Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)
Page 30
“Win?” Grace entered the parlor and glanced left and then right searching for him.
She looked sensational, he had to admit. Her hair was draped casually around her shoulders, without her trademark curls, giving her a sleeker, more mysterious air. Her forehead was high and proud, her cheekbones a model’s envy. Her eyes were rimmed in charcoal-gray mascara and she wore a turquoise blue sweater set in cashmere over dark gray slacks. The diamond bracelet he had given her two anniversaries ago sparkled brilliantly on her wrist.
“Over here,” he said, quietly. He took another sip of his drink and watched her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her tone friendly. “Are you about ready to go?”
“Just waiting on you.”
“Well, I’m ready.”
He finished his drink and left the empty glass on the bar for someone else to deal with.
“I don’t want a late night,” he said, knowing he wanted to upset her, to take the happy flush from her cheeks, the brightness from her eyes.
“What’s a late night?” She frowned at him as she put on her earrings―long dangling affairs studded with diamonds like a cluster of stars. “You mean after two a.m.?”
“I mean, I don’t want to be out late. Tomorrow’s Christmas Day, in case you’ve forgotten, and I want to be conscious when Taylor opens her presents.”
“God, Win, I imagine some of the dead in St-Buvard Cemetery will become suddenly conscious when Taylor opens her presents. I really wouldn’t worry about it.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” he said as he moved toward the couch where he had tossed his overcoat. “But I care that she has a good Christmas.”
“Oh, I see,” Grace smiled prettily, careful not to stain her teeth with her lipstick. “And I don’t, I guess?”
“Let’s go,” he said evenly, pulling on his coat and scooping up his fur-lined leather gloves. He smacked the gloves together for emphasis.
“Are you sure?” Grace asked. “Perhaps we’d better stay home and watch her while she sleeps to make sure those sugarplum fairies do their job, you know?”
“You’re a great mother, Grace.”
“Kiss my ass, you bastard.”
He’d done it. She was furious. Her makeup was pulled in opposite directions with her scowl and the pretty flush she’d come downstairs with was now an unattractive rouge.
“Tell me, exactly, how one Christmas Eve out with friends makes me a bad mother?” She was pulling at the rings on her fingers in frustration and anger. “And while you’re at it, let’s hear what a great father you are, huh, Windsor? Such a loving daddy to make sure Taylor has only the best people taking care of her and loving her since he never has time to spend with her.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Ask Taylor if it’s a lie.”
“You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, Grace.”
“No, dear, you must be referring to my wedding day.”
“Classy all the way. Wonder what our friends would think if they could see how classy you really are?”
“I don’t imagine anyone would have too much style left at this stage of the game, Windsor.” She turned and walked to the hall closet. He followed her.
“We’re talking fitness as a mother here,” he said.
“You already pushed that button,” she shot back as she pulled on a vivid blue cape lined in red velvet. She studied her appearance in the hall mirror and pulled some strands of hair out of her collar. She turned to glare at him. “Are you saying you don’t want to go to Maggie and Laurent’s tonight? Is that what you’re saying?”
Windsor shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just don’t want a late night,” he said stubbornly.
“Fine.” Grace snatched up her evening bag from the marble-top foyer table and marched to the front door. “We’ll take two cars.”
4
Laurent had finally produced the fir tree. At a little over nine feet, it stood large and majestic against the long wall that opened up into the garden. He’d dragged it in earlier that afternoon, stamping the cold from his leather athletic shoes and presenting it to Maggie as proudly as if he’d planted the seed for it himself. It was a magnificent tree, she had to admit, its boughs stretched out like hungry fingers. Maggie had dressed it simply, sparingly, with one row of tiny white lights and just a few glass ornaments she’d found in Paris and Aix. The resulting look was regal and dignified. The tree was so big it actually fit their bowling-alley sized living room. Now that the tree is here, Maggie thought happily, it’s finally Christmas.
