Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Because of Connor’s death?” Maggie asked.

  Grace, smiling at the grateful little dog at her feet under the table, shook her head. She glanced up at the leafless latticework of sycamore branches that provided little protection from the threatening clouds overhead.

  “No,” she said, flicking a piece of mint from her expensive knit jumper. “I think it’s mostly because I’m pregnant.”

  Maggie immediately reached across the table and grabbed Grace’s hand. “Grace, that’s wonderful!” she said brightly, wondering why Grace didn’t act like it was wonderful.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Grace said. “Windsor and I are very happy.”

  5

  Petit-Four’s normally floppy ears perked into some semblance of alertness, its small but sturdy body rigid as it listened to sounds coming from the little wood. Maggie stopped walking and watched the dog, enjoying its explorations, its animated pouncing onto unsuspecting leaves and twigs. Maggie had never thought of herself as a “dog person” before Petit-Four. And she’d always had dogs growing up, lots of them. Big golden furry dogs. Friendly and dumb. But this little dog―still only a puppy―was different from the heavy, lumbering retrievers and setters of her childhood. Smart, loving, and adorable, Petit-Four was like a teddy bear come to life, squeezable and cuddly, sweet-smelling and consoling. Maggie could see why some people thought of their dogs as their best friends.

  The lunch with Grace had been less than satisfying, she decided as she tossed a small twig over Petit-Four’s head. Grace’s off-hand announcement of her pregnancy― something she’d earlier given Maggie every reason to believe was the single most important thing in her life―combined with her maddening, if proper, admonishment for Maggie to think kinder of Babette (Grace, who had a tongue that could razor a hedge at fifty yards)―had served to seriously unsettle Maggie. And how is it she had never known about Grace’s religiosity? How had they managed a fairly close friendship for the last three months without that fact showing itself? All in all, lunch had left Maggie feeling disconcerted and troubled.

  She was glad she’d decided to walk to town for the lunch. Gladder still that she’d refused Grace’s offer of a ride home. She wanted the walk, needed the time to think. And not just about Grace. Her contact with Laurent since last night’s argument had been tense and brief. This morning, she had held her accusations, allowing him to forgo the inevitable defensive replies, but the feeling between them had still been as cold and hard as a frosted windowpane primed to shatter.

  She watched Petit-Four scamper ahead of her, the dog’s velvet paws silent as it ran across the dirt and stony road. The mid-December day was cold and blustery.

  Christmas in a week? Impossible. Where were the lights? The tinsel? Santa Claus?

  Laurent hadn’t even bothered to hack down a fir tree for their living room yet and she’d nagged him about it for a week now.

  And Roger Bentley was probably already at Domaine St-Buvard, reminiscing with Laurent. She could picture Laurent in the kitchen, his old compadre perched on a stool, drinking Laurent’s wine, talking the old talk.

  Nearly a mile outside St-Buvard and about a half mile from their house, Maggie could see the village church hidden in a copse of trees on the side of the road. She’d seen it a hundred times as she passed in the car―its ancient gray-stone front blending into the dingy blue-gray of the landscape. The crumbling steeple presided over a small graveyard enclosed by a frail wrought-iron fence.

  As they came opposite the church, Petit-Four flushed a small rabbit from under a bush and raced after it into the cemetery. Maggie whistled for the dog to come back. The church and its bleak grounds looked unoccupied. There was no nearby rectory that Maggie could see and it was difficult to tell from the dilapidated condition of the church’s exterior whether the villagers still used it. In any event, it was a healthy distance from the town. Hardly convenient, Maggie thought. She whistled again for the dog and then, with resignation but good humor, followed it into the graveyard.

  It was an old cemetery, she realized afer scanning the ancient headstones. Crude, crumbling markers jutted out of the cracked earth like the tips of giant Popsicle sticks pushed into the ground. Several headstones were large and elaborate, and she found herself reading the inscriptions for names she might recognize from the village. As she walked into the heart of the graveyard, she passed several smaller slabs that seemed to lead to a main headstone. This large, squat memorial in marble seemed to serve as the apex of the graveyard. Maggie approached it and saw that it, unlike many of the others, was well-tended, with fresh cut flowers arranged against it. She read the inscription, carefully carved into the stone: l’epouse et mère bien-aimée, Mireille Alexandre, 1900-1930.

