Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Babette has the terrible shock,” she said, as if speaking to a bad child. “Her papa is in jail―”

  “Oui, Madame, je sais,” Maggie said impatiently. “But if he really did it then that is where he should be, n’est-ce pas?” She knew it sounded harsh, surprising even herself at her lack of sympathy.

  Madame Renoir opened and closed her large owl-like eyes and shook her head morosely at Maggie. Babette was her employee, her charge, perhaps even her friend, although Maggie had never seen much evidence of that before today. In fact, up until Bernard Delacore was dragged off in handcuffs, Madame Renoir had lately acted quite sourly toward young Babette. Maggie had assumed this had been an attempt to register her disappointment over the girl’s disgraceful condition.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, Madame Dernier?” What would you like, Madame? The baker spoke formally, moving once more behind her counter and smoothing her large apron down over her round tummy.

  Oh, great. Now I’ve pissed off the old dear. “Tiens, Madame,” Maggie said. “I don’t mean to upset you. If there’s anything I can do to help Babette. Anything Monsieur Dernier or I can do...”

  “Merci, Maggie,” Madame Renoir said, reaching out to pat her hand. “It is Babette’s father who needs our prayers and our aid maintenant.”

  2

  Danielle hung up the phone and turned to her husband who had just sat down to dinner.

  “They’ve arrested Bernard,” she said, no expression creasing her bland features.

  Eduard looked up, blinking, trying to assimilate this twist of events. “Bernard?” he asked, looking out the large picture window in the dining room that gave the best view of his vineyards. His eyes rested, unseeingly, on the bleak, spindly rows of depleted grapevines.

  “Madame Dulcie said they came for him today.” Danielle reseated herself at the opposite end of the table from her husband. She wore a simple countrywoman’s uniform of gray pleated wool skirt and a pullover sweater. As Eduard would often tell her, one never knew when one might be entertaining a visitor. One should always be prepared. Danielle would rather be in work pants and a cardigan.

  “Bernard is a hothead,” he said, still staring out at his fields.

  “He helped pick the grapes at Domaine St-Buvard, didn’t he?”

  Eduard looked quickly at his wife. “What does that matter?” he asked sharply. “Half the town picked Domaine St-Buvard.”

  “I just thought...I...” Danielle folded her hands tightly into her lap and looked at her husband. She knew he wasn’t really waiting for a response to his question.

  “So he picked the grapes at Dernier’s, so what? Bof!” Eduard scooped viciously into the large cassoulet between them, watching the steam pour out as he broke the crusty surface.

  “Nothing, dear,” Danielle said, her eyes concentrating on her wine glass.

  “Bernard is a passionate man,” Eduard continued, calming down somewhat. “Even when we were children, he was always ready for a fight. This time it’s gotten him into big trouble.”

  “Paulette needs our help,” Danielle said.

  “Help?” Eduard looked blankly at her.

  “Eduard, he is your brother,” she said. “His family needs our―”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Eduard nodded his head vigorously. “Of course, my dear,” he said, forcing a smile for her. “Of course, we will see that Paulette and Babette are taken care of in his absence.” He scooped up a large spoonful of the white beans and petite Toulouse sausages from the cassoulet onto his plate. “There will be a long prison term, I imagine,” he said. “I cannot say that I am surprised. Bernard always was a wild one.”

  “Perhaps he is not guilty,” Danielle said, serving herself from the casserole.

  “Perhaps not,” Eduard agreed expansively. “Of course, we will get him a good lawyer. But, in the event he is convicted, he will be happy to know that his wife and child are cared for.” He poured himself a full wine bowl of Gigondas and poised the bottle over his wife’s glass. “My dear?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, thank you, Eduard,” she said.

  3

  “I’m sorry, Laurent. I know you liked him.”

  Laurent stared moodily out the window, a cigarette dangling from his full lips.

  “I guess he was a lot of help in the beginning.” Maggie said. She walked to the French doors to watch the two large hunting dogs frolic and chase each other. Those two never wind down, she decided.

