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

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “They did. With help from the private detective my father hired to track him down.”

  Gary nodded, then turned to throw a pack of gum on the counter at the newspaper kiosk. “How about Laurent? You got that sorted out yet?”

  “He’s told so many lies about so many things…it’s hard for me to get past that. He’s got a lot of good reasons for much of it, and some very lame reasons for other stuff.” She made a helpless gesture with her hand. “My Dad likes him.”

  “I suppose that’s good.”

  “He’s not what I thought he was. Not as wonderful, but not as awful.” She ran a hand through her combed hair, knocking loose a restraining barrette. “Of all the things he’s lied about,” Maggie said, watching Laurent as he stood talking with Darla, “I do believe he loves me.”

  “Quelle surprise, mon amie,” Gary said, smiling.

  Maggie gave him a long hug. “Good-bye, boss. Show ‘em how to do real American retail advertising down there.”

  “I fully intend to,” Gary said, wiping a quick tear away. “The starburst price-point and the use of oversized type is about to arrive in the land of sheep and honey. Antipodal advertising will never be the same again.”

  “Nor on this side of the world either, dear friend.”

  * * *

  The little dog cocked its head, causing a small scruffy ear to flop into one of its eyes. It sat, attentive and enduring, in Nicole’s lap. The little girl’s small fingers pressed into the animal’s fur.

  “Grandmère says he’s got fleas,” Nicole said, her face screwed into a mask of serious concern.

  Maggie stood by the fireplace in the library of her parents’ home and watched the flames. Christmas was a week away and she never remembered their home looking or feeling more enchanting. The whole mansion smelled of fir boughs and toasted cinnamon sticks, with the scent of even greater, impending wonders wafting in the air.

  Maggie moved from her position by the fireplace and sat down next to Nicole on the overstuffed settee. She could hear the low rumble of male voices as Laurent and her father conversed in the den down the hall. The puppy looked at her with solemn, large brown eyes. She touched its soft fur.

  “I have a cadeau for you, Nicole. An early present.”

  Nicole looked up questioningly into Maggie’s eyes, her little hands momentarily stopped in their incessant searching of the dog’s coat.

  “Is it from Maman?”

  Maggie bit her lip. “In a way,” she said, placing the glittering bracelet of charms in Nicole’s lap of swans’ down and cashmere. “It belonged to your mother when she was a little girl.”

  Nicole touched the tiny charms with her fingers, lifting the bracelet up to watch the tinkling figurines. An ice skater, a ballerina, a miniature horse and rider, a typewriter, a Cocker Spaniel dog.

  An easel.

  Nicole looked into Maggie’s eyes and smiled.

  “Merci, Aunt Maggie.”

  What’s Next

  Maggie’s story continues in Murder à la Carte! Maggie temporarily agrees to move to France with Laurent, who has just inherited a vineyard. When the two move into the ancient stone farmhouse to ready it and the surrounding land to be sold, it appears to Maggie that Laurent is settling in rather too comfortably for her taste.

  In the meantime, Maggie combats expatriate boredom by trying to solve the village’s oldest mystery–and its newest murder–both at the same time. Along the way she meets two new sets of friends–both American, and both destined to change her life forever.

  Here are the beginning chapters of Murder à la Carte:

  Prologue

  The note was creased and blood-spattered, the words on it written in a shaky scrawl.

  My dear,

  Above all please know that I forgive you everything and I hope that you will forgive me also. I believe this is the best way for both of us. I have no regrets. Never forget that I will love you forever, little one.

  Forever and forever,

  P.

  December 1956

  The long, undulating dirt road dissected the vineyard landscape of ruined, black branches. The field’s vines, stripped of their rich load―picked and bottled months ago―now hung in withered, dark wisps.

  At the end of the road, two rows of pear trees and silver olive trees stood as close as sentinels, their gnarled limbs intertwining as they flanked the pebble drive that led to the house.