  She could hear Petit-Four’s excited yapping a little closer now, and she glanced up to catch a glimpse of her rustling about at the back of the graveyard―still on the trail of her escaping prey. Maggie looked back at the large headstone. Mireille Alexandre. That would be Patrick’s wife, she thought with interest. Old Madame Renoir’s mother. It occurred to her that she didn’t know the baker’s first name. Perhaps she was named Mireille after her mother? Maggie couldn’t see it. Mireille was a name for a slim, beautiful girl. Flirtatious and elegant. Maggie stepped back away from the grave and studied its obvious position of honor.

  As she picked her way toward Petit-Four, she saw the graves of several relations of the Marceaus. There was another Alexandre, a “Marie Alexandre” who died in 1965 at the age of eighty. Jean-Luc’s mother? Her grave, also, was well-groomed and tidy. Maggie wondered why the two graves weren’t placed closer together. There was no sign of Patrick’s grave.

  Maggie reached the dog and scooped her up. The dog held herself stiffly in Maggie’s arms, but other than that, did not resist being carried.

  The wind had begun to pick up and Maggie felt uncomfortably cold for the first time since she’d begun her walk. No wonder, she scolded herself. Lollygagging around a boneyard with the temperature steadily falling. She hurried back through the wrought-iron gate. What with Roger due in or already there at the house, Laurent would definitely take her being late as a message on her part. She quickened her pace.

  As she trudged the last steps up the hill of their steep drive to their front door, Maggie saw, by the rental tag on the black Jaguar XKE parked next to their Renault, that Roger had arrived.

  She put a hand to her hair, which flew about her red face. Once inside, Petit-Four, immediately smelling the scent of a newcomer, went tearing into the living room in pursuit of him. Maggie listened for the sounds of laughter and men’s voices. The house was quiet.

  She deposited her wool jacket on the hook in the foyer and, not bothering to pick up her plaid muffler as it floated to the floor, straightened the buttons of her cardigan over her short pleated skirt. Petit-Four was barking at the French doors which led to the terrace. After a perfunctory glance into the empty kitchen, Maggie joined the dog at the doors and pushed them open.

  Roger Bentley knelt on the terrace, the expensive wool knit of his trousers sinking into a bad patch of wet leaves and dirt. Maggie had forgotten how good looking Roger was. His brown hair was thinner than Laurent’s, and cut considerably shorter, but it accented his straight, bony nose and framed the blue in his sharp blue eyes until Maggie thought she almost felt glad to see him.

  He looked up at her immediately, a mixture of sadness and pleasure at seeing her in his face. She noticed Laurent kneeling beside him, both blue-jeaned knees fully on the wet terrace stones. He looked up at Maggie with anguish and anger in his eyes.

  On the ground between them, one of Laurent’s hunting dogs lay dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  1

  Roger stood up and gave Laurent’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “Come on, old son,” he said.

  “Laurent,” Maggie said, staring at the dead dog between the two men. “What happened? Roger...?”

  “Sorry, my darling,” Roger said, smiling ruef
ully, the old Roger-smile. “Not much of a hello for us, is it?” He turned back to Laurent. “Shall we move him, squire?” He spoke gently, unmindful of the mud caking on his expensive trousers.

  “It’s another message, isn’t it?” Maggie said, pushing Petit-Four back into the house with her foot.

  “Message?” Roger Bentley said, raising his eyebrows.

  Laurent stood up slowly. “It’s the business I am telling you about,” he said quietly.

  “Ah, yes.” Roger turned to regard Maggie. “The happy association of villagers welcoming you lot into their tender bosoms. God, I love the French.” He slapped Laurent on the arm. “No offense, old chap.”

