Murder in the South of France: Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

Or the realization that he was gone.

  Nicole hadn’t spoken a word all night, but Maggie wasn’t worried. She assumed the poor thing was frightened, and she had every confidence that her mother would bring Nicole around—with love and chocolate chip cookies and unfailing doting.

  Nicole was small—smaller at five years than Maggie had imagined she’d be. All the Newberry women were tall, leggy creatures. All except Maggie, who was the recipient of the family’s good-natured teasing for her sole petiteness.

  Sole until now, it seemed.

  The girl’s hair was dark, unlike Elise’s. Her eyes were wide and fringed with thick lashes. Her full bottom lip quivered slightly.

  Now, as Maggie watched her, it occurred to her that Nicole wasn’t really frightened so much as she was…nothing. She didn’t flinch or cry or recoil at Maggie’s touch or words. She simply stared, her face a blank mask, her eyes dry.

  Maggie tried to imagine Nicole as a part of their family, with a place at the Thanksgiving Day table, her own stocking at the hearth, and knowing her grandfather’s jokes and feeble puns as well as the rest of them did.

  Was it possible this little collection of bones and tremors would someday be a laughing, happy, integral part of the Newberry clan in Atlanta? Maggie stroked the little girl’s hair. Nicole did not flinch.

  Maggie gazed out the airplane window and felt a needle of fear war with the excitement and warmth of the memory of his arms around her, his kisses on her.

  Would she ever see him again?

  Eight hours later, Maggie scanned the crowd at Hartsfield International Airport for her parents, Big John and auburn-haired Southern beauty queen Elspeth, the Newberry matriarch.

  She glanced down at her charge, who huddled by her side. Nicole looked even less like a blood relation this morning, Maggie thought. She was so dark—more like Maggie—but unlike Maggie, Nicole’s features were blunt and full. Her eyes were round as an owl’s and dark.

  The child had spoken not a word the whole trip. She’d given no indication that she needed to go to the lavatory, wanted water, was hungry, was fatigued, or even fearful. Nothing. She had sat in her seat, her new, airport-bought outfit making her look like a refugee from Disneyland, and stared out the window of the airplane. Maggie spoke to her in French and then English. No response.

  Maggie saw her parents waiting for her at the top of the escalator. They looked fretful as their eyes searched the crowd for her. She watched them, her waving hand faltering a bit. In a flash, she realized they were not really looking for Nicole. She could see the look in their eyes. In a strange, inexplicable way, they were looking for Elise.

  Maggie’s hand dropped to her side and she felt sick with the intensity of her parents’ longing. She looked down at Nicole, who stood motionless beside her. They would not find their Elise here, Maggie thought sadly.

  “Maggie! Darling! John, she’s over here.” Maggie looked up and smiled at them. She propelled the girl forward and Nicole walked robot-like into the arms of her maternal grandparents.

  “Darling, you’re here!” Maggie felt her mother’s hug, and the light, familiar scent of Chanel No. 5.

  Maggie watched her mother greet Nicole. Elspeth touched the child without hesitation, ignoring Nicole’s blank expression. Elspeth smiled at Nicole with true joy and hugged her to her. Maggie could see Nicole stiffen, but she did not resist.

  “Long flight, darling?” Maggie’s father leaned over and gave her a squeeze.

  “Not too bad. She doesn’t speak any English. Nicole? Voici your grandmère et grandpère.” Maggie straightened up and shook her head. “She’s been through a lot.”

  “Of course she has.” If Elspeth Newberry was less than impressed with her brand-new and only granddaughter, she did not show it. The girl stood quietly among them. “It’s just going to take a little time,” Elspeth said as she knelt beside the child, the silken hem of her designer dress dusting the airport tile. “And we’ve got lots of that, don’t we, ma petite?” She touched the girl’s face with her hand and looked into her dark, expressionless eyes.

  Maggie’s father shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “The casket?”

