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

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  She looked at the alarm clock on her nightstand; it was a little after two a.m. This wasn’t the first night Laurent had fallen asleep easily after three or four cups of strong Brazilian coffee, while Maggie fidgeted and tossed after her one meager café au lait.

  She eased away from his sleeping form and got out of bed. Making sure not to wake him, though she didn’t think anything short of another charge up the Bastille could, she gathered up a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  She set up her laptop on the dining room table, poured herself a glass of milk and rummaged in the cabinets until she found a few Oreo cookies. Rationalizing that she needed the cookies to go with the milk, that she needed to make her sleepy, she pulled on the jeans and sweatshirt over her filmy silk chemise.

  “What is it?” Laurent’s sleepy voice came to her from the bedroom.

  So much for her assumption he was a sound sleeper. She walked to the bedroom door. “Nothing, go back to sleep,” she whispered, then turned and sat down at the dining room table to sort out her thoughts with the investigation so far.

  Laurent appeared in the doorway, dressed, his hair mussed and full about his face, his eyes squinting against the light in the dining room.

  “Oh, Laurent, go back to bed. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I am not sleeping good when you are gone,” he said, holding a huge hand up to contain a yawn.

  She saw him looking around the dining room and she hoped he wasn’t going to make them something to eat.

  “I will go for cigarettes,” he said, tapping his tee shirt pocket as if to show there were none where they should be.

  “Really? Laurent, it’s past two in the morning.”

  He shrugged, now more fully awake, and tucked his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.

  “There’s an Amoco station open on the corner, down Peachtree,” she said, turning back to her laptop.

  “I will be back,” he said, kissing her before disappearing out the door. Maggie tried to sense if there were any vestiges left over from their fight. She could feel none from him. No emotional hangover, no recriminations.

  Was it true what he said? Was she not making room for him in her heart? She thought she was so gaga over him she was downright foolish in most matters that concerned him. She ate when she wasn’t hungry. She drank when she knew she’d already had too much. She trusted him implicitly when there was no real reason to do so after the very short amount of time they’d known each other.

  Whoa. Where did that come from? She rested her fingers on the keyboard and stared ahead. Was she afraid she trusted him in spite of herself? Was there something going on underneath the infatuation and the passion—something Laurent detected—something in her that was resisting him?

  Every single person in her life, with the possible exception of her father, who had his own form of infatuation with Laurent, had dropped comments or asides to the effect that she was getting in too deep too fast. Her mother, Gary, Brownie…even Darla had exhibited surprise to see the two of them moving so fast.

  As usual, Laurent was several strides ahead of her. He knew what she had only begun feeling in a distracted, unformed way—that she wasn’t quite sure of him. Somewhere not so deep down she hadn’t forgotten that there had been no word from him for six months. And no explanation as to why not.

  What could she possibly do about it? She couldn’t ask him to move out. She didn’t want him to move out. Her mind flitted back to a moment a few hours earlier under the covers at the height of their make-up sex. She blushed at the thought and stood to shake off the feeling. It was a wonderful feeling, to be sure. It was also a feeling of loss of control.

  Maggie opened the dining room window, which looked out over the back parking lot and adjacent woods. It was a cool night, unusual for late August. Aside from the reputational splendor of living at The Parthenon, Maggie had been drawn to this apartment building because it felt like a little bit of country in the heart of the city. It, and a few residential houses in the neighborhood, shared a fair-sized tract of woods. The stand of trees was thick and forbidding though, protected by some stubborn dowager who’d owned the property for generations and who’d refused to sell to developers.

  Peachtree Creek flowed through the forest and Maggie had seen raccoons and foxes in it. Once, after she moved in, she had indulged in a little exploration in the woods. For a few moments she’d felt like she was somewhere on the Appalachian Trail. She’d also been stung by a bee and hadn’t gone back in four years.

