The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  There was a moment’s silence on the line.

  “Bijou?”

  “I am here,” Bijou said tiredly. “I did not think it could be so easy.”

  “I don’t really know,” Maggie said. “But a tiny bit of digging by the police will probably unclog the info drain on that embezzlement thing you did with Stan and Denny. I’m not saying you should get rid of any evidence that links you to that because that would be wrong, but…”

  “Je comprends, Maggie,” Bijou said. “Thank you.”

  “Goodbye, Bijou,” Maggie said. “Take care.” She disconnected and sat for a minute looking at her phone.

  Jeremy dead and Bijou’s life ruined and Maggie still didn’t know who killed Stan. She looked back toward the Louvre and spotted Diane hurrying toward her, wrenching her drab brown wool coat tight across her chest against the cold wind as she walked. Not for the first time, Maggie found herself wondering if Diane ever read the fashion copy she wrote.

  Diane scattered the birds as she came to a stop in front of Maggie.

  “It’s freezing out here,” Diane said, nodding to Maggie. Her eyes looked as if she had been crying and her cheeks were red from the cold. “Can we move it inside?”

  Café Marly overlooked the pyramid at the Louvre. The décor inside was typical of the kind of homespun Parisian brasseries that Maggie preferred. Silver candelabras were set on white starched tablecloths and patrons sat nearly elbow to elbow at long dining tables. Since Maggie had already eaten, she ordered a blueberry tart and coffee. Diane sat in front of a large wedge of quiche with a rocket lettuce salad.

  Once out of her coat, Diane pulled her drab brown hair out of its clip and let soft curls bounce against her shoulder. Maggie noted with surprise that Diane’s black knit dress, although plain, had a simple style that was pleasing. Diane dug in her purse and extricated a packet of par avion stamped envelopes secured with a large rubber band.

  “They’re old,” she explained, pushing the packet across the table to Maggie. “We corresponded by email for the last ten years. But the years that you will be interested in are in there.”

  “I don’t need to see them,” Maggie protested. “My father said there wasn’t a question of paternity.”

  “I guess I just wanted to clear up any notion that my son’s father and I weren’t a deeply committed, loving pair.” She grimaced and emptied a sugar packet into her coffee. “I don’t say couple, because of course we weren’t that. We couldn’t be because of Stan.”

  “But you loved him.”

  “And he loved me, too. Just not in the way I would’ve preferred.”

  “Why did you keep your son a secret from us?”

  “Stan’s preference.” Diane shrugged. “I figured his family had an issue with him being gay.”

  “We didn’t,” Maggie said emphatically.

  “In that case, I don’t know,” Diane said. “Possibly to protect John somehow. It’s pretty much why we did everything.”

  “Is that why you changed his name to Newton?”

  Diane nodded. “Stan wanted at least a piece of his name for John.”

  “My dad said originally Stan left everything to you.” Maggie skirted around the fact that she had found the original will.

  “I asked him to change it,” Diane said simply as she sliced into her quiche. “I didn’t want him doing it out of guilt for me or something. It needed it to be about John.”

  “Wow,” Maggie said softly. “You’re really something, Diane. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you better before now. I can see why Stan loved you.”

  “I suppose he did, in his way,” Diane said. She smiled but her eyes were sad. “There are a few things at the apartment that I would like to have of Stan’s. Nothing valuable except for what they mean to me.”

  “Of course.” Maggie sipped her coffee and surprised herself by feeling a kinship with this woman, from whom before today she had felt nothing but animosity. “Tell me something about John,” she said. “Does he look at all like Stan?”

  Diane’s face lit up as she pulled her billfold out of her purse and handed Maggie a small photograph.

  “He’s a sophomore in high school,” she said, “so that photo is a little more formal-looking than how he normally is.” She beamed as she pointed to the picture. “He’s very much into sports—as I believe Stan was at that age—and he’s extremely bright.”

