“Easier said,” Maggie said, straightening her shoulders and taking a deep breath.
When they returned to the table, it became clear that Maggie’s apology would have to wait.
“Where did Haley go?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something about needing to cry herself to sleep,” Ben said sarcastically. “I’m sure she’ll have recovered by tomorrow.”
“I’ll go up and see her,” Maggie said, but Laurent already had a hand on her arm. She glanced at him and he shook his head.
“Yeah,” Ben said. “Please let her get over tonight before you launch into her again.”
“Piss off, Ben,” Maggie said.
“Always with the delicate repartee.” Ben stood and tossed his napkin down onto the table. “I was thinking of a smoke on the terrace. Care to join me, Laurent?”
“You go,” Laurent said. “I’ll come, bientôt.”
Ben shrugged and gave Maggie a half-smile before exiting the room.
Grace let out a long exaggerated breath. “Well, that was tense,” she said. “But fascinating. Whatever possessed you, Maggie to light into Haley?”
“I wasn’t!” Maggie said. “I mean, I didn’t intend to. I thought I was going after Ben.”
“Well, she got good and caught in the crossfire, that’s for sure. You do know she’s trying desperately to get pregnant, right?”
Maggie glanced at Laurent but he was already clearing the table. “I didn’t,” she said. “But I do now. Did she tell you?”
“Mmm-mm,” Grace said, standing with a dish in her hand. “She’s all but given up. So your little you’re not a family unless you have a kid tirade was pretty ill-timed.”
“I feel terrible.”
“You let him push your buttons.”
“I can’t seem to help it.”
“That’s siblings for you.”
Maggie stared through the French doors, where she saw her brother standing on the terrace smoking. “What I want to know,” she said thoughtfully, “is what is he doing trying to chum up to Laurent?”
“Now isn’t that the million-dollar question?”
Maggie joined Grace in the kitchen, where Laurent was running hot water over a sink full of dishes.
“Go,” Maggie said to him. “You cooked it. Let us clean it up.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know you don’t, but only you can find out what my jerk brother is up to.”
“He is up to something,” Laurent said grimly as he dried his hands.
Maggie pulled the towel from him. “Go smoke with him and see what he wants. Do your sneaky, I’m looking at you but you don’t know I am, thing.”
He ran a hand down her back and kissed her mouth before exiting the kitchen without a word. Even in this absent-minded gesture, Maggie could sense his mind was elsewhere.
“He already knew your brother was up to something.”
“No one will ever surprise Laurent,” Maggie said, grinning. “Trust me, I’ve tried. Wash or dry? Oops. Hold that thought.” She pulled her vibrating phone out of her pocket and looked at the screen. “It’s Annie,” she said.
“Go on,” Grace said as she turned the hot water back on in the sink.
“I won’t be long.” Maggie walked toward the living room, grabbing her wine glass from the table as she went.
“Hey, Annie,” she said as she sat down on the couch. “You get home safe and sound?”
“Yes, thank you, Maggie,” Annie said, her voice cracked and heavy with exhaustion. “I wanted to thank you again for everything you did for me. I don’t know how I would have navigated through the necessary channels without you.”
“Well, no need to thank me,” Maggie said. “My French may not be good enough to argue philosophy but it’s just barely good enough for most everything else.”
“I also want to thank you for agreeing to look into Lanie’s death more. Olivier has a lawyer, who told me she would be open to sharing information with you. I gave her your contact information and wanted to make sure you had hers, too.”
“Okay. Sure. Can I ask you, Annie, why you think Olivier might not be guilty? I mean, I know you met him and liked him and all but…”
Maggie heard Annie take in a long ragged breath before answering.
“Well, to be honest,” Annie said, “at first I didn’t believe it because I felt that I had special information that seemed to…prohibit the possibility of him being guilty. I didn’t want to say anything to you before. It just seemed like an invasion of Lanie’s life and I have done such a bad job of protecting her when she was alive.”
