt since the day she had taken her first advertising copywriting job almost ten years ago.
As she stared out over her little piece of Paris, she felt such exquisite happiness and purpose that tears of joy filled in her eyes.
She was a writer. And she was finally writing.
Laurent sat in his car outside the café in St-Buvard. He had had one pastis in the café-bar before leaving the company of his friends—the other vignerons of the area whom normally he enjoyed so much—and felt a restlessness course through him that was unusual for him. He didn’t want to drink. He didn’t want to talk with his friends or to discuss the harvest or evaluate this year’s grapes. He didn’t want to go home to the empty house, either. And so he sat in the car, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, and forcing himself not to think of her. It had begun to rain while he was in the café and continued now in a cold downward sheet. Since he wasn’t driving, he didn’t bother activating his windshield wipers but sat in the car and tried to see where he was going—where he and Maggie were going—through the opaque wall of rain in front of him and his own unnamed agitation.
As he stared into the gloom, he saw a shape take form from what looked like a pile of garbage humped on the sidewalk forty yards in front of him. Squinting against the rain, he flicked on the windshield wipers to see the shape morph into the wet and bedraggled form of a young woman staggering under the burden of a large backpack. He frowned and watched her. St-Buvard was nowhere near any likely hiking or backpacking trail. And with the harvest now two weeks over everywhere in Provence, transient pickers were long gone. He watched her stamp her feet as if that would somehow aid in removing the water from her clothes. She wore no hat and Laurent could see the rain had flattened her short dark hair in a stringy mass so that it was plastered to her head. She wore a leather jacket that seemed to provide little protection from the weather. Without thinking, he flipped on his high beams and the figure was illuminated in front of him. She turned to look in his direction and he flipped the headlights on and off. Without hesitation, she turned and walked toward him.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 94