  “He’s handsome,” Maggie said. She looked at the photo and could have been looking at a picture of her own father forty years earlier. The boy had long brown hair and deep-set blue eyes—just like all his Newberry relations. His nose was straight and his grin lopsided. Just looking at the photo made Maggie feel like she was getting a little piece of Stan back again. “There’s a strong family resemblance,” she said. “You must be so proud of him.”

  Diane nodded without speaking as she took the photo back. Maggie saw the love that Diane felt for the boy in the way she looked at the picture one last time before putting it away. For a moment, Maggie half expected her to kiss it.

  “So you’re okay with him getting to know the rest of us?”

  “I have no family, myself,” Diane said. “As a result I’ve raised John with no aunts, no uncles, no grandparents, no cousins.”

  “I’m his cousin,” Maggie said.

  Diane reached over and put her hand on top of Maggie’s on the table. “I would love for him to get to know you—all of you,” she said. “I know he wants that, too.”

  “What about you?”

  Diane frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you up for joining the Newberry family too? The fact is, we’re a big believer in package deals.”

  Diane put down her fork and turned to rummage in her purse once more before answering. She pulled out a large handkerchief and turned to Maggie, blinking back the tears that filled her large brown eyes. “I would like nothing more,” she said.

  Laurent stood for a moment on the stone slab porch of his house. He reflected without irony that this was the very porch where the young English family had been murdered right after the war. It was a story that Maggie loved to tell, embellished only a little and retold with much panache and drama, particularly since she finally revealed the sixty-year old story of the family’s murder.

  Four years ago he and Maggie had left Atlanta and moved to this village. Four years ago he had promised her he would make her happy and that living in this Provençal village would allow him to keep his promise to her. He turned and carried the heavy suitcases to the Renault and settled them in the trunk. He slammed the lid shut and looked at his mas. It was tall and proud, like the mysterious uncle who had left it to him four years ago. When the inheritance had first come through, he and Maggie had left their new life in Atlanta to come to this tiny village of St-Buvard with the intent to prepare the old mas to be sold. Along the way, he had faltered in his promise to return with her to her homeland. He knew she wasn’t happy and yet he had hoped it could be. That it might somehow be.

  From the first moment he had stood at this very spot—on land that was his own—he knew he belonged to it. He knew that all the ugliness and the lies, all the feints and the crimes he had committed to get himself to this point in time had been forgiven. For how could God reward him so sweetly if that were not so? He had Maggie—the surprise above and beyond them all—and he had Domaine St-Buvard.

  He knew Suzie was getting impatient. But he couldn’t help the temptation to memorize every rock, every stone, every curling vine of ivy as it vaulted the fieldstone walls of the farmhouse. A black wrought-iron railing framed a second-story balcony that jutted out over the front door. The three bedroom windows upstairs were tall and mullioned with peeling blue shutters. He should have painted them. He had told Maggie he would. But the grapes had demanded so much of him.

  Towering Italian cypress and Tatarian dogwood flanked the front door. Hollyhocks, even in November, pushed out of the tangle of bushes lining the driveway, and the stone lion with
one missing ear still guarded the edge of the terrace, its head cocked as if listening.

  “Ready, Laurent?” Suzie called to him.

  The wave of sadness hit him in the stomach first and then emanated upward toward his chest as he turned his gaze from the house to the fields. His fields. Twenty hectares planted with the grape of the region. His grapes.

  “I’m coming,” he said gruffly, shaking his head. He slid into the driver’s seat and gave the Australian a quick, blank smile, then started the car. With much effort, he was able to drive away without looking back.

  After Diane left, Maggie walked slowly down the Boulevard des Capucines and stared at the restaurant across the street. A part of her brain knew she was coming here as her feet moved her to this spot. She stared at the famous restaurant and remembered the evening five years ago when she had travelled alone to Paris and had discovered what she believed was the ultimate betrayal by the man she loved.