  Tonight, the moon cast an eerie incandescence over the wooded patch. Blackened tree limbs were elongated by shadows and stretched out in all directions like skinny witches’ arms beckoning her. She shivered and enjoyed the comfort of her little lighted nook in the darkness.

  Suddenly, from where she stood at the window, she heard a noise from outside. She took a breath and held it, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. The wind seemed to have risen. She could hear it moaning in the trees. And then the sound again, like a dog in pain.

  She pulled on her sneakers and stuck her keys and a small flashlight from the kitchen drawer in the pocket of her jeans. As she closed the apartment door behind her, the hall lights, triggered by her movement, blinked on. Maggie ran down the hall and pulled open the heavy outside door at the end of the corridor.

  The moon, although not quite full, kept her path lighted making her flashlight unnecessary. She hurried to the opening of the woods in front of her dining room window. When she glanced up at her apartment window, she was surprised to see her dining room illuminated clearly and distinctly.

  “Here, boy,” she called. “Where are you, puppy?” She wished she’d picked up her can of mace instead of the flashlight. She heard the dog whimper directly ahead of her. Clicking on her flashlight, she moved through the trees and into the opening of the woods, toward the sound. As the darkness engulfed her, she strained to hear in spite of the thundering of her heart in her head.

  Then she saw it.

  A scruffy little terrier with floppy ears and big dark eyes was tied to a small sapling across a six-foot ravine. Her emotions seesawed between relief at having found him and trepidation that human hands had clearly put him there. She could see a representative trickle of Peachtree Creek at the bottom of the ravine. A few miles away it would turn into a proper creek, but here it was just a moving, damp creek bed.

  She grabbed at branches and rocks as she slid her way down the steep side of the slope to the bottom of the muddy creek bed. The puppy squirmed against its bonds and watched her approach with large, frightened eyes.

  “It’s okay, boy,” she said, trying to keep herself calm as much as the dog. “I’m coming.” Her light flashed spasmodically along the leaf-choked side of the ravine. She took a couple of steps up the other side, her fingers reaching for the little dog and his rope. She pulled at the hemp twine but it held fast. The puppy whimpered again.

  Maggie knelt down on one knee near the puppy and pulled out her house keys.

  “It’s all right, boy,” she said, using the teeth of her keys to saw at the twine. She reached for the animal and it cried out. She shone the light on him and saw that the dog was covered in blood.

  Maggie gave the weakened piece of twine a sharp jerk and pulled it free of the tree. She quickly picked up the animal, ignoring its cry, and tucked it against her.

  It was then that she heard the other noise.

  It was the sound of movement in the woods above her, the movement of something heavy treading on leaves and sticks. The sound of someone trying to be stealthy.

  Fighting the urge to panic, Maggie clutched the dog and climbed up the steep side of the ravine. The dog trembled against her. Her mouth was dry and she could feel the beginnings of terror start to unravel her mind. Who was out here? She reached for a hanging root and hoisted herself a few feet higher up the ravine. As she neared the top, her hands were trembling and clumsy with fear, her hear
t fluttering in her throat.

  She sensed her assailant behind her before she heard him. She tried desperately to climb the last few feet up the ravine before he could reach her, but everything felt as if it was moving in slow motion.

  She was only vaguely aware of dropping the puppy. She heard it cry as if from a long distance. She smelled a light fragrance, like violets or lily of the valley. And then a blinding pain crept up from the back of her head, and the dark, damp ravine bottom of Peachtree Creek rushed up to slam into her face.

  18

  The dog, just a puppy, was nestled in Maggie’s arms where she lay on the couch, both of them enrobed in a thick afghan. Laurent had bandaged the worst of the dog’s cuts—his feet were missing several toenails and there were a few shallow slashes across its rump—and fed him, of course. Now it slept deeply and peacefully, as if it hadn’t been tortured and beaten the night before, tied to a tree and thrown down a ravine.

  Maggie touched its floppy ears and smoothed a hand over its brow but the dog only twitched and slept on.