She turned to survey the room, all in ready for their dinner party. She had gathered fir boughs from the ground outside to add to those that Laurent had clipped from the Christmas tree, and then arranged them on the mantle over the fireplace. Then she stuck fat white candles amongst the sweet-smelling pine boughs and dimmed the lamps in the room. The gentle, nostalgic scent of pine mingled with Laurent’s usual kitchen magic to produce a powerful delight. Maggie felt the same tiny bubble of excitement she used to feel as a child at this time of year. A feeling of expectation, of hope. Something was about to happen.
The music of Enya came floating gently through the mas, sounding more like Christmas carols, Maggie thought, than the real thing. She heard the sound of two car doors slamming and hurried to the kitchen, where Laurent was checking on last minute sauces and cooking times. “They’re here,” she said, smiling happily.
“You are like une petite fille,” he said fondly. “So excited. So beautiful.”
Maggie was dressed in an amber velvet catsuit. She had her hair in a ponytail down her back and fastened with a gold clasp. Her ears revealed his last birthday present to her: diamond studs.
“Tu es très belle aussi,” she said, breathlessly, not much caring in her anticipation of the evening if she got her verbs and adjectives right.
“Beau,” he corrected her.
But she was already at the door to greet their guests, a small vapor of Eternity perfume and pine seeming to hover in her wake.
The stew was excellent, to no one’s surprise. Maggie’s fears that it was a trifle inelegant to serve at Christmas Eve supper were assuaged by the fact that the casualness of the meal helped to ease the tension between their two guests. There was obviously something going on between Grace and Windsor tonight. Something not good.
Laurent made several huge bottles of a diabolical alcoholic concoction called nectar des dieux. Made with spices, white wine and vodka and left to sit for a month, the stuff was tangy, warming and lethal. Windsor had already had four glasses of nectar des dieux. Grace, to Maggie’s surprise, abstained.
By the time Laurent rolled out the third and final course before coffee and dessert, Windsor had loosened the tight wiring in his spine just enough to ease the tension in all of them.
“So, Maggie,” Windsor said, twirling yet another glass of the nectar in practiced fingers. “Grace says you’ve nailed Connor’s killer?”
Maggie glanced at Grace who did not return her look but continued to concentrate on buttering a crusty bread roll.
“Well, yes and no,” Maggie said slowly.
“She is so modest, n’est-ce pas?” Laurent entered the dining room with hot plates which were piled with thick slices of rosy lamb tucked in a layer of pastry. “She has her theories, bien sûr. And they are good ones.”
“Laurent thinks I’m full of crap,” Maggie said.
Laurent set the plates down and affected an exaggeratedly hurt look as if to say: Moi?
The rest of them laughed and Grace said: “Yeah, we know, Laurent, pas du tout! Pas du tout!”
The closeness of the friendship between the couples seemed to raise above the muck of misunderstanding and subjects too-hot-to-handle, and settled once more on a pleasantly enjoyable plane.
“My God, Maggie,” Grace said, staring at her plate. “How in the world do you fit through normal, room-size doors?”
“Well, gee, thanks a lot, Grace. Now I know w
here you got your name.”
“Stop it, you know what I mean. I’m going to need a wheelbarrow for my stomach to leave here tonight and I’m only three months pregnant!”
Maggie noticed Grace’s joke was stopped by a nervous glance in Windsor’s direction. This was puzzling.
Doesn’t Windsor know she’s pregnant?
“So what do you say, Maggie?” Windsor cut into his gigot d’agneau en croûte and smiled at her. “Who did it?”
“Did what?” Maggie looked at him in confusion.
“Killed Connor. Who killed Connor?”
“Oh! Well, I have a couple of theories. Grace told you I’ve been investigating?”
Windsor nodded without glancing at Grace, and Maggie felt a vague wash of sadness come over her. Whatever was wrong between them seemed to be deep and serious. It hurt her to see them so distant.
Laurent returned with another bottle of rosé from the cellar and poured each of their glasses.
“Elle est l’inspectrice Poirot, n’est-ce pas? Faisant furtivement magnifique.”
Grace frowned as she chewed. “Huh?”
