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

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Why not? No one talked to me about either your sister’s death or Deirdre’s. Isn’t that wild? The cops interviewed Pokey but not me! Did you know that eighty-two percent of all non domestic murders in this country go unsolved?”

  “You killed Elise instead of me. Why?”

  “That is a very good question, Maggie. Why, indeed?”

  “It couldn’t be a case of mistaken identity. You knew I wouldn’t be home from the office in the middle of the day.”

  “That’s true. But the idiot I sent to do the job didn’t know that.”

  “You…you hired a guy?”

  “And learned once and for all that if you want something done right, etc.”

  “Okay, so he killed Elise thinking she was me. Then what were you doing there?”

  “How do you know I was there?”

  “I found something you dropped.”

  “Yes, well, when the moron called to say he’d finished the job and I knew for a fact that you had just left the office to go shopping at Lenox Square, I then also knew he’d screwed up. So I went to see for myself.”

  “And you were in the crowd of gawkers in my apartment building.”

  “Everyone was buzzing everyone else in. A very friendly bunch in your building. When I saw the cops taking names and statements, I left.”

  “This is different, Patti. You can’t just execute us tied to kitchen chairs. The cops will pick you up before you’ve driven a hundred miles.”

  “Well, first off, Maggie, I’m not going anywhere. I’m waiting here for Gary to come home. And second of all, I’ve done my research. You don’t think I’ve seen CSI? Every piece of evidence in this house will point to the inevitable conclusion that you and wifey here duked it out over who gets Gary. Sadly, you killed each other in the process. I’m not stupid you know. I’ve given this at least as much thought as the average crime show scriptwriter.”

  The arrogance of the woman was as unnerving as the gun she kept waving at Maggie. Patti really thinks she can outmaneuver the police because she’s become a forensic expert through watching television.

  “But this time, Gary knows,” Maggie said.

  “Gary loves me. He’s upset right now, but he’ll be fine in time.”

  “You’re crazy.” It had just slipped out, but from the expression on Patti’s face it had hit home, too.

  “And you’re minutes from being dead, Maggie. I’m actually doing you a favor,” she said, turning to Darla. “Gary’s practically in love with her as it is. You should see the two of them together in the office.”

  Maggie knew their only hope was to stall long enough that something might happen. A miracle might happen. Anything. Just something besides their deaths. She looked at Darla and saw that tears were streaming down her face. Stump noticed them too.

  “Aw, don’t fret. We’ll raise little…what’s her name? Doesn’t matter. I’ll change it anyway, if I don’t kill her. I know Gary wants to emigrate and that fits perfectly for us starting over together.”

  She put the gun barrel to Darla’s head. “Time to finish this ladies. I got a date with a widower.”

  Burton stepped across the front lawn and sidled around to the back of the house. These new housing designs made his job easier, since they eliminated all side windows. A beam of light at the back of the house pushed through the row of oleander bushes crowding the kitchen door. The light illuminated the back yard and the trunks of the trees in the woods behind.

  Moving as quietly as he could, while still being mindful that Kazmaroff’s watch was usually fast when timing ten-minute rear entries, Burton heard the first sound of voices coming from inside the house. His heart beat quicker. He crouched on the small deck under the large kitchen window. Through it, he could see two women tied to chairs, their backs to him, and another—dressed like some kind of homeless person—waving the familiar, angular shape of a Glock semi-automatic pistol. In the instant it took Burton to process the scene, the armed woman brought the gun to the head of one of the seated women.

  And then the front doorbell rang.

  No! Too soon!

  The gunwoman froze. She looked over her shoulder toward the front door, then scanned the kitchen frantically, as though looking for an intruder to suddenly materialize. The expression on her face reminded Burton of a cornered, wild animal, but her gun hand never wavered from the woman’s head.

  Would she try to answer the door? Would she make a run for it? Jesus, would she kill her hostages first? He aimed his Smith & Wesson pistol but one of the hostages was in the way.

  Think, man, think! She’s not gonna wait forever.

  The impact of the brick as it hit the seven-foot expanse of window in the breakfast nook felt like a nuclear explosion to Maggie. She screamed and forced her chair to fall over on its side, crashing into Darla and knocking hers down too. She could hear Stump screaming and shooting out the back window.

  “I’ll kill you, you bastard! Is that you, Gary? She’s dead, you bastard! I killed her! I killed her! I killed her!”

  Maggie squeezed her eyes shut against the bedlam and heard what sounded like a tank coming through the front of the house as Kazmaroff smashed his way in. He barreled down the hallway to the kitchen, knocking over packing boxes as he went.

  From where she lay on the floor, Maggie saw him appear in the doorway to the kitchen, window blinds still attached to him from his entrance through the front window.

  He held his gun in front of him. “Police! Drop your weapon!”

  Maggie could tell that Stump had frozen, and that she was still facing the back yard, where the brick had come from.

  “Police!” he shouted again. “Drop it!”

