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

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Bien sûr,” he said, giving her shoulder a brief squeeze with his hand.

  They walked in silence to the end of the field and then turned to see their farmhouse. It looked very impressive from this distance, Maggie thought. Big and sturdy and wistful somehow. She turned and surveyed the vineyard and wondered where the cypress tree had been that Laurent’s uncle had taken down.

  “You are ready for the dinner tonight?” Laurent asked as he knelt to handle yet another grapeless vine.

  Maggie nodded absently. Two evenings of entertainment in two nights would normally have been grounds for a serious disagreement between them. But she so enjoyed Connor and Grace that she wasn’t looking at the evening as a chance to impress anyone or show off Laurent’s cooking or even worry about whether her guests would see dust-elephants where she thought she had just dusted. Besides, she didn’t feel she knew Windsor very well and this would give her a chance to get better acquainted. Most pleasantly of all, Connor had said that, regretfully, the lovely Lydie would not be able to attend.

  “The Marceaus were a little tense last night, didn’t you think so?” Laurent was still squatting in the dust, examining the vine he held in his hand.

  Maggie watched him closely. She enjoyed seeing his pleasure in their new adventure, even if the whole thing did make her a little uneasy. He stood up and shook loose a Gitane from a compact blue package. He had long ago stopped offering her cigarettes, but habit must have made him feel like he ought to do something, so he always gave her a quick smile before lighting up.

  Maggie turned and looked back toward the house. “Laurent, does it feel creepy to you that a whole family died in our house?”

  Her lover sucked in the tobacco smoke and then exhaled before answering. He shook his head. “The story is that it happened on the...la terrasse..."

  “What do you mean, ‘story’?” Maggie touched one of the vines. It felt cool and hard. “Don’t you believe it happened? You think the whole town made it up and are handing it around as a sort of perverted tourism marketing approach?”

  “I believe that four people are being killed on our front steps...”

  “God, I wish you’d work on your tenses.”

  “...but hanging gypsies? A brave but fallen Resistance hero? And a whole town’s shame?” He smiled mischievously at Maggie. “It makes a very good story, though, no?”

  “Oh, what am I asking you for?” She grinned at him and gave him a gentle slap on the arm. “You don’t know the real story. Even Danielle Marceau said the Englishwoman was seen many times rendezvousing with the handsome and brave Patrick. She told me last night. During one of the few respites from grape lore and logic you and Eduard treated us to.”

  “Ah, yes, and I would trust Madame Marceau’s idea of the facts at any time.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, forget it, dearest darling one.” Maggie waved a hand at him. “I choose to believe it as it was told to me. Spooky, romantic, and tragic.”

  “As you wish.” Laurent took another long drag on his cigarette.

  By the time she arrived home after her run-in with Gaston, Maggie had decided that the man’s liberties were milder than she’d originally thought and certainly not worth upsetting Laurent. She watched him now, smoking and surveying his vineyards―as proud as if he’d pressed every seed into the dark, unyielding earth himself―and tried to envision what he was capable of doing if angered. His past life as a con artist had prompted more guile and lying than any actual physical brutality. And he’d given all that up when he met Maggie. For her part, she’d never known Laurent to be anything but tender and kind.

  Maggie shook the thoughts away, and grabbed his hand again, almost palming his cigarette as she did so. “Oops, sorry, I forgot you had that thing,” she said.

  Laurent took another long drag and then crushed the cigarette out on the ground with his shoe. He held her hand and they began the walk back to the house.

  “You don’t worry about a brush fire taking down all these lovely vines and nasty scrub?” Maggie asked.

  “It would not be that hard to do,” he admitted. “When the mistral shows itself, a little flame anywhere in the area could be very dangereux."

  “Mmmm. You know the people in the village think we are married.”

  “What is this to do with fires?”

  “Nothing. I’m changing the subject. I’ve sated myself on the subject of fires, okay? Now I want to talk about this. Okay?”

  “So, they think we are married. So?”

  “I’m not...I’m not doing anything to disabuse them of the notion, is all.”

  “‘Disabuse’?”

  “Laurent, I’m pretending I’m your wife.” There, it was said. She didn’t look at him but hurried on. “It seemed easier than...It’s what they want to hear and it seems like a harmless thing to―”

  “Maggie.” Laurent stopped walking and pulled Maggie around to face him. He stood, holding her shoulders and watching her. He sighed and looked over her shoulder to the row after row of spiny-topped grapevines, as they stretched up and around to the other side of his beautiful house.

  “Maggie,” he said again, this time speaking to the fields. “You are ma femme today as much as you ever can be. You understand?” He lifted her chin and looked directly into her clear blue eyes. “You are my wife. I believe it, I feel it. The town, pftt!” He made a gesture of disdain in the direction of St-Buvard. “I don’t care what they think. I only care what you think. Okay?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Yeah, sure.”