  Her reunion with Laurent earlier that evening had been passionate and satisfying. To see him again after a day of fear and worry, mixing and stirring and chopping in their cuisine, was a balm to all the bad feelings Maggie had experienced since Thanksgiving Day. The police had questioned him and released him. Perfunctorily, really, Laurent told her. He had seen Bernard Delacore dragged into the interrogation room in leg irons and handcuffs. Laurent only had time to exchange a brief look with the man. And the look he’d received in exchange was one full of misery and resignation.

  “Is there anything we can do to help Bernard?” Maggie asked, settling into Laurent’s lap as he sat in a large chair by the fire, and resting her head against his shoulder.

  Laurent didn’t answer.

  “Well, did you see him go into the basement that night?”

  “Oh, Maggie, hush.”

  Maggie lifted her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “You think you can incriminate him, don’t you?”

  Laurent looked away and stared out the window.

  “Laurent, you saw him go downstairs, didn’t you?”

  “Maggie―”

  “Did he really fight with Babette’s mother? Or was that all―”

  “Non, non.” Laurent looked back at her and shook his head. “He fought with her. They left angry, but together.”

  “But you did see him go downstairs.”

  “I sent him there,” he said. “I asked him to collect more wine.”

  “Where was Connor?”

  Laurent shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “But he could’ve been down there too? He might have gone down―”

  “Maggie,” Laurent said a little roughly. “I do not know. Comprends?”

  “Okay, okay.” Maggie settled back against him and they were both quiet for a moment with their separate thoughts.

  Finally, Laurent spoke. “How was Grace?”

  “Fine.” Maggie picked a long dark hair from Laurent’s collar and released it to fall upon the floor. “They tell so many awful stories about Taylor that you have to wonder why they’re trying so hard to get pregnant again. It must be awful.”

  “Trying to get pregnant is awful?” Laurent smiled impishly.

  “Yeah, right,” Maggie said, giving him a little push on the shoulder. “That’s what the world thinks. Hubba-hubba! But I guess sex isn’t much fun when it’s under the gun like this.”

  “Qui sais,” Laurent said absently.

  “Once, when Windsor left the room to do something, Grace told me that she didn’t think she could take going another year without a conception. I mean, she doesn’t look it, you know? But she says she’s at the end of her rope.”

  “Vraiment?”

  “Yeah, I guess it really depletes you emotionally. There are times in the last few months when I’ve seen Grace and she’s been lower than a snake’s tennis shoe. I guess that’s right after her period’s come―”

  “Maggie!” Laurent frowned. “Such talk about Grace to me is not good.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It is very embarrassing to hear of another man’s wife’s....” He waved his hands as if to pluck the words from the air. “Enough, yes?”

  “Okay, okay.” Maggie patted his shoulder. “The point is, she’s got a lot on her shoulders right now, what with Connor dying and this infertility business.”

  “She has her husband,” Laurent said. “He will take care of her unhappiness.”

  Maggie laughed. “God, you’re from the Dark Ages!” She kissed him
on the temple and then spoke soberly: “I’m not sure how well Windsor can help Grace when it comes to being happy.”

  “They are not happy together?” Again, Laurent seemed more interested in the leaping shenanigans of his dogs outside than in Maggie’s answer.

  “I don’t know,” she said, chewing her bottom lip.

  There was another long pause.

  “Dinner was good tonight,” Maggie said.

  “De rien,” Laurent said absently. “Roger Bentley is coming for a short visit tomorrow,” he added casually, his eyes watching the cavorting dogs.

  Maggie sat straight up and twisted in his lap to face him. “What?”

  Laurent looked at her with surprise. “What?” he asked.

  “Roger Bentley is coming here? To St-Buvard? What for?”

  Laurent frowned. “He is a friend―”

  “Laurent, what does he want? Why is he coming?”

  Laurent stood up from his chair. Maggie slipped from his lap to the seat cushion.

  “He is a friend coming for a visit, c’est tout,” he said, almost coldly. “I expect you will behave with some friendliness toward him.” Laurent reached for his jacket on the couch.