  Without moving, Patti lifted her arm as if she were going to drop the gun, then casually straightened her arm to let it hang by her side—pointing downward at Darla’s head.

  Kazmaroff shot her three times in a tight cluster in the back of Gary’s pinstriped shirt.

  33

  Maggie sat with Darla in the back of the police cruiser, each with a blanket around their shoulders. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They were safe now and there were no more monsters in the night.

  Burton and Kazmaroff were too engaged with the clean up of the aftermath of the night to do much beyond take basic statements from them, but she knew they felt as if they had redeemed themselves.

  Who knows? Maybe they had.

  When Burton handed her his cellphone to call someone to come get her, she didn’t have the energy or the emotional strength to think very hard. She knew she needed to be home and protected and loved and cared for.

  She’d called Laurent.

  She closed her eyes and felt the exhaustion of two long, sleepless days of anxiety and terror.

  “When did you know it was her?” Darla whispered to her.

  Maggie shook her head. “Way too late,” was all she said.

  Darla took her hand and squeezed it. “We’re alive, Maggie. It was just in time.”

  Gary arrived in a whirl of tears and hugs, having made the trip from Savannah in under three hours—the last forty minutes with a police escort. Maggie watched him and Darla cling to each other for dear life. She closed her eyes again and imagined she was back on the airplane, or maybe back in Paris. When she opened them again, Laurent was there. He knelt by her where she sat in the police car and took her hand.

  He knew she knew. His eyes said as much. And it was all too much tonight.

  Without a word, he picked her up and carried her back to their car and to their apartment in Buckhead.

  Maggie slept for the entire weekend.

  She was vaguely aware that Laurent was bringing her food, tucking her in, watching her. But for the most part, she just let the week she had endured fall over her and through her, and when she awoke on Sunday she knew she had come out on the other side.

  That morning, she sat in the living room of her apartment and waited for Laurent to bring in their coffees. While he hadn’t made
an overture to her beyond that of a friend, neither had he moved to the couch at night.

  She took her first lucid look at the world around her since she had emerged from her sleep, and her nightmare. For the first time in six months, she realized she didn’t care if Burton and Kazmaroff ever called her again. She registered that she didn’t need to know one thing more than she already did about Elise or Deirdre’s last hours.

  Ever.

  It was over and done. Except for Laurent. She watched him as he moved into the living room. It always amazed her to see the way he moved, so graceful and silent for someone of his size. She dropped the afghan that had been on her lap and stood. She moved, with her hands on her hips, to put the couch between them.

  She had things to say to him.

  “You lied.”

  Laurent watched her move behind the couch, but he would have none of that. Too many things had come between them, beginning with the way they’d met. He wouldn’t allow it now, of all times. Her took her by the arm and gently moved her back to sit next to him on the couch.

  “And you let me believe what we did was a one-night stand. No contact from you for nearly six months!”

  He widened his eyes, and it was all he could do not to smile at the absurdity of this complaint leading the pack of all the much, much worse ones. “You are only bringing this up now?”

  “It’s been on my mind, believe me!”

  He could see she was becoming more upset the more she talked. “I perhaps should have called,” Laurent conceded. “But I couldn’t come right away because I had to wrap up some business.”

  “Skulduggery business? Monkey business?”

  “Business that could not be left undone.”

  “You were only in it for the money.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, as if to guard her body against him or to protect herself from his gaze.

  “How much melodrama do you think I should allow?” he asked, smiling drily. “Is this the price I must pay for a few lies?”

  “Lying is bad, Laurent! I know there’s a culture difference here, but I would’ve thought even the French were on board with that. You lied. To me.”

  “ I’m sorry.”

  “Which reminds me. Your English has improved remarkably.”

  He shrugged. “I am on trial for my language proficiency now? If it consoles you, I always had trouble understanding you.” He smiled.

  “Everything between us was a lie.”

  “Surely not everything, chérie. Are your reactions to my caresses a lie? Are your whimpers when you are under me a lie?”

  “Stop saying things like that! Why is it you think you’re in control, Laurent? You bilked my family out of thirty thousand euros! You pawned off a street urchin as a member of my family. You took advantage of us when we were at our most fragile—when Elise died!”

  “Did you remember that when Nicole died, I too lost a niece?”

  Maggie sucked in a breath. He could see her mind working. He was Gerard’s brother. Nicole’s uncle. “I had forgotten that,” she admitted. “But that just means you were in a good position to take advantage of the situation.”

  “I won’t apologize for who I am.”

  “I don’t know which is worse—being a criminal or being proud of it.”

  He shrugged, and he could see that she was interpreting it as a gesture of nonchalance. The way she sat watching him, her face flushed, her eyes flashing, he realized he desired her strongly at this moment.

  “I can’t bear to think of how you were involved with the whole Elise and Nicole thing. I can’t bear to look at you when I think of it.”

  Laurent sighed. “Your sister’s story is not our story.” He pointed to the two of them on the couch. “Nicole’s story is not our story either. Neither of those sad stories has to do with you and me, together. Only you and I can write our story.”

