Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

“And the priest who used to be―”

  “Dead.”

  “I see. Convenient.”

  “Mother!” Maggie laughed and leaned back into the pillows on the couch. Laurent had made a fire for her before he left to have a drink in town, and it danced in front of her now. She could smell their Christmas dinner bubbling and baking away in the kitchen. She felt happy and contented on this Christmas Day with its many mysteries and questions.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” Elspeth said, laughing too. “Piecing the puzzle together isn’t easy when some of the pieces have already passed on to the great beyond.”

  “I’ll say. You know what’s even weirder? Every time I see Patrick’s grave, there are fresh flowers on it. And last night, after Mass? There was a red carnation on the baby’s grave. Someone knows the story here. Maybe I should just wait outside behind a tree or something and see who comes bearing flowers. What do you think?”

  “I think you should dress warmly, whatever you do.”

  “It’s snowing here. Nicole would love it.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet it’s beautiful. I’m sorry we can’t see you before our return flight. Do you know when you’ll be back in Atlanta?”

  “Mom, Laurent’s decided not to sell Domaine St-Buvard.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “But he says he’ll return with me to the States if that’s what I want.”

  “And?”

  “That’s pretty much the way we’ve left it.” Maggie watched the dancing flames in the fireplace. Outside, she could see the wind whipping the tops of the little fir trees in the garden. She felt cozy and happy. “I think I’m going to go on gut feeling for awhile,” she said.

  “That’s probably wise, darling.”

  “Give my love to Dad and Nicole.”

  “And ours to Laurent.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mother. I love you.”

  “I love you too, darling.”

  6

  So any pretense of neighborliness is gone, Laurent thought, as he watched Eduard scowl at him from across the café. He approached Marceau’s table and received nothing less than a snarl, much as a dog would give to protect his property. Laurent sipped his whiskey from his own table and tried to ignore the man’s presence. The café was crowded today. It was good to see the men there, laughing, boasting and drinking their Mother’s Milk of Provence, their pastis and Pernod. Laurent felt good in their company, hearing their nasal twangs and listening to them relate to each other as only a Frenchman can. It was a feeling, a situation, that could not be contrived anywhere else in the world. It was more than that too. The men in this small village no longer stared at him when he came to drink. They knew who he was and where he belonged. They understood where his place was in their lives, in the village, and in their judgments. There was little curiosity about him now. They had accepted him as one of their own.

  Laurent caught sight of Jean-Luc’s familiar navy blue cap. He was surprised but pleased to see the old boy. Maggie’s theories notwithstanding, Jean-Luc was a man Laurent felt destined to like whether he felt he could trust him or not. And Laurent was well aware from past experience that that was almost always a dangerous mistake.

  “Joyeux Noël, Laurent!” The older man stuck out his hand and pumped Laurent’s hand enthusiastically. His face was flushed with the many Pernods he had recently downed.

  “Joyeux Noël, Jean-Luc,” Laurent replied affably. “Please, join me.” He indicated the seat next to him at the small table. He noticed that Jean-Luc did not glance to Marceau first.

  “How is Madame Dernier?” Jean-Luc asked pleasantly, as he placed his tall glass on the table and settled himself next to Laurent.

  “Bien, bien,” Laurent replied. “You are not sitting with Eduard today?” he asked pointedly.

  Jean-Luc looked briefly across the café to Marceau.

  “Eduard prefers to drink alone,” he said.

  Had there been a power shift? Laurent wondered. Surely Eduard would be enraged at Jean-Luc’s fraternizing with the hated usurper? Unless, of course, this was a setup.

  “I have never seen him like this before,” Jean-Luc said, lightly swirling the contents of his glass. “Even Danielle is worried.”

  “You spoke with Danielle? Good for you.”

  “You are a very shrewd man, Dernier,” Jean-Luc said with a rueful smile.

  “Only an observant one, my friend,” Laurent replied.

  “There is nothing between Madame Marceau and myself,” the farmer said emphatically.

  “Of course not.”

  “She is a friend from many years. We knew each other as children.”

  “She is a good woman. For being one of the richest women in St-Buvard, her life has not been easy.”