“Special information?” What the heck was she talking about?
“The French coroner told me after the autopsy…” Annie broke down in tears and Maggie sat up straight in anticipation. “He…he told me when he gave me Lanie’s…remains something utterly heartbreaking.”
Maggie remembered that Annie was weepier than usual when she waved her off on the airplane, but she assumed it was because everything was coming to an end. Now her mind raced: What could be so heartbreaking after losing your only child?
“Lanie was pregnant.”
There you go.
“Wow, Annie. I am so sorry.”
Annie sniffled loudly. “So, of course, I knew it couldn’t be Olivier. Only a monster would knowingly…” Maggie listened as Annie made an effort to get a grip of her emotions. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. “Olivier agreed to a DNA test. Understandably, his lawyer believed it would be helpful in establishing that he could not have killed Lanie. That he had no motive. His lawyer told me Olivier was eager to take the test, the results of which we got today.”
Oh, don’t tell me…
“The baby wasn’t his.”
Seven
The next morning, Maggie was up early, but still not before Laurent, of course. She found him in the kitchen talking to Jem, who was in his high chair scrutinizing a mashed-up peach.
“I need two coffees,” Maggie said, kissing the baby and then moving to the counter where Laurent had just made a full pot.
“You are expecting a stressful morning, chérie?” Laurent said, smiling as she drew two mugs from the cabinet.
“They’re not both for me. Did you see Haley come through here?”
“She’s in the northeast quadrant of the vineyard.”
“Wow, really? Why, I wonder?” Maggie poured the coffees. “I don’t know how she takes hers.”
“The point is the effort, chérie.”
“Yeah, good. In that case…” Maggie reached for the antique china ewer of cream on the counter and added it to both mugs, along with two spoonfuls of sugar. “Can you get the door?”
Laurent walked her to the French doors and gave her shoulder a light squeeze as she passed through. “Bonne chance,” he said, closing the door behind her.
Maggie stood on the terrace for a moment and squinted into the horizon. The northwest quadrant got the sun first and there was a bench out there, so she figured that was probably why Haley went that way. It was also the furthest point from the house.
Maggie steadied the two coffees and walked gingerly over the uneven ground until she reached the first of several long rows of well-tended aisles of grape vines. To her immediate right on the perimeter was a stand of gnarled olive trees providing nothing useful but a thought to their historical role. They’d probably been fruitful during Laurent’s uncle’s time, but now they weren’t even good for shade.
There was an apple orchard on the far side of the vineyard but it too was not harvested. Maggie had stepped on a snake there the summer before and decided on the spot there was no real need to ever go back.
Laurent’s vineyard was sectioned into fourths, with the main intersection a wide dirt tractor road. Although she rarely came into the vineyard—Laurent’s kingdom and domain—Maggie knew she was nearly to the northwest quadrant when she came to the road. Her foot caught a small root and she spilled coffee onto her hand.
> “Ouch! Dammit!” She stopped and put both coffees down on the ground to wipe off her hand.
“Maggie? Is that you?”
Maggie looked up to see Haley, hidden until this moment, rise from the bench on the other side of the tractor road. Laurent must have moved the bench. She didn’t remember it being so close.
“Yes, it’s me,” Maggie said. “How did you know? The early-morning cussing?”
Haley laughed and walked across the road to meet her. “Pretty much,” she said. Haley was wearing a pair of loose linen slacks and a short-sleeve cotton top. Appearing fresh and unaffected by the hot morning, she looked like she absolutely belonged in the middle of a two-hundred-year-old Provençal vineyard.
Maggie handed her one of the coffees and in the bright morning sun immediately saw the bruise under Haley’s eye. Was that new? Or had it been covered with makeup before?
Why is it you always think the worst when you see a woman with a black eye?
“I am so, so, so sorry about last night, Haley,” Maggie said. “Laurent tells me all the time that I don’t know what I’m saying half the time but last night I really put my foot in it. Please forgive me.”