“He says I’m a good sneak,” Maggie said.
“Hey, that’s great, Maggie!” Windsor said encouragingly, nodding. “I’m impressed.”
“That I’m a good sneak?”
“No, that your French is starting to come along.”
“It isn’t, really. He’s said that to me before.” Maggie’s eyes met Laurent’s and his were pleased.
“She suspects Gaston Lasalle,” Grace said. “Laurent, this lamb is exquisite, c’est extrordinaire!”
“Yeah, Laurent, it’s great,” Windsor said, smiling at his host and then looking back at Maggie. “Gaston, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed him.”
“Well,” Maggie said, “the idea is that he had an emotional motive for revenge against all foreigners―”
“You mean the gypsy thing? You-all killed my Pop-po now I’m-a gonna get back at you?”
“I don’t think gypsies have Italian accents, Windsor,” Maggie said playfully.
“The ones in Italy do,” he replied. “It’s kind of a weak motive, though.”
“Depends on how weak you think revenge is for a motive.”
Windsor reacted as if he’d been insulted. He stiffened in his seat and his handsome face colored darkly.
“He’s certainly loathsome enough to be a murderer,” Grace offered.
“Well that observation’s a great piece of detective-work,” Windsor said to his wife with a sneer.
Maggie saw Laurent frown at the exchange between their friends.
“Well, anyway,” Maggie said quickly. “I worked the Gaston angle a long time and I really thought he could’ve done it, you know?” She wasn’t sure she was ready to announce to the world who she was now leaning toward as the killer of St-Buvard. She looked at Laurent again as he carefully cut up his lamb. She particularly wasn’t sure she was ready to announce her suspicions to Laurent.
“Yes? Well?” Windsor prodded. “Come on, Maggie, quit baiting us. Who done it?”
“It’s not a game, Windsor,” she said. “I mean, if Bernard has gone to prison for a crime he didn’t commit...and there’s somebody roaming around who’s killed―”
“Yeah, yeah, terrible misjustice,” Windsor said in a bored voice―his best imitation of Connor MacKenzie. “I promise not to tell the rest of the village.”
“As if they’d listen,” Grace said.
“What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” he said icily.
I don’t believe this. They’re going to have a row right in front of us on Christmas Eve. Maggie looked at Laurent with dismay. He was watching Windsor.
Grace looked up at Laurent and smiled. “Have I mentioned how delicious this lamb is, Laurent? Your best effort. A Christmas Eve dinner to remember.” She picked up her water glass. “Let’s toast it, shall we? Christmas Eve among good friends? Expatriots...” she tipped her glass to Laurent, “...save one...at Christmas. I’d toast with what I’m sure is an absolutely scrumptious rosé but,” she turned and spoke emphatically to Windsor, “...I’m fully three months pregnant and I need to start taking care of myself. Cheers, darlings. I love you both.”
The three of them drank the wine. Windsor sat and ate, his hand never reaching for his wine glass until he was reasonably sure he could not be mistaken as joining in on the proposed toast.
“I think Jean-Luc Alexandre killed Connor,” Maggie said quietly as she replaced her wine glass next to her plate. She watched Laurent out of the corner of her eye and detected no reaction from him. He savored the wine and confronted his dinner plate.
“Jean-Luc?” Windsor looked surprised. So did Grace.
“That’s right,” Maggie said. “I’d mildly suspected him on and off for the last week but a conversation with Danielle Marceau this afternoon threw a few things into a different light for me.”
“You saw Danielle?” Laurent looked up from his plate. “Quand?”
“I spoke with her,” Maggie corrected. “On the phone. I wanted to wish her a Joyeux Noël and to tell her that I’d be stopping by on Christmas Day with a bowl of Texas chili...”
“You are not sérieux.”
“...and I wanted to be sure she’d be home.”
“Texas chili?” Grace asked.
“Anyway,” Maggie looked around the table. “Do you people want to hear what she told me to narrow my focus on the murder or do you want to obsess about Maggie bringing a French family chili on Christmas?”