  “No,” Jean-Luc said.

  “And so how does Monsieur Alexandre spend his Christmas Day?” Laurent ordered another round of drinks for them both.

  Jean-Luc shrugged. “You’re looking at it,” he said. “And you?”

  “Christmas Dinner, of course. Will you come? It will be just the three of us.”

  Jean-Luc shook his head. “Not this year,” he said. “Your wife doesn’t trust Jean-Luc.”

  “Not to worry, old friend,” Laurent said, his smile touching his eyes. “Some of my greatest friends are not to be trusted.”

  Jean-Luc was not visibly heartened or amused by the remark. “Next year will be different.”

  “If we’re still here next year.”

  Jean-Luc looked at him in surprise. “But, you said you would not sell Domaine St-Buvard.”

  “I will not sell it.” Laurent said. “But I may not live in it myself. I may rent it out.”

  Jean-Luc rolled his eyes and finished off his drink. “Mon Dieu,” he said. “Don’t let Marceau hear you say that. I’m afraid for what he might do. Renters?” He shook his head.

  “Ahh,” Laurent said, “here comes Monsieur Van Sant, and alone, for a change.”

  Jean-Luc made a face. “It is not good to be always in the company of women,” he said.

  “Well, then you certainly have little to worry about,” Laurent replied dryly. “Windsor! Over here.” He waved to the American and watched the man’s face break into an expression of gratification to see him. Windsor was good value, Laurent decided.

  “Bonjour, Laurent, Jean-Luc,” Windsor said, extending his hand and shaking both of theirs enthusiastically. The cold had infused a rosy blush to his cheeks and the wind had rearranged his thick brown hair. He looked out of place in the little café, Laurent thought, with his coal black cashmere overcoat and Gucci loafers.

  “Come have a Christmas drink,” Laurent said expansively, motioning to the waiter again. “It’s a surprise to see you here.”

  “Yeah,” Windsor said, dragging up another chair to the table. “I’m a little surprised myself. But there’s only so much joyful, greedy delight you can see in a young child’s eyes before you want to go screaming out for the nearest bar.” He tossed his handstitched, kidskin gloves onto the table top. “I’m about Christmassed-out, if you want to know.”

  Laurent laughed and the waiter brought Windsor a tall, watery pastis.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Laurent asked him.

  “I’m surviving,” Windsor said. “Listen, I overheard something this morning at the tabac. Can you believe that place is open on Christmas morning? I’m convinced it’s really a betting shop.” He took a long drink.

  “Hair of the dog?” Laurent said, proud of his idiomatic use and enjoying Jean-Luc’s look of incomprehension.

  “Yeah, big time,” Windsor said, his hand shaking as he set the glass back down. “Anyway, I was going to pop over and tell Maggie, but now I’ll let you do the honors. It’s about Connor.”

  Laurent noticed that Windsor obviously could not resist glancing over at Jean-Luc as he spoke the dead man’s name.

  “You’ve heard something about Connor in the tabac?” Laurent asked.

  Jean-Luc studied his d
rink quietly during the other two men’s exchange.

  “Yeah, from Gaston himself. He was reading dirty magazines or something and I heard him say to the guy that works there about how he knew the man who was murdered at Domaine St-Buvard and all.”

  “He knew Connor?” Laurent asked.

  “Yeah, he said he worked for Connor, if you can believe it. I find it a little hard to, myself. He said Connor hired him to give you―” he jabbed a finger at Laurent. “―a very hard time. To scare you off, upset your wife, etcetera.”

  Jean-Luc cleared his throat and both men turned to him. “It is the truth,” he said, looking up from his drink. “MacKenzie gave the gypsy money to chase you away.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” Windsor said, sipping his drink and shaking his head.

  “When MacKenzie was killed,” Jean-Luc continued, “Lasalle came to Eduard and me, to...to see if the arrangement couldn’t be continued for different reasons.”

  There was a brief silence and then Laurent spoke.

  “Perhaps it will not make anyone’s life better for Maggie or Grace to know about this, Windsor,” Laurent said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, keep this information to yourself. Comprends?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Windsor said uncomfortably. “If you think so.”