  Laurent. It was at this restaurant that she had learned the truth. The good and the bad. But the truth. And from that day forward nothing had ever been the same for her, for Laurent, or for her family. She watched the people scurry in and out of the Café de la Paix and remembered hearing that if you sat there long enough, the whole world would eventually pass by. She sighed, remembering herself five years younger and carrying all her doubts about the mysterious man she would eventually marry. And she had to say, today, that those had been the happiest five years of her life.

  Turning her back on the restaurant and her memories, Maggie entered a small nondescript café on the boulevard des Capucines and, after finding a table and a coffee, settled herself in and pressed Grace’s number on her cellphone. They had prearranged via texts the time for a brief call. Maggie couldn’t believe how regimented and scheduled Grace’s life had become now that both girls were in school. She seemed to have even less time than when they were home and underfoot. And she constantly talked about longing for summer when school was out. Maggie couldn’t understand at all.

  “Hi, darling, right on schedule. I’m in a carpool waiting for Taylor’s grade to emerge. Where are you?”

  “I am sitting across from the Café de la Paix,” Maggie said. “Eating a macaron and sipping an espresso.”

  “I officially hate you.”

  Maggie heard a honking in the background from Grace’s end.

  “These tennis moms are unbelievable,” Grace muttered. “They drive their gargantuan SUVs so they can use them as battering rams to cut in front of you. But enough about my world. I see you are alive. Thanks for calling me after the dinner party.”

  “Sorry,” Maggie said. “I forgot. No dramatics. I survived as you can see.”

  “Well? Did anything happen?”

  “Oh, yeah, you know Jeremy? The one who I was sure killed Stan? He got killed that night.”

  Grace gasped. “At your dinner party?!”

  “No, Grace, no,” Maggie said patiently. “He was a no-show. He was murdered on the way to my apartment.”

  “Is that a coincidence?”

  “Well, turns out I wasn’t the only one who thought he did it. Only instead of throwing a lame dinner party to extract the confession from the guilty party, Bijou just hired a hit man and had him killed.”

  “She did not.”

  “She surely did. And told me everything.”

  “So now does she need to kill you to keep your silence?”

  “No, I think she’s done now.”

  “Unbelievable. I am shocked beyond shock.”

  Maggie heard another horn honking, this one much closer.

  “Please, move that ancient Lexus before I run up over your big-ass back bumper,” Grace called out sweetly.

  “Jeeze, Grace. From this distance, car pool sounds kind of like Call of Duty Black Ops IV.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Grace said. “Except we’re not allowed to use bayonets on school property. So does that wrap everything up nicely? Jeremy did it, Jeremy is iced?”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “I wanted a confession,” Maggie said. “I wasn’t all that sure it was him. I needed to hear him say so in his own words.”

  “Ahhhh. So how’s Laurent these days?”

  “Wow, I just got whiplash with that subject change, Grace.”

  “Which doesn’t alter my question. How you two doing?”

  “You know he’s in St-Buvard and I’m in Paris, right?”

  “I do. Is there a problem? Win and I can handle being apart for days at a time before thinking about filing for divorce.”

  “There may be a problem.”

  “Spill thy guts, darling.”

  “He seems to have taken a girlfriend while I’ve been up here.”

  Maggie heard Grace suck in a quick gulp of breath.

  “I do not believe it,” Grace said.

  “Well, a woman answered his phone—”

  “The cleaning lady, probably.”

  “We don’t have a cleaning lady. And when I talked to Danielle she was all nervous and wanting to get off the phone with me when I asked about Laurent.”

  “She may not know the truth of the situation. It might look that way to her,” Grace said, “but I know for a fact that it isn’t.”

  “Really, Grace? For a fact?”

  “Yes, darling, for a fact. Because I know your great big gorgeous hunk of a husband and I know he would never do that.”

  “I wish I knew it.”

  “I wish you did, too. You should know it.”

  “He won’t answer or return my calls.”

  “Hmmm, I don’t like that. He must be a little cranky.”