  She made a face. “Then our story is built on lies.”

  “Am I the only one who lied? Did you not attempt to see Gerard, twice, after I told you not to?” He saw her hesitate, unsure. Guilty.

  “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is you said you would not see him. You promised me.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “I am eager to hear how it is not. Yours was a lie by omission.”

  “And yours was a deliberate con. In fact, you were conning me all along.”

  “If that is so then answer this: what is it I wanted from you?”

  Maggie frowned at him, but he could see she was processing the question.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is not a difficult question, chérie. What do I want from you?” He could see her mind visiting all the possible ways he could be taking advantage of her. In truth, she had probably visited those possibilities many times since she’d found out who he really was.

  He would not allow her any more self-indulgent complaints. If she had discovered even one thing that he had taken from her—and he knew she must have searched desperately to find it—she would be able to answer him now.

  “I know what you want,” she said, the anger draining from her face. He thought she had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes were large and trusting—ahhhh, my Maggie—her lips were full and quivered ever so slightly.

  “What is it, mon ange?” he asked softly, touching her arm with his fingers, a moment away from bringing her to him. “What is it I want?”

  “My heart.” She spoke the words as if she didn’t realize she was saying them out loud, as if she hadn’t realized she’d known all along.

  He nodded and his fingers wrapped around her arm. “Your heart.”

  He pulled her into his arms and her hands went to his face as he nuzzled her neck, her long hair hiding them both. “You had mine from that first week in Cannes. You cannot doubt that, chérie.”

  He felt her soften in his arms.

  “No more lies, Laurent,” she said.

  “I cannot promise that, chérie. I may need to lie to you in order to protect you or to do something that I believe is important. You see that, yes?”

  She gave a gasp of frustration and incredulity.

  “But while I cannot promise I won’t lie to you, I can promise to always protect you and to love you.”

  Maggie looked at him, her eyes wide with longing. “But if we throw out all the rules touted in every women’s magazine in practically every nail salon in the world, how will I know if we’re going to be okay?”

  Laurent ran his hand down her shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry, chérie. You will know.” Then he lowered her onto the couch and proceeded to end the discussion once and for all.

  * * *

  Gary walked away from the gate and patted down his jacket pockets. He kept his wife and daughter in view at all times. In time, I’ll calm down, he thought. After a while, I’ll be able to relax again.

  He watched Darla sitting in one of the long lines of plastic airport chairs, a roll of magazines in one hand and little Haley’s mittened hand in the other. She seemed very animated as she talked to Laurent. Only the clutching hand holding her daughter told a different story.

  “I guess you got everything?” Maggie stood next to Gary in the airport gift shop and watched him anxiously.

  He tapped his inside coat pocket. “Passports, visas, beaucoups American dollars, and a representative sampling of Kiwi dollars. Want to see them? They’re very pretty.” He stuck his hand in his jacket and pulled out a few pastel money notes in purple and pink.

  “Very nice.”

  “I was tempted to bring Monopoly money, but Darla assured me the vendors Down Under would be too sophisticated for that.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I just don’t know what to say.”

  “You act like you’re at a funeral.”

  “I’m losing a friend.”

  “There are daily flights to Auckland.”

  “And applications for the next space shuttle, too. Excus
e me for thinking neither is a very viable possibility for me.”

  “You choose your own limitations.”

  “Oh, thank you, Dale Carnegie. And I want to officially apologize for that crack I made in the car.”

  “You mean the one about Kiwi fruit causing cancer? Forget it. Darla will explain Auntie Maggie’s sense of humor to Haley, and I’m sure we’ll get her to eat fruit again.”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Maggie. But you’ll visit. We’ll come back here for visits.”

  “Won’t you be afraid of being gunned down in the concourse if you come back to the U.S.?” Maggie instantly regretted saying it.

  “Well, no,” Gary said slowly. “Not being a fanatic or anything. I think I can handle bringing my family back for a visit from time to time.”

  They were both quiet a moment. Gary waved to his daughter where they sat with Laurent.

  “I forgot to ask you how you knew that it was Patti,” he said, quietly.

  “It was her scarf ring that made it all click for me.”

  “Her what?”

  “It’s something women use sometimes as an accessory with scarves. Patti lived by them. Brownie found it in the hallway the afternoon Elise was killed and he’d pocketed it. Anyway, he gave it to me thinking it might be important, only he didn’t know what it was. I knew it was a scarf ring, but it wasn’t until I was sitting in the cemetery at Montmartre that it finally came to me where I’d seen it.”

  Gary shook his head.

  “Yeah, only about a million times stuck on Patti’s graceful bosom. And that’s when I knew.” Maggie rubbed her arms as if a terrible chill had come into the room. “She’d been there that day. When her hired killer called to say the job was done, she knew it couldn’t be me since I’d just left the office to go shopping.” She shivered. “Anyway, as soon as I made the office connection—Deirdre and all that—well, the rest of it fell into place.”

  “You said on the phone that the cops got the hit man who killed your sister?”