  The windows, mullioned and seeming to tremble in the dying sunlight, gave the house a forlorn, fragile presence. A lone stone lion roared mutely from the slate terrace, one ear chipped, its teeth no longer sharp.

  At the statue’s base, the dying woman clasped a small scrap of paper, the words already clotted into an indecipherable blur by the trickle of her blood. The steps, made of porous rock brought down from the mountains a thousand years earlier, soaked up the scarlet stain.

  The killer looked down at the woman briefly before turning to step over the man’s now-still body. And then, to the two children huddled in terror by their parents’ car.

  The murderer shot them each once in the head, checking afterward to be sure they were dead, and that there would be no further suffering.

  Chapter One

  July 2012

  Laurent spread out the map on the tabletop, pushing aside the bottles of Badoît. He gripped the borders of the tattered carte as if he intended to steer the thing across the outdoor bistro table and into Aix-en-Provence’s bustling Cours Mirabeau.

  “Look,” he said. “Here is St-Buvard. You see?”

  Maggie sighed. “I see it, Laurent. I saw it back in Atlanta. I saw it on the airplane, in the taxi cab, on the map you have pinned up over the sink in our hotel room...”

  He looked up, a puzzled look on his face.

  Maggie flapped out her napkin and spread it across her knees. She was glad she had decided to wear slacks tonight. She’d had little idea what the weather would be like in the south of France in October. As it turned out, it was cold.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “yes, I see St-Buvard. Very nice red dot, surrounded by lots of inferior little gray dots.”

  The outdoor café they chose for their first night in Aix-en-Provence was a modest bistro, slapped together with whitewashed walls and rickety tables and an assortment of wicker chairs, whose paint was peeling in various stages. The food of course was wonderful.

  “You are being drôle.” His brown hair was long and intruded into his face. He enacted a familiar gesture by sweeping away his thick fringe from his eyes with an impatient hand. Maggie thought him extraordinarily handsome

  Even in early October, the air was fragrant with the scent of lavender and olive trees. The garden scents mingled on the night air with the aromas from the many culinary concoctions being produced in a half a dozen restaurants and bistros along the boulevard. It was a sensation, Maggie felt, one could experience nowhere else in the world―certainly not in Atlanta where she was from.

  She picked up a piece of bread and dipped it into the sauce of her rabbit stew. She wasn’t sure why she was a little unsettled tonight. Possibly it was the residual effects of their long flight. Maybe it was due to the kamikaze taxi driver who had taken them from the airport in Marseille to Aix-en-Provence and had Maggie saying breathless, imagined good-byes to her loved ones.

  She looked at Laurent. She watched the serious nod of his head, his brow plaited in concentration over his map. He was big and looming and gentle. After nearly two years, he was still the most intriguing man she had ever known.

  It had been two years since they had met and fallen in love. They were living in her apartment when the letter announcing Laurent’s inheritance had arrived three months earlier. They had already been talking about spending a year abroad; the inheritance simply provided the means. Laurent’s bachelor uncle had left him some land near Aix-en-Provence outside the small village of St-Buvard. The property was described in the letter as covering nearly forty hectares, most of it planted with grapes
.

  They’d quickly wrapped up their lives in America. Laurent had begun a one-man self-education program on wine-growing in the Provençal region. All the intense study had worried Maggie as she had no desire to become a permanent expatriate. But Laurent insisted it was just so he would know the operation well enough to get a good price for it when it came time to sell. They would live in the area and try to work the vineyard―or at least keep it from falling into ruin, and then sell the property when their year was up.

  She looked at Laurent hunched over his map. Although his passionate French nature could have him in thralls of ecstasy about a just-picked melon or a sauce that didn’t curdle, she was still surprised at the high voltage between them.

  “How’s your lamb?” she asked.

  “It’s good to be back,” he said flatly.

  That means he’s had to put up with bad American food these last couple of years.

  “My rabbit’s a little tough,” she said sweetly.

