Murder in the South of France: Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)
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Murder in the South of France
Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries
Susan Kiernan-Lewis
San Marco Press
Contents
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
What’s Next
About the Author
Murder in the South of France
Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries
Susan Kiernan-Lewis
Copyright 2010 by Susan Kieran-Lewis. All rights reserved.
Maggie Newberry is an advertising copywriter who’s fast on her feet and a little stunned that she’s 32 years old and hasn’t yet found “the one.” When her long-missing sister is murdered, Maggie finds herself flying to Paris and Cannes to find the little niece no one in the family even knew existed—and trying to stop her sister’s murderer before it’s too late for any of them to have a happy ending.
When handsome but very mysterious Laurent Dernier arrives upon the scene, it is not clear whether the sexy Frenchman will help or hinder the investigation into Maggie’s sister’s death. One thing is for sure, in every way that matters, he’s a beast!
1
Maggie looked at the draped body on the stainless steel gurney. There was no point in waiting any longer. She took a breath and nodded at the medical examiner, who pulled back the cover to reveal the upper portion of the body. Maggie gagged at the stench and covered her mouth and nose with both hands.
She had been warned that after four days in the water there would be little to see in the way of identifiable features. Even so, Maggie realized she had been expecting to see her sister’s face.
It was unrecognizable.
“Mademoiselle?”
Maggie tore her eyes from the amorphous, feature-less face, cheeks bloated beyond anyone’s ability to discern identity, only the drab brown hair looking remotely like Elise’s. She looked helplessly at the medical examiner. He gave a loud, annoyed sigh, covered the body with a practiced flick of his wrist and turned to the counter behind him, where he picked up a small dish and presented it to her.
Nestled in the little laboratory dish was a charm bracelet, one of two she and Elise had been given by their grandmother when they turned sixteen.
Maggie’s eyes filled with tears and she looked back at the form hidden under the laboratory drape. “It’s her,” she said, hardly recognizing her own voice, so raw and full of pain. “It’s my sister, Elise Newberry.”
A DNA test at a private lab back in the States would provide final confirmation of the news she and her family had been expecting to hear for three long years. As she turned away to exit the morgue’s presentation room, eyes streaming, she realized that even though she and her family had been preparing for this moment for years she still wasn’t ready for it.
Three hours later, Maggie sat in the terrace café of the Carlton Hotel and tried to process all that had happened in the few short days since her family had received the phone call informing them Elise was dead. Maggie had volunteered to identify the remains instead of her parents for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact there was now Elise’s daughter to locate and bring home.
Elise’s daughter, whom no one in the family had ever met or even seen a photo of. Whom, up until a year ago, no one even knew existed.
Maggie pulled out the card with Roger Bentley’s name and number on it and reflected on the phone call her father had received from Bentley four days earlier. Although the details of how Bentley knew to contact John Newberry in the first place were unclear, he had told her father he was in possession of information that could help them locate Elise’s missing child Nicole. Before that phone call, the family hadn’t even known Nicole existed, let alone was missing.
Now part one was done. The worst part. The grisly part. Maggie had seen and confirmed the last of her dearest sister in a French morgue. She glanced at her purse with the French certificate of death inside. She had spent the morning making the arrangements with the city morgue and the police department to have the body shipped back to Atlanta. Surely that will give Mom and Dad some peace? Having her back—even this way—is having her home.
Maggie took a deep breath.
Part two of her trip was still ahead of her. And for all her brave talk with her father before she left, she feared it nearly as much as looking down into the face of her dead sister.
She was going to kidnap her own niece, smuggle her onboard an international flight and bring her back to the States.
From the patio of the Carlton Hotel, Maggie could see the Promenade de la Croisette, its grand royal palms lining the broad boulevard like Titans shading the procession of a monarch. The air smelled sweet yet citrusy. If her reason for being there were different, the afternoon would have been magical. As it was, she felt as if she had been catapulted into a guest starring role in somebody else’s nightmare.
“Have you been waiting long?” He appeared from behind her and was suddenly seated next to her, breathless yet cool in all this heat. His accent was Oxbridge. “Snarl-up in Nice, sorry,” he continued brightly. “You’re Miss Newberry, right?”
Maggie nodded, a prick of relief coloring her face. He was tall, with a straight English nose and eyes that missed nothing.
“I thought so. Easy to spot from your father’s description,” he said pleasantly. “Roger Bentley.”
Maggie shook his hand and felt relief sift through her. He looked competent. He looked like he knew what he was doing. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m a little nervous about all this.”
“Of course you are. But don’t you worry a tick. Do you have my package?”
Maggie reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope with thirty thousand euros in it and handed it across the table to him. His eyes never left hers and the smile never left his face as he tucked the envelope into his coat’s breast pocket.