Laurent cleared his throat. “I, for one,” he said, “would like to hear more about this Texas chili.”
Maggie ignored him. “We got to talking and she told me―” She looked at Laurent, “Did you know this? Domaine St-Buvard used to belong to Jean-Luc’s family?”
Laurent shrugged as if to say he was aware of this fact and assumed most of the free world was too. He refilled Windsor’s and Maggie’s wineglasses, and then his own.
“She said that the Alexandre’s prized their land above all else―”
“Is that why they sold it off more than seventy years ago?” Laurent asked.
“Are you telling me they don’t prize their land?”
“You are trying to make a case that Jean-Luc would kill for my land―”
“No, no, I’m not. It’s a part of the reason he killed. Not for your land. But if Connor was going to build his American museum...” She glanced at Windsor and Grace for confirmation on this part and they both nodded slowly. “...then, it’s bad enough that the parking lot runs parallel to Jean-Luc’s place, but if he used to actually own the property that’s now going to become a parking lot...” Maggie looked around the room with satisfaction.
“And this is your motive for Jean-Luc’s killing Connor?” Windsor asked.
“Windsor, you don’t understand how the French feel about land,” Maggie said with frustration. “It would kill Jean-Luc to see Domaine St-Buvard turned into a cement building full of abstract paintings and found-art sculptures and outside, big yellow lines drawn―on the very spot his family used to grow their precious vines―to tell people where to park their Jags and Peugots. Am I wrong, Laurent?” She looked defiantly at him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“It’s a better motive than one sees at first glance,” he admitted slowly.
Windsor looked at Laurent. “You think the old guy did it too?” he asked with incredulity.
“Non, non.” Laurent waved the idea away, but his rejection of the idea seemed halfhearted to Maggie.
“There’s more,” Maggie said, reaching for her wine again.
“More things Danielle told you?” Grace asked, her turquoise eyes sparkling with pleasure and anticipation.
Maggie nodded. “She said Jean-Luc was always jealous of his older brother, Patrick. Adored him and wanted him all to himself but resented all the fuss that everyone always made over him.”
“How does this tie in with Connor?” Windsor looked bewildered.
“It’s more than that, Grace,” Maggie said. “Because if someone kills once, aren’t they the most likely candidate to kill again later? I mean, two murderers in St-Buvard is a little farfetched for a village of only, what, two hundred and fifty inhabitants?”
“If that,” Grace agreed.
“So you think Jean-Luc killed Connor and he killed the Fitzpatrick family fifty years earlier?” Windsor smiled and shook his head. “What have you got against the poor old guy?” He laughed but Laurent and Grace did not join him.
“We found out that Jean-Luc was the one who discovered the bodies of the Fitzpatricks,” Grace said, watching Maggie carefully.
Laurent frowned. “Vraiment?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Maggie said. “He found the bodies and he had motive. Jealousy.”
“How old would he have been then?” Grace asked.
“About seventeen.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Laurent said, finally. “It was a long time ago.”
Maggie turned to him quickly. “Blowing four people away in cold blood? Two of them children? I’d say it matters, Laurent. This is not dodging the draft or smoking dope in your foolish teen years.”
He shrugged, unwilling to pursue the dispute.
“How reliable is Danielle?” Grace asked, chewing slowly.
“Good point,” Laurent said. “Eduard wants the land just as badly.”
“And he hated Connor,” Windsor added. “The whole village knew that.”
Maggie shook her head. “It can’t be Eduard,” she said, surprising them. “He didn’t even live in St-Buvard fifty years ago so he couldn’t have done the other crime...”
“And who ever killed Connor has to be the same one who killed the Fitzpatricks?” Laurent was smiling now.
“It’d be nice, don’t you think?” Grace said.
“Tidy, anyway,” Windsor said.
“Well, what are you going to do next?” Windsor asked. “Go to the cops? Free Bernard?”
“Perhaps a little more evidence would be good,” Laurent said, still smiling, as he replenished their wine glasses once more.