  “I do not believe it.” He looked up and his eyes smiled at her although his lips did not. “It is a long trip for us both,” he said, pouring her a large glass of red wine. “And we have many things to—”

  He was interrupted by a scream from a table on the other side of the restaurant. A group of four was at the table, although one of the party―a young, scowling girl―now sat sprawled between two of the chairs.

  A man at the table, blond and unevenly shaven, jumped up, knocking his chair back against the hard stones with an ear-splitting clatter. He grinned roguishly as he grabbed the girl’s hands and jerked her abruptly, but not unkindly, to her feet, then made a charade of dusting her off with his hands. The other couple at the table laughed and looked self-consciously around the restaurant.

  The retrieved girl pushed the young man away and slumped down, pouting, into her seat. She crossed her arms and looked away. Her friends burst into laughter. Angrily, she snatched up a cigarette and lit it.

  “Tais-toi!” she said crossly to them. Then, noting Maggie staring, she stuck out her tongue at her.

  “Did you see that?” Maggie said indignantly to Laurent, who had returned to his map. “Oh, look, just study your map, will you?” Maggie pushed her dish away in annoyance.

  “St-Buvard,” she said, now beginning to enjoy her pique. “You said yourself, it’s French for ‘Saint Blotter,’ for crying out loud. What kind of a name is ‘Blotter’ for a town? And who would canonize a stupid blotter―?”

  “Excuse me.” A voice spoke to her from behind.

  Maggie started, knocking over the tumbler of Badoît with her elbow. Laurent pulled his map away as if acid had just been released onto the tablecloth.

  “Oh, no! Now I’ve made it even worse,” the young man said in an American accent, as he began to mop up the mess with her napkin. Maggie could hear his table of rowdies across the room cresting new plateaus of mirth.

  “My little group of brigands over there...” he gestured back toward his table. “...we felt we were intruding on your quiet dinner, you see. And then I heard you speak and I said to myself, ‘an American!’ I have to speak to them.”

  “Bonsoir,” Laurent said gruffly. “I am not American.”

  The young man threw back his head and laughed.

  “No shit! I meant votre femme here.” He turned to Maggie. “Look, mind if I join you?” He scooted up another chair next to Maggie and seated himself. A little taken aback by his forwardness, Maggie, nonetheless, found herself charmed by him.

  “Connor MacKenzie. Sculptor, artiste, and lover extraordinaire. Although,” he smiled and lowered his voice, as Laurent looked up, “I don’t usually mention that last fact to married women. Bums ‘em out, you know what I mean?”

  Maggie cleared her throat. “I’m not married, Mr. MacKenzie,” she said.

  “Jeez, call me Connor, or shit-head or something. Whadya mean ‘not married?’ Since when? Hey, big guy, quelle problem-o?”

  She eased back in her seat and watched Laurent who had never, in her memory, sat still for the hot-seat treatment. He didn’t now either.

  “Why are you here?” Laurent asked the young man bluntly.

  “Laurent!” Maggie said. “That’s rude.”

  “Don’t worry,” Connor said with a laugh to Maggie. “I’m not easily offended. But may I ask to whom did I have the honor of annoying?”

  “Allons-y! Connor, come on!” His friends were standing now and obviously ready to move on to the next venue of pleasure.

  “I’m Maggie Newberry and this is Laurent Dernier.”

  The name “Dernier” seemed to stop Connor in mid-turn. His smile faltered for a second and then reasserted itself.

  “How long did you say you two were in town for?” he asked.

  Laurent tucked away his map and reached out to pour the last of the Gigondas into Maggie’s wine glass.

  “You think you know me?” he asked without looking up.

  “Connor! Vas-y!”

  “Un moment!” Connor’s voice was surprisingly sharp to his friends, and they, in spite of their obvious impatience, waited for him by the front entrance of the restaurant.

  “We’re going to be staying in St-Buvard,” Maggie said, reaching for her wine and glad for Connor’s hesitation to leave. “Do you know it?”

  Connor grinned and crossed his arms in front of him.

  “Oh, yes. I know it well.”