Haley held the coffee and nodded, her smile firmly in place. “It’s okay, Maggie. I knew you when, remember? You always spoke your mind. I overreacted.”
“No, you didn’t at all,” Maggie said. “It was all me. I let Ben get me riled up but that’s no excuse.”
Haley looked away and Maggie saw the bruise was more yellow than purple. So it had happened a few days ago.
Should she say something about it?
“He’s going through some changes at work,” Haley said. “And Ben doesn’t like change.”
“He really seems…edgy. More than usual,” Maggie said, grateful to change the subject from her to her brother.
“He’ll get through it,” Haley said, her eyes going to the span of orderly vineyards all around them.
“What made you come out here?” Maggie asked, following her gaze at their surroundings. To Maggie, it all looked like so many desiccated sticks jammed into the ground, albeit with a bunch of plump, fat grapes attached.
“It’s so beautiful,” Haley said, her voice holding a tone of surprise that Maggie could even ask such a question. “I like to take advantage of different scenery when I’m away from Atlanta. One morning back home—months from now—when I’m looking out my living room window at the traffic on Peachtree Road, I’ll remember this moment when the air smelled like roses and everything was absolutely and perfectly quiet.”
“Except for my cussing.”
Haley laughed. “I might edit that part out of my memories.”
“Did Laurent mention the lemon festival in St-Buvard today? Half the village will be there, which isn’t saying much, but it’ll still be fun. I mean, if you like imagining you’re someplace totally out of reality.”
Haley laughed again and Maggie felt her heart settle. She’d been forgiven.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Haley said with a smile.
*****
St-Buvard was a small village, Maggie thought with satisfaction, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hold up its end of the food bargain when it came to terroir and pride of produce. Although not ranking anywhere near the level of an Aix or Avignon food festival, the St-Buvard citron festival was still renowned throughout Provence.
And after a steady string of murders a few years earlier, being known for a lemon festival was a nice change of pace.
Grace, wearing immaculate white linen slacks and matching top, carried a patent leather red clutch bag under her arm. She shaded her eyes as she stood next to Maggie. The festival consisted of nearly fifty stalls, tables and kiosks that had been erected in the small village square. Laurent had a table near the entrance of the square for his label. Maggie saw he’d hired two of the young gypsy boys to hand out samples of the wine.
Next to them, and clearly the apex of the festival, was a long table with rows of shiny, polished lemons stacked in pyramids. In front them were displayed lemon pies, lemon tarts and dozens and dozens of bottles filled with citrus-infused marinades and oils.
Le Canard, the village pub and café, would serve a full menu today starting with its famous poulet au citron and finishing with les tartes au citron. Even the small Catholic church of St-Buvard, Sainte-Mère-Église, had a small kiosk of lemon cookies perched on the edge of the flagstone courtyard that was the main stage for the festival.
Of course there were always those vendors who came from outside St-Buvard with their lavender sachets and olives, or even their cheap Paris sweatshirts and knockoff sunglasses, but for once the locals didn’t seem to mind. Maggie noticed one stall in particular had a wide banner that read: Le meilleur à Aix. The best of Aix—selling a lemon-infused pastis and doing a brisk business.
“Don’t you already have a veritable dump truck full of lemons from your own trees?” Grace asked as she sampled a lemon-spritzed bite of chèvre on a small toast round. She nodded at the proprietor, who promptly shoveled half a dozen wheels of the goat cheese into a small paper bag for Grace.
“Today’s not about lemons,” Maggie said, shifting her overly full food basket to her other arm. “It’s about France’s general obsession with food.”
Grace tucked her cheese into Maggie’s basket. “Uh oh,” she said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Maggie said sharply. “Except there’s no way anyone can take off five pounds of baby weight living in a country where the sole focus is eating.”
Grace nodded. “Only five pounds?”
“Shut up.”
“Are you going to talk about last night?”
Maggie stopped and frowned. “I didn’t realize Laurent and I were that noisy.”