  “I do. Maintenant...” Laurent lifted his glass up for a toast and looked at both Jean-Luc and Windsor, “a toast to the women in our lives, eh? They make our lives richer, more complicated....” he hesitated.

  “...a lot more unpleasant...” Windsor said as he raised his glass.

  “...and very necessary,” Jean-Luc finished. They all drank with satisfaction.

  At that moment, Eduard walked up to the table.

  “Bastards!” Eduard hurled the word at them and shook with rage and the morning’s alcohol. “Foreign bastards!” He turned from his address of Laurent and Windsor, to Jean-Luc. He spat on the man. Jean-Luc caught the spittle full on his chest and never flinched.

  “You, Jean-Luc Alexandre, are a traitor to your village, like your brother, Patrick!” Eduard said.

  Laurent stood up and pushed Eduard away, three blunt fingers against the older vigneron’s chest.

  “Go, Eduard,” Laurent said calmly. “Go home.”

  But Eduard had been drinking steadily all morning and was not going to be so easily dismissed.

  “Bâtard!” he said again, this time directly to Laurent. “I want you out of Domaine St-Buvard!”

  “Go home, Eduard,” Laurent repeated, turning away from him to sit back down.

  “I will kill you for this, Dernier,” the older man hissed, impotent and frustrated, from where he stood in the middle of the crowded café terrace. “I will take your land from you, I will drive you from St-Buvard.”

  Windsor’s mouth fell open as he listened to Marceau.

  “Your tricks have not managed it so far,” Laurent said over his shoulder, refusing to face the man and his vitriol directly. He thought Jean-Luc was wise to remain silent. Whatever words Jean-Luc might say would only serve to enrage Marceau further.

  “I will kill you for this,” Marceau repeated, looking from Laurent to Jean-Luc and back to Laurent. It was not clear to anyone which man he intended to kill. Indeed, the confusion seemed to be in his own mind as well. His face was contorted and flushed. His thick eyebrows looked wild, no longer distinguished, and his eyes held a manic hunger in them that even the alcohol couldn’t dull.

  The three ignored him. Eduard Marceau turned and stumbled out onto the street, knocking coats and newspapers off tables as he went. The noise of conversation resumed in the café.

  “He’s drunk,” Windsor said, watching him go.

  Jean-Luc nodded solemnly.

  “You need to be careful, Laurent,” Jean-Luc said. “Eduard has become sick.” He tapped a heavy, bent finger to the side of his head.

  Laurent picked up a menu and looked it over carefully.

  “Laurent, he threatened to kill you,” Windsor said excitedly. “You know, I think Maggie’s wrong...” He gave a guilty glance in Jean-Luc’s direction. “I think Marceau had the best motives for bumping off Connor. And to do it in your house like that...what better way to embarrass you, implicate you?”

  Laurent snapped the menu shut and caught the waiter’s eye. “Why did he not just kill me, then? Why bother killing Connor?”

  The waiter approached and Laurent ordered another round of pastis for all of them and a plate of anchovy puffs and sausages.

  “You forget,” Jean-Luc offered a little wearily. “MacKenzie wanted the land for his big American museum.” He shook his head. “A neighbor Eduard could be made to live with, but a parking lot? Traffic lights? Where once he looked out his front window and saw the sun dappling the fields of purple and green, roses planted between the vines for nuance and subtly of flavor, magpies and kestrels hovering overhead―now he was going to adjust to seeing a field of concrete stretching from his border all the way to the western slope of the village road? A field of concrete full of cars and―à Dieu ne plaise!―tour buses?” Jean-Luc shivered.

  “God, you put it like that,” Windsor said taking a swig from his drink. “I’d have killed the little turd myself.”

  7

  Maggie held the little dog in her lap and stared out the French doors to the fields beyond. She caressed a floppy ear and let her mind go across the fields, over the ancient, bordering drystone walls, and down the village road to St-Buvard. She could see how it happened now. How the Fitzpatricks came to die, how Patrick came to confess to the crime and then why he committed suicide. She could see Baby Louise and why she was buried for eternity next to the brave young Resistance fighter, and she could see a twelve-year-old girl left behind. Fatherless, motherless. With only Uncle Jean-Luc left now, and he a rough youth caring little for a poor, orphaned relation.