  “Yeah, about that,” Maggie said. “There was a miscommunication or something. When I went to get the paperwork at the airport yesterday morning, they said there wasn’t to be a casket.”

  “You didn’t bring Elise home?” Maggie saw her father’s face contort into a grimace and he quickly looked at her mother.

  “No, I did, Dad,” Maggie said. She tapped the hard leather box strapped to her luggage. “They cremated her. I’m sorry. They were apologetic about the misunderstanding.”

  Her father stared at the leather box and then gently put a hand on it. “Pretty big misunderstanding,” he said.

  “We can still run DNA tests on it. You know, to be sure.”

  “Let’s just get your niece and your mother home in one piece,” her father said. Maggie could tell he was barely holding it together, and that it wasn’t easy. “Brownie came with us,” he said. “He’s out by the car.”

  “Brownie?” Maggie looked at her mother, who had stopped walking and was waiting for Maggie and her father to catch up. Brownie and Maggie had dated in high school—seriously enough for Brownie to achieve the coveted title of honorary family member with Maggie’s parents. The two had eventually decided to be just friends. At least, Maggie had.

  “He didn’t want to come in, dear.” Maggie’s mother stood and shifted her purse to her shoulder. “He thought it should just be the family when we all met. Although, I told him he was certainly family as far as we were concerned.”

  Maggie’s heart twisted at the memory of Laurent standing at the Nice Airport departure lounge, his big hands shoved in his pockets, his feet planted solidly. He had surprised her by coming to see her off. While she had to admit their goodbye at the house had been heartbreakingly lacking as far as she was concerned, she had tried to force herself to accept that he probably viewed the liaison for what it was: two convenient ships connecting in the night.

  I mean, he’s French after all.

  She was still amazed that every moment of that magical afternoon at the abandoned house by the sea seemed to have been completely untouched for her by the notion that they would, of course, part. It simply hadn’t occurred to her. Remembering him now, as he stood watching her walk away down the long corridor to Security and the flight gates beyond, little Nicole shuffling along beside her, she just wanted to break down and cry.

  When they pulled into the long drive of her parents’ home, Maggie couldn’t help but look at Nicole for her reaction to the house. She had guessed correctly there would be little visible effect, but it was hard to resist looking. As for herself, she felt the same happiness and belonging she always did when she came home. Not too large, certainly not by the standards of the neighborhood which showcased the biggest and the best in Atlanta homes, the Newberry homestead was covered in a tangle of magnolias, weeping willows and oak trees that gave the mansion a feeling of intrigue, even masquerade.

  That night, as she lay in her bed unable to sleep, she turned to catch a whiff of her mother’s roses. They grew in profusion right outside her window, and her mother had gathered several in a crystal vase on Maggie’s bedside table. Maggie watched the sheers on her window puff toward the bed and then go slack as the gentle Georgia night breeze cooled the house. It seemed to waft the lovely rose scent right into the bed with her.

  She closed her eyes and remembered so many under-the-cover giggles with her sister in this house, teasing and conspiring together. As sleep began to claim her, Maggie found herself wondering if Elise’s little foreign-born daughter—sleeping now in Elise’s old room—had ever heard her mother laugh.

  It occurred to her that she had never heard Laurent laugh.

  * * *

  “You did well, me bucko, quite well. I’m impressed.” Roger leaned back in the chair and finished off his Campari and soda.

 
“It is not like that, Roger.”

  “Well, whatever it’s like, old boy, I’m impressed. She was a handful right from the start and I couldn’t have done it without your running interference for me. Although, I must say, to get paid on top of your rapports sexuels seems a bit much under the circumstances, don’t you think?”

  “I think life is good, Roger. Give me my half of the money.”

  “Yes, well, next time, you go out and get muck up your pant legs and I’ll stay back to comfort the dove, eh?”

  “Where did you find the girl?”

  “You know where. Does it matter?”

  Laurent shrugged and counted his euros.

  “Don’t trust me, Laurent?”