  Laurent grunted in reply, then leaned over and slid his hands under the dog to lift it. Maggie turned away and retreated into the house. She could smell something cooking. She walked into the kitchen and stood for a moment, staring at the postcards she’d stuck on the refrigerator, the letters from her parents in Paris collecting dust on top of the toaster-oven, and the large bowl of cut flowers Laurent had bought at the market three days ago in Aix. She looked down at Petit-Four, who was busy nosing an empty dinner bowl. Someone unpleasant, she thought, wasn’t finished trying to impress them with just how unpleasant they could be. She glanced toward the door that led to the cave and felt an icy needle of fear touch her on the back of the neck. As she stood in the kitchen, she heard Roger and Laurent at the front door.

  “Maggie?” Laurent called.

  “In the kitchen.”

  He appeared in the doorway, his face grim and worn. The anger seemed to have given way to fatigue.

  “Oh, Laurent,” she said, going to him and hugging him hard. “I’m so sorry about Inge.”

  Laurent kissed her on the top of the head and she pulled back to look at him.

  “We’re not calling the police?” she asked.

  He shook his head, his eyes avoiding hers.

  Roger came into the kitchen and stood behind Laurent.

  “I know it’s a bit anticlimactic,” he said, smiling at her, “but it is good to see you again, Maggie.” He stood in the kitchen, nearly as tall as Laurent, his clothes soiled, his hair tossed about his smiling face. If she didn’t know so much about him, she’d be tempted to like him.

  “I’m glad to see you, Roger,” she said. “You’re looking quite well.”

  “You really think so?” Roger grinned and smacked Laurent solidly on the stomach with the flat of his hand. “Been running lately,” Roger said.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Maggie said tartly. “Laurent, are you still determined to handle this yourself?”

  Roger laughed and picked out a couple of black olives from a dish on the counter.

  “Laurent, you liar, you said she’d gone soft. Still appears pretty feisty from where I’m standing.”

  Maggie ignored him. “Laurent...?”

  “Oui, oui, “Laurent said, moving to the stove to snatch off pot lids. “It is done and so now we―”

  “And so now we what?” Maggie pulled at his sleeve, trying to get him to face her. He remained focused on his cooking. “Laurent, you know this is Gaston’s work.”

  “Ah, that’s very helpful,” Roger said, stealing another olive. “Knowing the name of the perpetrator. Very helpful.”

  “It is not Gaston,” Laurent said, spooning up the roast rabbit onto three midnight-blue china plates.

  “I say, that looks marvelous.” Roger sniffed dramatically over Laurent’s shoulder. “Haven’t lost your touch, I see. Ah, avec les petites saucisses!”

  “What do you mean, not Gaston?” Maggie allowed Roger to wedge in between herself and Laurent. “Of course it’s Gaston...”

  “Maggie, put the wine glasses on the table, chérie.”

  “Laurent. I am talking to you about―”

  “Je sais. May we eat, please, before it is cold?” Laurent gave her a mildly exasperated look as he arranged the little sausages around each of the rabbit steaks.

  “I’ll open the wine,” Roger said, clapping his hands together lightly. “Just point me in the right direction, squire.”

  “Would Paris be too far?” Maggie asked sweetly.

  Laurent threw the pot lid into the sink with a loud clatter. Maggie started at the noise―along with Roger and poor Petit-Four. “Enough!” he shouted, without turning around.

  Maggie instantly regretted her sarcasm. “I’m sorry, Roger,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Roger said good-naturedly. “I say, Laurent, you’re overreacting just a bit, aren’t you? Maggie’s always gone after me, haven’t you, my darling?”

  Laurent turned from the sink and regarded them both. He pulled a cigarette out of a pack on the counter, offered one to Roger, who accepted. “She’d been poisoned,” he said.

  Maggie swallowed hard, her eyes going from Laurent to Roger. There, in three simple words, went any hope she may have had of the death somehow being an accident. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  Petit-Four barked sharply, breaking the mood.

  “I say!” Roger clapped a hand to his heart and staggered backwards against the counter to strained smiles from Maggie and Laurent. “Where did this little rodent come from?” He laughed and bent down to tousle the dog’s ears.

  Maggie and Laurent shared a glance over Roger’s head as he played with Petit-Four. The look she gave him was one of misery and uncertainty. As usual, his look was impossible to read.