  “Where are you going?” Maggie said, standing up too. “You can’t just drop this bombshell and then go take an evening stroll. Laurent, please.”

  “Maggie,” he said with a fatigue in his voice and face that she hadn’t noticed before. “Roger is not coming to...what?… lure Laurent away from you. He is coming as a friend comes.”

  “You want to see him.” Maggie tried to keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “Bien sûr,” Laurent said. “He is a friend.” He pointed a finger at her. “A friend to you as well, chérie. He brought us together, n’est-ce pas? He found Nicole for your family, n’est-ce pas?”

  Maggie grabbed his jacket sleeve. “‘Found Nicole?’“ she repeated, staring at him in anger. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. He found an abused waif in a French ghetto and palmed her off to my family for twenty thousand dollars as their long-lost granddaughter. That’s not being a friend, Laurent. In my country, people go to prison for that sort of thing!”

  Laurent’s face clouded with anger. “And is Nicole happy?” he asked. “Are your parents happy?”

  “That’s not the point! Roger is a crook! He’s probably coming here to give you a piece of some action in Cannes or Marseille that’ll make sure you never get your green card...”

  “Oh, so that is what this is all about.”

  “Do not dare to even think about patronizing me, Laurent.” Maggie released his cuff with a petulant fling. “What this is about is you re-connecting with a known felon. An underworld hoodlum who would like nothing better than to get you sucked back up into all his dubious dealings and schemes―”

  “I am going for a walk,” Laurent said, moving to the door.

  “Take a walk!” Maggie yelled after him. “Take a walk into the Rhône, why don’t you?” She turned and stomped out of the room, aware that Petit-Four had take refuge under the couch, and aware of the sound of the French doors slamming shut behind her.

  4

  Grace tossed Petit-Four a sliver of her omelette au Broccio and watched with pleasure as the little dog wolfed it down.

  “I can see why you take her everywhere,” she said to Maggie. “She’s a perfect lady. Mignon is more into bullying than begging.” She looked at her lunch companion and smiled brilliantly. “More dignity that way, you know?”

  Maggie didn’t answer but pulled a piece of bread apart and began looking for the butter dish. They’d decided to brunch in the village this morning, although, as usual, Grace had lobbied for any place else first―Aix, Avignon, or even Arles.

  “Look, Maggie, it’s no big deal, okay? Laurent’s entitled to get a bee up his nose from time to time, right?”

  “Grace, you don’t know this guy, Roger. He’s a crook.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “I mean, he and Laurent used to be in business together, you know?” Maggie said, waving the unbuttered roll in the air.

  “Before you saved him.”

  “Oh, stop it, okay?” Maggie tossed the roll back into the bread basket. “I didn’t save anybody. Laurent just decided to make a career switch.”

  “After he met you.”

  “Look, Grace, I’m telling you that Laurent was a felon, don’t you understand that? A thief, a swindler, a goniff―”

  “And you’re afraid this Roger person is going to get him started back up again. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Maggie looked at her friend with exasperation. “Which part are you having trouble with?” she asked.

  Grace laughed. “Well, for starters,” she said, “Why? Why would Laurent fall back into old habits?”

  Without answering, Maggie picked up her fork and idly tapped the side of her omelette plate.

  “And, then,” Grace went on. “How’s he going to do it? He’s going to start running scams out of Domaine St-Buvard or back in Atlanta with you underfoot scowling and throwing hissy fits all the time? And, of course, there’s always the matter of Laurent’s IQ, which I have reason to believe is rather high. Too high, darling, to jeopardize his life with you for an old life.”

  “An old seductive life,” Maggie muttered, pushing a wedge of the cheese omelette around her plate leaving a golden trail of butter.

  “Yes, well. Aren’t they all?” she said, tossing a piece of bread to the dog. “Look,” she said, turning to face Maggie, “you guys are going to Paris this weekend, aren’t you? Why not take the time to have a romantic―”

  “Laurent’s not coming,” Maggie said.