  “Anyone can make a miscalculation, Roger. Do not be offended.” He looked at his friend and held up his own drink. “And I think I have miscalculated how long this business will take.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need to go to the US to finish the job.”

  “Oh, really? Well, that’s up to you, of course.” Bentley stood and dropped a few coins onto the table. “But I’d be careful, old son. They do things quite differently in America. Take it from me.” He clapped the big Frenchman on the shoulder. “Quite bloody differently.”

  4

  The parking ticket dispenser stuttered abruptly then stopped, without the tongue-like flick proffering the needed ticket to park for the day. The machine simply burped to a halt. Gary leaned out his BMW and smacked the machine with his hand. It whirred and spat out several tickets at once. He grabbed one while the orange-striped arm at the entrance barricade lifted to allow his car into the garage.

  Gary parked his car, hopped out and wriggled into the coat jacket he’d tossed onto the back seat. It was a fine day. Last night’s pitch to Huffy Tractor Lites had gone well. He’d been in good form, anticipating questions, offering suggestions in an “even-if-you-don’t-hire-us-as-your-agency” manner—ingratiating and fluid. He felt only a little nauseated in retrospect.

  It used to help that Darla didn’t take his business seriously, even if he had to. Darla was a light touch in a feverish world. She used to tease him about the amount of “servicing” his clients required. Lately, however, it seemed her teasing was laced with less humor and more irony.

  He marched off the elevator and nodded to the receptionist positioned like a marine in her guard box just inside the foyer of Selby and Parker’s Advertising. “Maggie in yet?” he called out as he thundered down the hall to his office.

  “Yes, Gary,” the receptionist chirped. “She signed in an hour ago.”

  He stopped at one of the offices, his briefcase dangling from one hand and pushed open the door.

  “So, you’re back?”

  Maggie turned in her chair and swiveled away from her computer screen. She was wearing a deep, emerald green suit that dramatically accentuated her coal-colored hair. He was surprised to see her looking so pretty. Usually, as fond of her as he was, he neglected to notice her in the physical sense. Today, she seemed to radiate allure. He found it unsettling.

  She smiled at him. “Clearly.”

  “You look good. What’s the deal?”

  “What do you mean what’s the deal?”

  “No kidding, you look good. Did something happen?”

  “Will you stop being so offensive. Nothing happened. There is no deal.”

  “You met somebody over there.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “You’re incredible.”

  “So, what did you do, meet some frog, boff him, have his child, win over a small village and then think you could just show up for work like I wouldn’t notice or something?” He moved into her office to get a better look at her. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a Frenchman.”

  “No shit. You went to France.”

  “Do you want to hear about him?”

  “Of course. Lunch? You can tell me everything. Just remember, nothing gross or anything that involves swapping body fluids while I’m eating, okay?” Gary smacked a rolled-up sheath of papers against his thigh. “Meanwhile, let’s do traffic. Would you get Deirdre to call the meeting over the PA? I haven’t had coffee yet.” He hurried down the corridor to his office.

  Maggie’s cellphone sat on her desk seeming to mock her. She couldn’t help checking it every fifteen minutes to see if Laurent had called. He hadn’t. In spite of that, she was aware that she was at least trying to put him and their week together out of her mind—something that would’ve been unthinkable at any time yesterday. Today, she let open a small window of possibility she might never hear from him again.

  “Traffic meeting in the conference room,” the public address system announced in wall-rattling tones. Their receptionist was new.

  Maggie gathered up her work diary of the week’s schedule of jobs in-house and her laptop and proceeded to the conference room.

  Selby & Parker, once Selby and Associates, was a friendly little ad shop of ten employees and 1.2 million dollars in billings. None of them were going to retire any time soon on the fees of their clients, but they were comfortable for the moment. Up until last year, Gary had been just another copywriter, like Maggie. But the death of their then president, a nefarious wheeler-dealer, had left a clear path for someone with guts and initiative to take over the helm. So, with the bulk of his life savings and the support of his wife, Gary had stepped in to fill the void.