  “Cranky? Grace, he’s fed up with me. He’s had enough.”

  Maggie could hear the sounds of children laughing and screaming as if a dam of kindergartners had burst and were surrounding Grace’s vehicle.

  “Well, I have to say no one could blame him,” Grace said. “And you know I adore you, darling, but you are a relentless pain in the ass. However, Laurent knew what was in store, trust me. And I can guarantee you he has not had enough. Having said that, it would be lovely if you could quit testing just how much the poor man can take.”

  “Oh, Grace, I’m such an idiot.”

  “I know, sweetie, but the good news is you don’t have to continue on in this way.”

  “You don’t think it’s too late?” Maggie heard a car door slam and Taylor’s high-pitched whine filled the car and wheedled its way across the Atlantic and into her ear.

  “It’s only too late, darling,” Grace said, tiredly, “if you decide not to use some form of birth control. Otherwise, there’s always a brighter day awaiting you. Taylor, shut up, sit down and put your goddamn seatbelt on! Gotta go, Maggie. Do me a favor, drink a macchiato for me, would you? God, I hate you.”

  Ted gave her a kiss on the cheek and handed her the bottle of Pinot Noir.

  “It’s the one you said you liked so much last time,” he said. “Wow. You look gorgeous tonight, my girl!” He gave her an overly dramatic once over and even took her hand to half-twirl her in order to see her from every angle.

  “It’s just my drinking wine and writer’s group outfit,” Maggie said laughing. “You should see me dressed for a work out.”

  “I have every intention of doing exactly that,” Ted said. He clapped his hands together as if ready to dive right into the work. “But meanwhile, are you ready to have a crack editor rip through your prose and put you back on the right track, plot-wise?”

  “Oh, is somebody else coming tonight?”

  “Oh, you are a funny naughty little thing, Madame Dernier. Careful, I spank when provoked.” He gave her his best raised eyebrow look and crooked grin that he happened to know for a fact was extremely effective with the ladies. Whether or not it was with Maggie was hard to tell since she reddened and turned to retreat into the kitchen with the wine bottle.

  “I’ll get the cheese and crackers,” she called over her sh
oulder. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “As usual,” he said, then turned to the living room where he immediately spotted Stan’s laptop on the table. “Mind if I take a look at Stan’s computer?” he said as he sat down at the table in front of it.

  She didn’t answer but appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, looking at him as if she were unsure what to say.

  Good God almighty, Ted thought, was she really not sure? How long was it going to take to get her to trust him?

  “Look, I’m cool with it if you’d rather not,” he said, hoping his face didn’t show his hurt.

  “No, I’m sorry. Of course, look at it. I don’t think the computer has any secrets to give up but if it does, I’m happy to share them with you.”

  “You sound really down tonight, Maggie. Want to go out instead? You know, hear some music? Be around people?”

  Maggie shook her head and nodded at the laptop, giving approval. When she did Ted felt a rush of affection for her. She’s vulnerable, she’s scared. What she needs right now is a friend, not one more person trying to get in her pants. He scolded himself and then grinned ruefully. If I can just be patient…

  He opened the laptop and typed in the password while Maggie went into the kitchen. As soon as she disappeared, Ted reached into the leather mailbag he usually carried and drew out a carefully wrapped long-stemmed rose. It held its own little vial of water to stay fresh. He had toyed with the idea of putting it in a vase by her bedside but the more he thought of it—and he had thought of little else today—the more he liked the idea of laying it on her pillow. Like a promise of what might be.

  Listening for her in the kitchen and pleased to hear she had started to hum, he got up and slipped into her bedroom. He took just a moment to imagine that this is where the magic might happen later tonight, and lay the rose on her pillow. Even if it doesn’t happen tonight, he reasoned, at least I’ll be the last thing she thinks of when she climbs into bed. Satisfied, he poked his head into the hall to make sure she was still in the kitchen and then tiptoed back to the living room.