They would be spending several days together, she reasoned. He had plenty of time to count it at his leisure. It occurred to her that she should make him count it in front of her so he didn’t accuse her later of shortchanging him, and she hated that the thought came into her head. She needed to trust this man.
He was the one who was going to find her niece and get them safely—and quietly—out of the country. Maggie wasn’t absolutely sure why her father had paid for false papers instead of just attempting to go through the French system of getting custody of little Nicole, but she assumed much of his decision had to do with the advice he had received from Bentley.
A waiter came and set down a tray holding a china teapot, two cups and a plate of cookies. Bentley must have ordered it before joining
her at the table. For some reason, the thought made her uncomfortable.
“Did you know my sister?”
“Met her once or twice. I’m sorry about your loss, by the way. You identified her this morning?” He took a sip from his teacup.
“I did. She’ll be on the same flight with me and the little girl.”
“Very nice.” Bentley sugared his tea and picked up the teapot from the table. He poured Maggie’s cup.
“My father said you told him Nicole had been taken from Elise months before she…before she died.”
“That is correct.”
“He said you told him that the girl was…abducted…from my sister’s care.”
“By the child’s father. That is true.”
Maggie pushed her teacup away and leaned in closer to the table. “I’m just trying to find out where you fit into all this, Mr. Bentley. I suppose my question is, if you didn’t know my sister, what is your personal connection? Getting the license plate number of the car that snatched Nicole?”
“No, Miss Newberry. Driving the car that snatched Nicole.”
An hour later, Maggie stood on the terrace of the Gray d’Albion Hotel and dialed her parents on her cell phone. It was half past eight in the evening back in Atlanta and she knew they would be waiting for her call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.” Maggie watched the brilliant blue of the ocean in a constantly moving panorama of color. It hadn’t taken her very long to realize why all the movie stars and the rich were partial to the Côte d’Azur. It was undeniably gorgeous in anybody’s book.
“Darling, I’m so glad you called. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I met the guy Dad talked to and he’s going to help us find Nicole.”
“Maggie, are you sure he’s all right? This all seems so...”
“No, really, he’s very nice. So, not to worry, okay?”
“Does he...did he know anything about Elise?”
Maggie could hear the hope in her mother’s voice. “Not really, Mom.”
“I see. And did that…did you…”
“It was her, Mom.” Maggie wanted to get the words out as fast as she could so her mother could begin processing them, mourning them, getting over them—if that was at all possible. “But this Bentley guy knows where Nicole is,” Maggie hurried on. “And he can help us get her.”
“Maggie, just promise you’re being careful,”
“Yes, I’m careful. Bentley thinks I’ll have Nicole by tomorrow evening. I’m planning on being on a flight out of Nice to Atlanta either tomorrow night or first thing the next morning. But, I’ll call you first to confirm.”
“With...Elise.”
Maggie hesitated. “Yes, Mom. And Nicole.”
“Is...is the child’s father there?”
“I don’t think so. Bentley said Gerard left the area and left Nicole with some friends or something. That part’s sort of hazy. I drove by Elise’s apartment, though. It was tucked away off this little cobblestone walkway and there were big pots of geraniums and things all over the place. You would’ve loved it. It was really sort of beautiful.”
It was a lie, and Maggie didn’t know why she was telling it to her mother. She had no idea where Elise lived in Cannes, but every hint from Bentley indicated it was less than what most people would consider inhabitable.
Maggie heard unsteadiness in her mother’s voice and didn’t know whether to feel glad or guilty.
“Just be careful, darling.” The loud-and-clear subtext Maggie heard was, I’ve lost one daughter over there, I can’t lose another.
“I will, Mom.” She glanced out to sea. “Kiss Dad for me. And don’t worry, okay?”
Maggie disconnected and held the phone to her ear for another moment before dialing another number.
I wish I believed half of what I just told you, Mother. She rubbed her eyes and felt the exhaustion of the day descend on her as she waited for the call to connect.
“Selby & Parker’s Advertising.”
“Hi, Deirdre, it’s Maggie. Is Gary there?”
“Hey, Maggie. How’s Paris?”
“It’s Nice, not Paris.”
“Yeah, wow. Here’s Gary.”
“Maggie, you okay?”
“Hey, Gary. I’m fine. Just checking in.”
“There’s nothing going on here. Take us off your To-Do list. Attend to what you have to over there.”
“It’ll just be a few days. I’ll be back at my desk at the latest by day after tomorrow—”
“Will you stop? Take care of your business.”
“Okay, thanks, Gary. I’ll see you when I’m back.” Maggie disconnected and slumped one hip against the balustrade that contained the majestic stone terrace facing the sea. She had worked with Gary for five years, and recently she had begun to pick up on a restlessness in him that worried her.