  Maggie shifted in her seat and cradled the dog in her arms like a small, floppy doll. Petit-Four closed its eyes and seemed to revel in the attention and petting it was receiving. Its little curly-cue of a tail wagged feebly against Maggie’s arm.

  Fifty years ago the killer had struck, violently, passionately, insanely here in Maggie’s home of Domaine St-Buvard. The man had been killed first, shot outside with a hunting rifle. There had been no indication of a struggle. Then, the woman had been killed as she stood in the doorway of Maggie’s home, her two frightened boys huddling next to the car and their father’s body. Had they been about to go for a family outing? Maggie wondered sadly. The note of intention, without doubt Patrick Alexandre’s handwriting, had been thrust into the dying woman’s fingers. Her two young sons were shot as the killer left and returned to the village. What horrific crime had been committed to warrant this terrible injustice? This elimination of innocent children? As well as the cuckold whose only crime was ignorance and trust? As well as the one loved too much? Maggie felt a cold finger trace down her spine through the layers of wool and linen. Five weeks ago, in order to punish Connor for a similar crime, or, perhaps, in the killer’s ravaged mind, to punish him for the same crime of fifty years ago, complete with a betraying lover and an unwanted pregnancy, the murderer had killed again.

  Quietly, Maggie put the dog down on the couch and pulled on her shoes. It had just occurred to her that the one person in St-Buvard who might know the most about both killings was the one person who had never even been approached.

  Maggie put on her coat, turned down the stove and locked the door behind her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1

  Danielle Marceau watched the anglaise get out of her beautiful, expensive car and march quickly and purposefully to the boulangerie. Leave it to Marie-France, she thought without rancor or judgment, to be open on Christmas Day. The baker knew there would be enough people wanting their pain-beurre or bread for dinner and having not thought to buy it yesterday.

  The French woman pulled out a lace handkerchief from her small leather purse and watched Gr
ace try the doorknob to the shop, and then knock impatiently on the glass panes of the door. The woman was showing her condition, Danielle noticed. After several moments, the bakery door jerked open and the plump shadow of Marie-France Renoir appeared. Grace entered the shop. Danielle eased back into the driver’s seat of her car and smoothed the tips of her leather gloves over her fingers.

  Eduard had stormed home an hour earlier, more distressed than she’d ever seen him, and demanded that she leave for the afternoon. He had preparations, he said, and he didn’t want her involved. Danielle had been incredulous. Leave? It was Christmas Day! She thought of the goose cooling on her kitchen counter, the vegetables simmering in their jackets on the stove, the table set for the two of them. It didn’t matter, she told herself. It would be just as nice for a Christmas supper this evening. She shivered a little in the cold car and started it up again in order to switch on the heater. How long had she been gone? When should she return home? She glanced back at the boulangerie and saw the shadowy form of Grace Van Sant as she hovered over the display case trying, no doubt, to select the pastries for her Christmas tea. Where was the little girl? Danielle wondered.

  She ran the car for a few minutes and then felt an irritation, foreign but rather pleasant, creep over her. She was cold. It was Christmas Day. Why was she sitting in a cold car in a deserted village street? As she twisted in her seat to reapply her seatbelt harness, she noticed the crowd at Le Canard Café. Through the large picture window of the café, she could see the familiar blue cap of Jean-Luc Alexandre. He was seated at a table with two other men. I’ll bet they’re not cold, she thought smiling to herself. Then, before she could think what Eduard would think, or anyone in the whole of St-Buvard, for that matter, Danielle Marceau picked up her purse, got out of her car, and stepped across the street to join the boys for a Christmas Day toddy.

  2

  Maggie picked up her pace in the cold, late afternoon air. She walked down the rough village road that led from her front door to St-Buvard. The road was deserted. Only the magpies moved in the fields, their black and white wings standing out starkly against the sky like little tuxedoes. She rounded the curve that marked the halfway point in the road to the village and quickened her steps.