  Maybe, on some subconscious level, she had believed the suspect Burton had in custody really had killed Elise. And maybe she really did think—deep down—that the maniac who’d been gallivanting all over Buckhead last summer was the same guy, and so now the streets were safe again. What other explanation could there be for the fact that she had gone into the woods last night?

  That was pretty much what Laurent wanted to know, too. In fact, the tone of his questions ran a wide gamut, from reasonable soft-spoken ones to thundering what-were-you-thinking ones. If Maggie thought she had seen him upset before last night, the man had totally rewritten the chapter on frenetic worry since then. The way he carried on, she wondered if he’d ever allow her out of his sight again.

  But whatever the reason was, the fact remained that she hadn’t felt particularly afraid to go running around in the woods in the middle of the night. And the cold truth was that foolish decision had nearly cost her her life.

  If not for Laurent.

  He had returned to the apartment and found her gone and begun an immediate and noisy search of The Parthenon grounds, which awakened the night watchman as well as a good number of the residents. He had likely succeeded in scaring off Maggie’s assailant, too.

  Maggie picked up the icepack and held it to the back of her head. Laurent had found her lying crumpled at the bottom of the ravine, a large, swelling knot on the back of her head, the wounded terrier cowering by her side. He had insisted they spend the rest of the early morning in the emergency room at Piedmont Hospital to confirm that Maggie would not lose her memory or begin reciting chants in Urdu at some point in the future.

  She was released with the assurance that, although painful, she had sustained only a mild concussion. As she sat in her living room, her head banging like a kettledrum being attacked by a shovel, it felt anything but mild.

  Laurent entered the room, his eyes clouded with concern. He held a steaming mug of tea and a small flask of amber-colored liqueur. Wordlessly, he placed the tea in front of her and handed her the brandy.

  “I feel like I’m in an old Bette Davis movie,” she said, wincing as she drank the brandy. It hurt to tip her head back and the fluid burned in her throat.

  “You have called Gary?” Laurent sat down on the couch.

  She nodded and deposited the icepack in a bowl on the coffee table.

  Laurent had called the police from the emergency department, but Maggie insisted he not report it but speak only to Burton or Kazmaroff. Laurent left a message.

  That was six hours ago and they had yet to call back.

  As she watched Laurent’s face, so full of helpless anxiety and frustration, she felt a sudden urge to tell him not to worry. She would promise to stop asking questions and stop trying to find out what happened to Elise. She knew their lives would settle down if she did. And surely her love for Laurent was big enough that she could give him that much? She watched him with guilt and caring and said nothing.

  The phone rang and Laurent picked it up. “Allo?” He handed it to her. “It is Brownie.”

  Maggie accepted the phone as Laurent took the empty brandy glass into the kitchen. After she hung up, she padded barefooted to the kitchen. She wore a faded pair of navy sweat pants and a light cotton sweatshirt. Laurent was peering into the refrigerator, his back to her, rigid and expectant.

  “He wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Ah, yes?” Laurent looked over his shoulder.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I don’t mind, chérie. We French are secure!” He turned to face her.

  She moved forward and slipped easily into his arms. “Good thing. Makes up for my wobbly American ways.”

  He tilted her chin up with his fingers and kissed her on the mouth. “Perhaps a little food would help?”

  “No food,” she said firmly. “Oh! What about the dog? He needs to be seen by a vet.”

  “Monsieur Danford will take him today.”

  “I don’t know, Laurent. Do you trust that guy? He’ll probably chop him up for a stew to cook on his hot plate or something down there.”

  “He is happy to earn a few dollars to be of assistance to us, ma petite. He will take the dog and return him safely.”

  The outdoor buzzer sounded. Maggie looked questioningly at Laurent, who shrugged. She pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “Miss Newberry? It’s Detectives Burton and Kazmaroff. Will you let us in, please?”

