He watched her throw the remains of her baguette to the birds and then seat herself on the only available bench behind Notre Dame. He felt fairly certain she couldn’t see him from this distance. Even if she could, he noticed she rarely looked up at her surroundings unless it was to stare off into space before snapping her attention back to her cellphone. Was she texting someone? Making notes about something? Not in a million years would he have expected old Stan to have had such a luscious niece. Ted leaned against the stone wingwall of the Pont de l'Archeveche and twisted his muffler tightly around his neck. He was pretty sure he was unidentifiable but having her catch him following her twice in as many days would not help his plans any. A sour expression flitted across his face as he thought of Stan. While he could never sustain the whole father-I-never-had scenario back in California where people actually knew his relationship with Stan, it was still difficult to maintain it here in the face of his own constantly churning stomach at the misdirection. He didn’t like starting things off with Maggie on a foundation of false assumptions or hell, let’s be honest, outright lies. Yeah, Stan, he thought with disgust. Old pal, old buddy. Go ahead and turn everything we all ever knew about you into a big ass lie. God forbid you could just die and take your secrets with you.
She was moving now and Ted slid silently away from the railing of the bridge. Would Stan have approved? Not likely, he decided as he let Maggie put a few more yards between them before he stepped out of the shadows after her. But if Stan had ever done anything right, Ted thought, tucking his chin to further obscure his identity as he hurried down the bridge and watched her turn onto the Quai de Montebello, it was to bring this most amazing woman into Ted’s life. And for that, Ted thought with a sudden realization that lit up his face and lifted his heart, he figured he could forgive the old bastard just about anything.
Maggie stacked the printed out pages of her manuscript and set them on the coffee table. It was the day after she had discovered she was writing a novel without knowing it, and she had spent most of the day and part of the evening outlining and revising her prose. When the apartment phone rang, she was so distracted by the thought of the characters she was developing in the manuscript, she failed for the first time to hold her breath and hope it would be Laurent.
“Hey, Sherlock, feel like taking a break?”
Maggie held the phone against her chin as she moved out of the kitchen into her living room. “Ted, you are not going to believe what’s happened. I can hardly believe it myself.”
“Something’s happened?”
“Well, I was writing out possible scenarios, you know, about this whole Stan thing? And I guess I got the texture and sounds and feeling of Paris in the notes or something but when I read back over what I’d written—“
“—you’d started writing a novel,” Ted finished.
“Yes! I can’t wait to show it to you. It’s only a chapter but I was up half the night writing it.”
“That’s amazing, Maggie,” Ted said. “I can’t wait to read it. You’ve never written fiction before?”
“No, never,” she said. “It’s about Paris Fashion week.”
“Of course. And it’s a mystery?”
“Yep, since that’s what I seem to be in the middle of, you know?”
“How about I come over and read your first chapter? I can bring take out.”
Maggie glanced at the clock on Stan’s desk. She was dying to have him read what she’d written.
“I’m tempted,” she said. “But I haven’t showered all day…”
“I don’t mind.”
She laughed. “But I do. Let’s meet up tomorrow night, okay?” Maggie could hear Ted talking with someone on his end. “Ted?”
“Oh, it’s only Bijou. She’s upset you won’t meet us at Le Bal tonight. Ignore her. Get your work done tonight. I’ll prepare to be thrilled and amazed tomorrow night when I see your stuff. Really proud of you, Maggie.”
“Thanks, Ted. Tell Bijou we’ll do it tomorrow for sure.”
“Will do, meanwhile, don’t forget to get some sleep. The opus or work-in-progress can be a demanding mistress, trust me, I know.”
Maggie laughed. “Tomorrow,” she said. “At Le Bal.”
“You got it.”
Maggie hung up the phone and then turned and looked at her cellphone lying on the coffee table. It had been four days since she’d spoken to Laurent. Overcoming her pride, she had tried calling him twice, yesterday and today. Both calls had gone straight to voice mail.
Fine, she thought as she got up and took her teacup into the kitchen. If he wants to play it that way. That’s just fine.
She washed out her supper dishes, rinsed her cup and placed it in the dish drainer. She snapped off the kitchen light and went to stand in front of the front window again to look out at Notre Dame. It was lighted up against a backdrop of inky blackness. It occurred to Maggie that—unlike every other time she had stood gazing in rapture at the magnificent church—tonight it looked kind of creepy.
At a quiet café two blocks away, Jeremy sat alone at a corner table, a glass of scotch in front of him and his cellphone next to it. His eyes darted around the darkened interior of the restaurant. He wet his lips and fidgeted with the paper napkin under his drink. As cool as it was inside the café he was annoyed to discover that he was actually sweating as he sat and waited.
When his phone began to vibrate, he thought he might, too. He grabbed it up and glanced at the screen before clapping it to his ear.
“Well?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“I thought I’d wait,” the voice said. “It’s too soon.”