It was hot out, even with the afternoon sun quickly dropping, and she needed a cool shower and a change of clothes before she met back up with Bentley. As she walked back to her hotel room, she ran her hands through her dark hair and tried to fluff it into some semblance of a casual, tousled look. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the elevator mirror, she looked like she’d been dragged down a staircase by her roots.
Her pale blue eyes were set in a heart-shaped face, lips full, chin strong and resolute. It was a pretty face, Maggie knew, but not like her older sister’s. Elise had been the great beauty of the family. Everyone knew that.
At thirty-two, Maggie had never been married and was mildly embarrassed by the fact. She worked out three times a week, indulged in a facial at least once a month and had the dead ends trimmed off her straight dark hair every six weeks without fail. Now, standing in a foreign hotel and staring at her reflection in the mirror, waiting and wondering if she could really trust her new companion, Maggie found herself in a situation she couldn’t control simply by picking up the phone or rearranging her schedule. She felt out of kilter with her body, her diet, and even the simplest attempts to communicate the most basic requests.
Before she left the elevator and its floor to ceiling mirror, she thought she saw a fleeting hologram of her sister Elise’s face form and dissolve over her own. Maggie fought the feeling of melancholia that accompanied it, shaking herself out of the mood.
Missing her and getting sad helps no one, she reminded herself. Combine it with jetlag and I’ll only succeed in making myself useless in every way.
Two hours later, after a quick shower and a nap, she pulled on a pair of slim white capris and a singlet she knew showed her figure off to full advantage. Although she wasn’t one bit interested in Roger Bentley in that way, she still wanted to look good. If not for him, then for all the gorgeous people milling about this Mecca of beauty.
Besides, in her experience dealing with recalcitrant clients at the ad agency where she worked, the better she looked, the more pliable the client became—especially the male clients, of course, but she had seen it work across the board. She tucked her purse under her arm and hurried through the lobby of the Gray d’Albion Hotel. If there ever was a time she needed to be in control, or at least perceived to be, it was now.
One of five seafood restaurants studding the Rue Felix-Faire, Petite Bouche was tiny, frill-less, staffed with the prerequisite surly waiters and absolutely crammed with Mediterranean charm. Bentley had chosen for them to meet at the little restaurant because it was so close to Maggie’s hotel.
She saw him immediately in the outdoor dining section. A bottle of wine was already being opened as she approached.
“I took the liberty of ordering the wine,” he said. She was impressed and surprised by the fact that he half stood as she neared.
She sat down and dropped her purse in the extra chair. “My mother doesn’t know what to make of all this.” She waved her hand at the dining room. “Me, here in Cannes, everything covert and under the table. You.” She looked directly at him.
“I should think not.” He poured Ma
ggie a glass of wine. “Not the usual thing at all.”
The hours that created the meal and their conversation—much of it talk that had nothing to do with her quest for her sister’s child—flew away in a swirl of wonderful food, more wine than she ever drank in a week, let alone a single meal, and the peaceful sounds of the ocean and the wandering guitar-playing minstrels.
At one point, Maggie stared at their dining table as if she’d never seen it before, let alone spent an unanticipated two and a half hours having dinner at it. A chipped crock of goose paté, a platter of half-eaten pommes frites, mushrooms Provençal, the ubiquitous Evian bottles (four of them), and the remains of two platefuls of veal and pasta.
Her eyes fell upon the pretty white saucers with the little primroses painted on them, each looking like an original, not part of a set. She pressed a finger to the crumbs, only a scattering of evidence to tell of the sticky-sweet strawberry tarts they’d both had.
“I hate to ruin the evening,” Maggie said, accepting another glass of wine, “but can you tell me how you came to be driving the getaway car, and how you know Nicole’s father...and where exactly the slimy bastard is now?”
“The slimy bastard, as you say, is no longer on the Côte d’Azur, I’m told.” Roger took a savoring sip of his wine and Maggie half expected him to smack his lips in satisfaction.
“A friend of mine asked me to help him. Gerard Dubois—the child’s father—is his cousin, and he had reason to believe that Gerard’s child needed rescuing from the mother, who he said was unfit. I’m just repeating what he said, you understand.”
“It’s okay,” Maggie said, feeling a wave of exhaustion. “Please, go on.”
“Well, he said the mother was a drug addict. I was asked to give assistance in snatching the child so that she might live with her more responsible parent.”
“Gerard.”
“Right-e-ho.” Roger squinted into the crowd, as if expecting to see someone he knew, then played with the stem of his wineglass. “In any case,” he continued, “my participation in the kidnapping, as you call it, amounted to driving a car to an address.”