  Maggie took her place at Gary’s right hand at the small conference room table. Joining them was the agency art director, Bob Mason, the senior art director, Pokey Lane, the media buyer, Dr. Patricia Stump, and the traffic manager, Deirdre Potts.

  Gary began the meeting by indicating that he wanted the meeting short, to the point, and everyone back at work racking up those billable hours as soon as possible.

  “All right, Deirdre,” he said briskly. “What have we got?”

  Before Deirdre could speak, the media director, Patti Stump, who was seated on the other side of Gary, tapped the table with her pen to get Gary’s attention.

  “You said you’d make a decision on my office, Gary.” Her blonde hair was teased into a frizzier version of what Gary was sure was popular these days. Her makeup was a little toned down today, though, and she looked, if not pretty, at least not awful.

  He took a long breath to bear what was to come, but he was fast tiring of all the petty squabbles and imbecilic demands from his employees—most of whom reminded him of so many bratty children. If this is the life of a CEO, you can have it.

  “Is this something we should be discussing in a traffic meeting?”

  “I can’t get you alone outside meetings and you’re not returning any of my emails or texts.”

  “I’m not?” Gary looked at his cellphone, as if the problem must be with his equipment.

  “You said I could have Pokey’s corner office as soon as he bumped up to Nigel’s old office.”

  Gary sighed with exaggeration and looked at Pokey. “Are you out?”

  “Yes, boss,” Pokey said with a slow drawl. “Ages ago.”

  Gary looked back at Patti. “I really do not want to waste billable time talking about this crap.”

  “The problem, Gary,” Patti said breathily, “is about the chair you said I could have. It’s expensive and Jenny, the new girl, won’t order it unless you—”

  “No. No chair. Deirdre? May we continue?” Gary looked at the traffic manager, who in turn looked at Patti, who clearly was not done.

  “But you said I could have it!” Patti said, raising her voice and tossing down her pen.

  “I can’t imagine in what universe I would have said you can have an expensive chair, Patti,” Gary said, tossing down his own pen onto the table. “Move into Pokey’s office. In fact, Pokey, help her do that, please, right after this meeting.”

  “I don’t need or want his help!”

  He turned to her and put his hand out as if to prevent
her from standing. “We’re done talking about the chair. Anything more you want to say, text me.”

  “So you can just ignore me better?” Patti said, her face flushed with her frustration.

  Gary turned away. “Let’s go, Deirdre,” he said firmly.

  * * *

  “I’m afraid it’s going to take awhile.” Elspeth Newberry spoke quietly into the phone. “She’s very unresponsive. Mostly just sits by herself and stares. She doesn’t even seem to want a toy or a stuffed animal to cling to.”

  “What did the doctor say?” Maggie shifted the phone receiver to her other ear and absently pushed the shift key to bring the document she was working on back to the computer screen.

  “He said she’s a little undernourished—”

  “I meant her mental state.”

  “He recommended she be seen by someone. But I’d like to wait and see what a stable home life and love will do first.”

  Maggie turned away from her computer terminal and glanced out her office window. The sky was a hard wash of blue-gray with a battalion of puffed-wheat clouds moving quickly across it, their edges heavy with the promise of rain. “Do you see any sense of Elise in her?”

  “Well, of course I do. Will you be coming for dinner tonight, dear?”

  “No, I’m seeing Brownie, but maybe tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow will be fine. Oh! We want to talk with you about adding a security system on your apartment too, Maggie.”

  “I don’t need it, Mom.”

  “It’s not for you, sweetheart. It’s for your father and me. We have trouble sleeping knowing you’re in mortal danger.”

  Maggie laughed and so did Elspeth.

  “Come over tomorrow if you can. And don’t worry about Nicole. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

  Maggie hung up and turned back to her document on the screen, but she couldn’t seem to focus on the work. She rested her fingers on the keyboard.

  What had Gerard done to the poor kid?

  Come to that, what had Elise done to her?