  2

  “What did she say?”

  “What do you think? She congratulated us.”

  “Did you look happy?”

  Grace shifted onto her elbow in the bed and rearranged her silk pajama top so that it wouldn’t gape.

  “I did my best,” she replied.

  Windsor looked at her from where he sat at the foot of the bed. “I can’t believe this,” he said, staring at her, anger and disgust tracing the outlines of his face.

  “So you’ve said.” Grace turned away from him and set the alarm clock on her bedside table for five-thirty. Lately, there had been some difficulty in getting Taylor off to school. Grace would need the extra time to cajole her daughter from bed to clothes through breakfast and out the door. She set the clock back down and looked over her shoulder at her husband. “Are you going to have trouble putting on a happy face during Christmas?” she asked.

  Windsor gave her a cutting look and stood up. He walked to the bedroom door, opened it and listened for a moment before closing it firmly. He did not return to the bed.

  “This isn’t working out, is it, darling?” Grace said with a sigh as she leaned back into her overstuffed pillows and stared at the ceiling. She had made a point to have the workmen attach an attractive molding to the ceiling in their bedroom. It had cost the earth but she hadn’t been sorry.

  “You’re a piece of work, Grace, you know that?” Windsor remained standing by the door, his back to her, his shoulders rigid under his soft flannel pajama top. “And at Christmas, of all times. I could murder you.”

  “Sorry about Christmas,” she said.

  “Just shut up, will you? For once I don’t want to hear your last-word, your perfect bon mot, your precise pronouncements.” He approached her in bed, his hands bunched into fists by his sides. “I just want you to shut the fuck up.”

  Grace held her tongue.

  3

  To Maggie’s relief the breakfast car on the train wasn’t crowded. She sat down at a window table, placing a French grammar book and a copy of Graham Greene’s Heart of the Matter on the table. She hoped the books might dissuade anyone from thinking she was in a mood to socialize. She watched the landscape shoot by outside her window and allowed herself to feel some relief as St-Buvard and Provence receded from her.

  He’d actually had the nerve to ask about Nicole. How she was doing in school, for God’s sake. Was there no end to the man’s nerve? She smiled at the train attendant and ordered a café au lâit and two brioche with confiture.

  Roger was unchanged, Maggie t
hought. Charming, friendly, witty, in some ways almost buffoonish. A dangerous man. She nodded politely at an elderly woman on the train, also traveling alone, who sought out a table across the aisle.

  What she had overheard last night, she had not been meant to hear. When she got up in the middle of the night for a drink of water, she’d heard the two men still up, drinking and talking down in the cave. Amazing, really, she thought. That that cold, dim, place of death should attract them, that they could want to stand there, sipping their Calvados and wine, unmindful―or at least uncaring―that a warm fire and soft chairs were just a few steps away. Their voices came up the stairs easily, like velvet slippers padding into the kitchen where Maggie stood at the sink. First, she heard Roger’s offer. And then, Laurent’s response.

  Maggie stirred the foamy milk around her china cup and stared out the train window onto the bleak, flat winter landscape. Laurent’s response, she thought bitterly. Not oui, not non. Not peut-être, even. Laurent’s response to Roger’s offer of employment had been silence. Of course, she had expected Roger to try to entice him. He hadn’t come for a social call. Naturally, he had a proposition. That’s what makes the Englishman run. Scams, gigs, deals. Of course, he would throw one out on the table to Laurent. She tried to imagine Laurent’s nonverbal reaction to Roger’s offer, but could only see Laurent’s enigmatic expression―not smiling, exactly, but not unfriendly, and certainly, not revealing a thing.

  Maggie sipped her sweet coffee and watched the brown, withered rooftops of a nameless village pass her window. Why, in God’s name, hadn’t Laurent told Roger to forget it? Loudly and definitely. Why hadn’t he said that he was happy with the way things were...that he didn’t want to jeopardize his new way of life? Why had he not answered him?

  Later that night, after Laurent had finally come to bed, they had argued. And Maggie had been left with the helpless feeling that she had done more to convince Laurent to take the offer than to reject it.