  Grace frowned. “How come?”

  “Well, he said he needs to stay here and protect his precious vines―although those weren’t his exact words.”

  “Protect his vines? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, yes, it sort of does, I have to admit.” Maggie took a sip of her rosé and sighed. “There’s been some vandalism at our place. Somebody’s destroyed a bunch of Laurent’s vines.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Bien sûr,“ Maggie said, taking another sip. “Serieux.”

  “Who would do that?” Grace looked concerned. She stared out across the village fountain to the dingy gray façades of St-Buvard’s few shop fronts.

  “Well, Laurent has some ideas, but the point is he can’t come this weekend. I’m going alone. My parents are expecting me Friday evening.”

  “You’re taking the train?”

  Maggie nodded. “I’ll get some last minute Christmas shopping done. I still haven’t gotten anything for Laurent.” She sighed heavily. “It’s awful to be this bummed-out about a trip to Paris, you know?” she said.

  Grace laughed. “That’s what living in the South of France will do to you,” she said. “Talk about being spoiled. ‘Gawd, I gotta take a trip to Paris? Yuck.’” She lit up her first cigarette of the afternoon and inhaled the smoke hungrily. The two women were quiet for a moment.

  “Life has sort of sucked lately, hasn’t it?” Maggie said as she pushed around a small forkful of egg and cheese and mint.

  “Un peu.” Grace said. “I can’t believe Christmas is a week away. I’ve done nothing.”

  “Me neither.”

  “You and Laurent are coming over Christmas Eve, aren’t you?”

  “But, of course, as the French say. You don’t have a wine cellar, do you?” Maggie asked, a cheerless smile on her lips.

  “That’s not funny.” Grace frowned and stubbed out her cigarette. “Let me ask you,” she said. “Have you seen Babette lately?”

  “I saw her in the bonkers stage of getting the news about her father,” Maggie replied. “She wept in my arms for awhile and I think I helped.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m joking.”

  “Well, I saw her this morning. She’s looking better. She was even sort of nice to me,” Grace said, reaching
for her Badoît and lime.

  “Great,” Maggie shivered against an unexpected breeze. “It doesn’t take much to make some people human―a death, the incarceration of one’s parent...”

  “Oh, come on, Maggie. I’m not saying she’s sweetness and light, but she’s got a hard life mapped out for her here―especially being an unmarried mother. And what is she? Nineteen?”

  Maggie looked away.

  “She’s a teenager, Maggie. They’re supposed to be unbearable. I’m not saying send her your old clothes or anything. But do cut her some slack, if you can.”

  Maggie picked up another roll and looked back at Grace, whose blonde hair shone in the dull afternoon light.

  “You’re right,” Maggie said, finishing her glass of rosé.

  “Good. See? Now you don’t have to go to church on Sunday. You’ve already done your good deed for the week.”

  “Yeah, like we both line up to go to church on Sunday.”

  “I go to church, I’ll have you know.”

  “You do?” Maggie nearly dropped the roll she had been in the process of mopping up her omelette with.

  “Sure. We go to l’église in Aix.”

  “Catholic?”

  “What else?”

  Maggie shook her head. “It’s just weird that I didn’t know this about you, is all. You all three go?”

  Grace laughed at Maggie’s reaction and leaned back into her chair. “Norman Rockwell à la belle France,” she said. “The days that Taylor doesn’t try to climb into the priest’s pulpit or fling her hymnal into the choir can really be quite nice. Restful even. I like going.”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “No dear, I’m Buddhist but this was the closest thing in Provence. Of course, I’m Catholic, you twit!”

  “I’m just so surprised, is all,” Maggie said, finding herself liking the idea of Grace and Windsor going to church every Sunday for Taylor’s sake. She took a bite of her omelette. “I’m really not a goat cheese person,” she said, making a face at her plate.

  Grace sighed. “I can’t eat a thing these days.” She said, cutting another small wedge of omelette for Petit-Four. Her fingers were delicate, beautiful and trembling, Maggie noticed.