  He held out his hand to Maggie, relinquishing her of the burden of trying to figure out the proper farewell response for mutual nationals far from their own nation. She put her wine down and shook his hand.

  “Mademoiselle-Newberry-who-is-not-married-to-Monsieur-Dernier,” he said, as he reached for Laurent’s hand and gave it a solid shake. “I shall be seeing you both again.” With that, he turned and rejoined his friends―all of whom began to giggle as soon as he was back with them again.

  “Strange fellow,” Laurent said, absently patting the map in his vest pocket.

  “Fun fellow,” Maggie said as she watched Connor and crowd invade the streets of Aix-en-Provence. She had no doubt she would see him again.

  The next morning they were up early and checked out of their tiny hotel room. Laurent allowed only a brief stop at the boulangerie for croissants before climbing into their rented Citroen and pointing it westward toward St-Buvard. The night’s rest had refreshed both of them, but Maggie began to feel the burgeoning kernels of annoyance return when Laurent vetoed her morning coffee as taking up too much time.

  “We’ve got the rest of our lives to get there, Laurent. A lousy cup of coffee won’t make us miss the ferry or anything.”

  “There is no ferry to St-Buvard.” Laurent started the engine of the little car.

  “Well, there you are.” Maggie fumbled for a seatbelt that didn’t exist. “We don’t even have to wait for the ferry.”

  Laurent deposited the bag of rolls into Maggie’s lap, then peeled out of the car’s parking space. He sped down the early morning avenue. Maggie clutched at the car’s door handle but, unable to manage a hold, she braced her arms against the dashboard.

  “You’re going too fast!”

  “We do things differently here,” he said, his eyes on the narrow road ahead. “You must remember that you are in France now.”

  “Look, Laurent, let’s start over, okay? Let’s just enjoy the trip. Okay?”

  Laurent nodded and patted her knee. “Bon,” he said happily. “And you will navigate?”

  “You don’t know this road by heart by now?”

  “We are first going to the home of a neighbor of my uncle. A Monsieur Alexandre. The estate agent said Monsieur Alexandre will show us the house.”

  “And he couldn’t tell you what kind of a house it was? If it was livable or a dump?”

  Laurent didn’t answer.

  “You didn’t ask,” Maggie said.

  “I do not want the world to know my business.”

  Maggie studied the scrap of paper with the address scrawled on it.
“Asking what kind of condition the house is in wouldn’t be prying.”

  “Monsieur Alexandre will show us the property,” he said simply.

  Maggie fished out a croissant from the paper bag, depositing shingles of pastry all over the car. She offered it to him.

  Laurent shook his head. “I am only saying, chérie, that I feel sure the house will be good for us. After all, my uncle has lived there all these years, has he not?”

  Maggie watched the scenery go by. The morning sun had climbed high enough now to highlight the passing purple fields with a golden haze. She rolled down the window and took a deep breath. It was cool and she could smell rosemary and burning wood. The landscape looked mildly bleak with more scrubs and bushes than trees. But the colors of the fields―first purple then gray, then deep green, all suffused with the brilliant Mediterranean light were entrancing.

  Maggie ate a croissant, licking the grease from her fingers. A cup of coffee even in a Styrofoam cup would be perfect about now, she thought with a sigh. Even without the coffee, she felt a tingle of euphoria from the combination of the fragrance of lavender, the nip in the air, and the palpable excitement coming from Laurent.

  The road meandered westward through the countryside. Soon they passed through steeper terrain, the hills covered in the briar-patch look of vineyards. Maggie saw the workers hunched over, picking the grapes by hand.

  “My God. Don’t these people have machines to do that?”

  “Machines can break the grape,” Laurent said. “Besides, these are small farms. The big machines are trop cher.”

  “How did your uncle do it?”

  “Sais pas,” he said, his eyes glittering with eagerness as he watched the pickers in the fields. “Perhaps he hired people from the village.”

  “Gosh, Laurent, it looks like a big job.” Maggie caught a glimpse of a little girl, no more than six years old, her basket full, her little back bent to the job.