“It’s not too soon,” Jeremy said, a tightness beginning in his chest. He could feel the perspiration dribbling down his back underneath his silk shirt and ten-ply cashmere sweater. “It’s exactly the right time.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’ve arranged for her to go out with Bijou and Ted, I told you,” Jeremy whispered loudly, glancing around at the other café patrons. “She’ll be gone for hours.”
“Did you see her leave?”
“I don’t need to see her leave, you imbecile!” Jeremy wiped his damp palms against the worn tablecloth under his drink and then clutched his free hand in a fist. “I’m not staking out her goddamn flat. She’s out, I tell you. Do it now.” He jabbed at the button to disconnect and dropped the phone on the table next to his drink, ending the conversation and ending further argument. Would he go? Would it be done by this time tomorrow? Would this nightmare finally be over?
Jeremy picked up his drink, noticing how the ice rattled gently in his shaking hand, and drank it down in one gulp. The sensation burnt all the way down bringing tears to his eyes. Just as well, he thought miserably, dabbing at his eyes with the shredded napkin. Just as fucking well.
Laurent slid the omelet from the pan onto a dish and set it before the young woman. She was not unattractive, he thought, even after weeks of wandering the back roads of France, sleeping in ditches and hostels, eating whatever came her way. Her short hair seemed to magnify her big brown eyes which were heavily fringed with lashes. Laurent had always loved the gamin look on a woman. It made him feel protective. Maggie wore her hair long and usually twisted into a ponytail or pinned up in some way.
“Wow,” she said, pulling the dish toward her on the counter. “Smells awesome. I can’t thank you enough for letting me crash here last night.” She picked up a fork and began eating. “Really saved me,” she said around a mouthful of egg. “I was a drowned rat.”
Laurent set a glass in front of her and poured one of his own wines into it.
“Pas du tout,” he murmured, watching her with curiosity. She was Australian and hitchhiking her way across Europe alone. Even in this day and age, that was unusual for a woman. In response to Laurent’s kindness of a dry bed and a meal the night before, she had eagerly offered up the pleasures of her body and had seemed, if not disappointed, at least surprised when he had refused the offer
.
Laurent couldn’t help but notice how quickly she bolted her food. Did she eat in a hurry all the time, he wondered? Or was she in a particular rush to get back on the road?
“I would be happy to work off my room and board,” she said, taking a long sip from her wine glass.
Laurent shrugged. “I have no work for a girl,” he said.
“I’m stronger than I look,” she said. “I’d prefer to work for my keep rather than just, you know.”
“You wish to stay longer?”
“If that’s not a problem,” she said looking directly into his eyes. “I’ve pretty much been on the move now for weeks. A few days in one spot would be awesome.”
Laurent nodded and turned back to his kitchen.
“D’accord,” he said. “I’ll find something for you to do.”
Maggie woke up feeling as though she’d been shaken by the shoulders. An invasive hum had started somewhere in the background of the dream she was having until she realized she was no longer dreaming. As she sat in her darkened bedroom she ran the sound back through her memory tapes in her head and realized it hadn’t been a hum at all. The noise that woke her had been a single, stealthy creak.
A creak that her apartment had not make on its own.
Fighting an overwhelming urge to bolt from the bed, Maggie forced herself to sit still and listen, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear anything else.
Someone was in the apartment with her.
Chapter Ten
Her mouth was dry and she felt a crawling sensation on her skin as she strained to hear the sound repeat in the hall. Within seconds, she heard it again: the sound of a heavy tread on the uneven boards under the carpeting in the living room.
She looked around her bedroom. Was there anything she could use to defend herself? She grabbed up her cellphone from the bedside table and swung her legs out of bed. Her breathing was coming in rapid pants that she was sure the burglar could hear; it sounded as loud as a roar in her own ears. Not knowing what to do but afraid to wait for the doorknob in her bedroom to turn, Maggie dropped the phone on the bed and grabbed up her curling iron—the only weapon she could find—and silently opened her bedroom door. She saw her hand shake as she opened the door. She moved into the hallway, mindful of which boards creaked. It occurred to her that if she could just make it to the kitchen, she had a wide assortment of weapons to choose from there. The thought gave her strength as she crept silently down the darkened hallway.
As soon as she stood nearly in the opening to the living room, she saw him. He was tall and dressed totally in black. He was standing in front of her desk. She measured her path to the kitchen: just four steps to her left. Then without realizing she had made the decision to act, she burst from the hallway and ran for it. She sensed rather than saw him pivot sharply in her direction. The knives were kept in a wooden block holder on the counter and her fingers quickly wrapped around the largest chef’s knife at the top of the holder. Sliding it free, she turned to face him.
She was surprised to see that he wasn’t just dressed in black, he was black. Denny Davenport stood in the middle of her living room with her laptop under his arm. Maggie waved the large knife in front of her.
“You!” she said.