  Maggie sat on the couch next to Laurent, a mug of tea in her hands, the sleeping puppy in her lap. Opposite them, in mismatched tub chairs, sat Kazmaroff, in his cool chinos and Vuarnet sunglasses, and Burton, precision-pressed and held together like a rubber band around a bundle of nerves.

  “As you know, we have a suspect in custody who has confessed fully to the crime.”

  “Can you tell me his name?”

  “Robert Donnell.” Kazmaroff opened his flip-top smart phone and began reading from it. “He works as a bank teller at a Fulton County National Bank branch in Buckhead, where he has been a teller for twelve years. Preliminary questioning of his co-workers revealed he was thoughtful, considerate, but a little standoffish. He has no girlfriend and has never been married. He has a cat, but no friends or acquaintances outside of work. Most of his co-workers were not surprised at that.”

  “So what you’re saying is he just randomly killed Elise for no particular reason.”

  “It’s what he is saying. Yes.” Burton rubbed his hands together and made a squeaking popping sound with them. “Miss Newberry, even a psycho thinks he’s got a reason to kill. I mean, it may be a nuts reason, but it makes sense to him.”

  Maggie felt tired all of a sudden. She wanted to go take a nap…for the rest of the week. She felt a chilling nimbus of loneliness envelope her as the detectives appeared to subtly retract any help or support. “And what about the attack on me last night?”

  “The attack—which we are of course investigating—doesn’t appear to be connected to our case.”

  “How can you say that?” Laurent’s voice boomed out impatiently, causing Maggie to look at him in surprise.

  “Because we have our suspect for her sister’s murder in custody,” Kazmaroff said uncertainly. Maggie noticed that both detectives reacted to Laurent’s question as if the dozing bear in the circus had just slipped his chains.

  “Maggie’s sister is killed and two months later Maggie is attacked and it is a coincidence?” Laurent was standing now.

  “Look,” Kazmaroff said as he stood up. He gave Laurent a conspiratorial smile that suggested he would now tell him some inside dope, man to man. Maggie began to see why his partner couldn’t stand him. “I don’t know what city in France you’re from, but there is a lot of crime in this city. We average two fatalities a rush hour every single day. Did you know that?” He looked at Maggie and she couldn’t help but think she detected a note of pride in his tone. “We rank in the top ten
cities across the country for homicides.”

  She bit her tongue not to say unsolved.

  “So if you’re asking could your sister be murdered one month and you mugged the next and those crimes have absolutely nothing to do with each other?” He addressed this last comment to Laurent. “Absolutely.”

  Maybe Burton picked up on the fact Laurent looked like he was inches away from wiping Kazmaroff’s unctuous smile off his face with his fist, because Burton put a hand out as if to calm everyone down.

  “We are certainly going to investigate who did what to whom last night, you can be sure of that. Okay?” He looked at Laurent as if that might reassure him.

  “What about the phone call I got last week saying I was the next victim?”

  Burton looked at her in confusion. “You got a threatening phone call?”

  Laurent threw up his hands. “C’est ridicule!”

  “Yes. I left you a message that I got a phone call saying I was next,” Maggie said. “Sounds pretty connected to me.”

  Burton glanced at his partner and the two of them began to move toward the door. “We’ll pull the records on your landline to trace the phone call, okay? I guarantee you it was just a fluke and it’ll show up as the home number for a little old lady with nothing better to do than watch true crime reenactment shows and try to spice up her life. I’m sorry, but in my experience most people are just no damn good.”

  “So you’re saying you think the call was not specific to me. Nor the hit on the head, which I have to tell you, feels incredibly specific to me.”

  He stood. “I know. Again, I’m sorry. But my partner is right on at least one point.” He looked at Maggie and the now awake dog in her lap. “Buckhead isn’t as safe as it used to be. That drug dealer—the guy we originally held as a suspect for your sister’s killing?—still hangs out around here, so I wouldn’t take any more midnight walks in the woods. Even without psychotic killers on the loose, you can’t afford to play Anne of Green Gables in a big city like this. Okay?”