“Funny girl. I’m talking about Lanie’s surprise pregnancy.”
“And the fact the baby wasn’t Olivier’s.” Maggie nodded. “Major shock, that’s for sure. Poor Annie. She begged me to keep her updated on what’s happening with the case.”
“How would you know what’s happening?”
“Exactly.” Maggie approached a wizened old lady behind a counter where a large pot of steaming paella sat. “Bonjour, Madame Bonet,” she said, kissing the woman on both cheeks. Grace shook the woman’s hand and she and Maggie were both promptly handed small bowls of the fragrant rice dish, which they took to a small bench under a large sycamore tree.
“Annie thinks because I can sort of speak the language that the police will tell me what’s going on.”
“You know, darling, Laurent was out on the terrace with Ben by that point, but I’m almost positive I heard you tell Annie you would find out who killed her daughter.”
Maggie took a mouthful of paella and closed her eyes. The saffron mingled with the sharp briny flavors of the seafood and melted into a perfect taste sensation.
“Madame Bonet makes the best paella,” she said, opening her eyes.
Grace was watching her expectantly. “Well?”
“I don’t see how it could hurt me digging around just a little bit to see what I can find out, for Annie’s sake.”
“And you’re sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact your brother thinks you’d be insane to get involved?”
“Where does he get off having an opinion one way or the other? What’s it to him?”
“I agree, darling. Laurent, on the other hand, will definitely have an opinion and I think we both know what it will be. Oh, there’s Haley,” she said, gazing over Maggie’s shoulder and into the festival throng. “She’s brave, wandering around by herself with not two words of French to rub together. I understand you spoke with her this morning?
“I did. She was very sweet and I didn’t deserve it.”
“Where’s your brother? Did he come with Laurent?”
“This isn’t his scene.” Maggie waved to Haley and her sister-in-law broke into a wide grin and hurried over. She, too, carried a basket full of individually wrapped p
arcels of bakery goods, cheeses and lemons.
“Oh, my God, you can smell the lemons from your house, Maggie,” Haley said. “I’m in heaven.”
“Whoa, you have a serious load of pastries there,” Maggie said. “And I have a certifiable weakness for macaroons.”
“Well, you’ll be able to eat your fill tonight,” Haley said. “By the way, I saw Laurent on the other side of the square. He looked to be drinking.”
“Well, he is a winemaker,” Maggie said, smiling at the woman behind a table selling sunflowers. “Kind of goes with the business.”
“Yes, but he had the baby,” Haley said. “And Zouzou. In the States, anyone under twenty-one wouldn’t even be allowed to sit in a bar.”
“Well, the French are more evolved,” Grace said.
“God, you cannot be worried about Laurent,” Maggie said, laughing. “Those kids couldn’t be any safer. Why do you think Grace and I are over here sucking up our freedom like convicts on work release?”
Maggie paid for a dozen sunflowers. “Besides,” she said, “didn’t you hear Laurent complaining this morning about me leaving the clothes basket at the top of the stairs? He’s convinced I’m the real danger to anyone’s idea of safety.”
“Well,” Haley said, “he has a point. Even without carelessly placed obstacles, the steps at your house are very slick. I’ve caught myself several times coming down them.”
“Those steps are eighty years old,” Grace said. “Laurent’s uncle built the house in the late thirties.”
“Older than that,” Maggie said. “His uncle did the renovations on the existing mas. Domaine St-Buvard dates back to the eighteen hundreds.”
“So no wonder the stairs are slick,” Grace said to Haley. “They’ve been worn down over the generations. Can you imagine?” Grace looked out over the bustling festival. “I love how old France is. It’s like living in history.”
“Yes,” Haley said impatiently, “but my point is that perhaps—especially with children in the house—a little more care might be taken.”
Maggie frowned and chose to ignore the criticism. After all, Ben and Haley weren’t likely to visit again any time soon. Best to just smile and let it go.
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