Without a word, Denny twisted around to grab up a table lamp, ripping its cord out of the wall and heaving it in her direction. Maggie screamed and fell back against the refrigerator trying to dodge the lamp. As she caught herself from falling into the broken shards of the ceramic lamp on the floor of the kitchen, she could see him fumbling with the front door handle.
Was he crazy? She’d seen his face! Maggie clutched the knife to her chest, immobilized, as Denny jerked open the front door and disappeared down the hall at a run. She ran to the door to slam it shut behind him. She could see the lock was broken and so impossible to secure. She turned and hurried to her bedroom where she grabbed her cellphone and rang the police.
Why did he want her laptop? As she waited for the French police call center to process her request for a gendarme to come, she walked back into the living room and tried to calm her racing heart. She could see the beginnings of dawn peeking through the mantle of heavy clouds outside the window, revealing the top twin spires of Notre Dame. Turning back to her living room, she noticed the corner of Stan’s laptop just barely visible where she had slid it under the couch. Her stomach did a slow flip as she realized the truth. It wasn’t her laptop Denny had come to get.
“I cannot believe that happened to you!” Bijou popped a large ham-stuffed mushroom cap into her mouth and shook her head. “Incroyable! What did the police say? Have they arrested him?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie said, watching Bijou carefully for any sign that she might have known beforehand about the break-in attempt. “They’re not really keeping me informed.”
She sat with Bijou, Ted and Jeremy in the large corner table at Le Bal. She had asked Ted to extend the invitation to Diane too, if she was in Paris, which nobody seemed to know for sure. So far there was no sign of her. After last night’s break-in, Maggie had decided to stop playing like she was a part of this crowd with their thinly veiled secrets and fashion entrenched code words and start dealing with them like they were all suspects. In her mind, she suddenly realized, they all were.
“So he took the wrong laptop,” Ted said. “He got the one with your story on it?”
Maggie looked at him with surprise and then grinned. “I had it on a jump drive,” she said. “I brought it.”
Ted laughed and toasted her with his wine glass. “Now you’re starting to act like a writer,” he said. “Recognizing what’s really important. May I presume to see it?”
Maggie dug it out of her purse and handed it to him. “Be honest,” she said.
“Brutally,” he responded, tucking the key into his top shirt pocket. “And will guard it with my life.”
“Yeah, that too,” she said, grinning. “It’s my only copy until I can get my laptop back or pick up another one.”
“Unbelievable,” Jeremy murmured. “He looked right at you and didn’t care that you recognized him?”
Maggie nodded. “Yeah, I thought that was strange too,” she said. “But then I started to think: what else was he going to do? Kill me? Running was really his only option.”
“Unless he is the murderer,” Jeremy said.
“I thought you didn’t believe Stan was murdered,” Maggie said.
“I have to say, I really don’t know what to believe anymore,” Jeremy said quietly.
“Well, I’m not sure whether I can tie Denny’s trying to steal Stan’s laptop as a motive for him killing Stan,” Maggie said. “Didn’t we all agree that Denny came to the party late and left early?”
“He still doesn’t have an alibi for the time of Stan’s…you know,” Ted said.
“Well, it’s certainly fishy,” Maggie said. “If the cops don’t arrest him, I’m going to go talk with him.”
The table erupted in noise and dissention. “No! You can’t!” “That would be crazy!” “He’s dangereux!” Maggie shook her head and waited them out.
“I am going to talk to him,” she said firmly. “He doesn’t appear violent—”
“You said he threw a lamp at you!” Ted said in exasperation. Maggie felt a wave of familiarity when he said something so much like Laurent might say.
“Well, I choose to believe he was trying to delay me, not nail me,” she said.
“Based on what do you believe that?” Jeremy said. “The man is an animal and capable of anything.”
“Speaking of the night of the party,” Maggie said, turning to face Jeremy. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you and I never seem to get a moment alone with you.”
“Ask away,” Jeremy said, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and patting his vest for matches.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Maggie said. “What’s the matter with you people? You know you can’t smoke in restaurants any more
.”
“Your question?” Jeremy said, removing his cigarette and taking a sip of his Scotch instead.
“Why did you tell me that Stan was going home with someone as the reason he didn’t say goodbye to me?”
The table became very quiet as Ted and Bijou both turned to look at Jeremy as one.
“You said that?” Ted said. “You told Maggie that Stan was leaving with someone else?”
“I know what I said, Ted,” Jeremy hissed. “We don’t need a reenactment, thank you. Although if anybody could ham it up enough to dramatize it, I’m sure we could look to you for that.”
Ted flushed a dark red but said nothing.
“I’m waiting, Jeremy,” Maggie said.
“Look,” Jeremy said to the whole table. “It’s very simple. Stan and I had words at the party—actually about a certain someone he was very interested in—way too interested in for my comfort level if I can be honest—and…and I am not proud to admit it but I was just petty enough to take some comfort…some enjoyment, really…out of giving you wrong information. I knew it would upset him…must I go on? I feel as bad as I can feel about that particular ruse, bred from my own bad temper—”
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 95