  “You want to marry?” he asked. “Then we will marry. Today! Maintenant!"

  She looked up at him and watched as a grin spread across his face.

  "Je t’aime, chérie," he said softly, then kissed her on the mouth. “When you are ready, Laurent is ready. D’accord?"

  Maggie nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck in a brief but serious hug. “Je t’aime you too,” she said.

  November was probably too cool for dining al fresco, but Maggie had wanted to so much that she just heaped extra jackets and some blankets on surrounding outdoor tables next to their main dining table. Laurent, busy with his sauces and filets had left the setting of the stage to her. And she was enjoying it thoroughly.

  Back home in Atlanta, she would just set the table, plop down a floral centerpiece of some kind, and make sure the candles weren’t multi-colored waxy nubs. Not much of a stage for Laurent’s always delectable culinary creations.

  At Domaine St-Buvard, things were different.

  In a brick terraced alcove off the back of the house, Maggie had placed (with Laurent’s help) their large oaken dining table. The terrace was bordered by rockroses, plumbago, Bluebeard, Russian sage and wild rosemary. Two olive trees formed a canopy over the table, the fragrance of their long-gone fruit still lingering on their leaves. A row of apple trees kept guard over the less hardy olive trees, protecting them and the little garden terrace for many years from the fierce southern wind. Fringing the bricked terrace was a fragrant bed of lavender.

  Maggie set the table with mismatched china, some of which she had found in the basement of old Uncle Nicolas (she was sure they were worth a fortune, probably the illicit booty of Nazi war criminals). Some she had picked up in town. She set stark white plates beside plates of dancing wildflowers and the faded blue plates of peasant dishware. She created a centerpiece of flowers with twisted grapevines through it. She liked the effect―soft flowers intertwined with the hard, wiry vines. She felt sure Connor would comment on it.

  The breeze that had played gently with her tablecloth arrangements an hour earlier had turned suddenly more aggressive. A few napkins blew off the table onto the dark brick steps leading to the house. She heard the slam of the first set of car doors while she was trying to light the candles.

  Tossing the matches down, Maggie smoothed a hand down her long hair, cupping the ends where they reached her waist to give them some form, and went to greet her guests.

  Windsor
stood by the fender of his black Mercedes, shifting wine bottles and lanterns in his hands as Connor helped Grace out of the car.

  “You brought light!” Maggie clapped her hands together as she emerged from the overgrown garden path that connected the back terrace with the front drive.

  “It’s mostly our wit that does that,” Connor said. “But, yes, sometimes our very presence can do it too.”

  “When Grace said we were eating al dente..." Windsor said, waving the two large lanterns in the air.

  “Windsor, that’s a term for spaghetti,” Grace laughed. “What you mean―-”

  “Look, whatever,” Windsor said to Maggie. “When Grace said we were eating outside in November, I knew we’d need these.”

  “You’re a godsend,” Maggie said. “All of you, come around back.” She took Grace’s hands in her own and the women kissed, once on both cheeks, and beamed happily at each other. “Where’s Taylor? I thought you were bringing Taylor?”

  Connor kissed Maggie on the cheek. Both his hands held bottles of wine. “That’s the sad part of tonight’s tale,” he said, smiling.

  “She stayed in Aix,” Grace said. “She wanted to.”

  “And we wanted her to,” Windsor added brightly, to general laugher.

  “Sometimes she gets so tired,” Grace said, “and the drive home is really exhausting for her and―”

  “Is this the way, then?” Windsor said, forging ahead, holding the unlit lanterns up and away from clinging reaches of the overgrown rose bushes that nearly blocked the garden path.

  “I love what you’ve not done with the place,” Connor said, bringing up the rear. “In fact, I agree that too much weeding, clipping, pruning and general tending just makes a place look, you know, natty. “ He gave a dramatic shudder.

  Laurent was standing by the table when they emerged from the gauntlet of shrubbery onto the terrace.

  “Bonsoir, Laurent!” the friends called out. Laurent smiled broadly and lifted a champagne glass and a bottle in their direction.

  “Oh, goody!” Grace dropped her purse in a chair, keeping her cashmere cardigan buttoned snugly to her chin. She picked up a champagne glass from the table and held it out to Laurent. “This is what I call a hello!”

  Windsor fiddled with the lanterns while Connor walked immediately to the centerpiece and clapped his hands together.

  “Yes. It’s wonderful!” he said, and Maggie felt her face flush with the warmth and delight of her new friends. We don’t have this many good friends back in Atlanta, she had told Laurent the night before. As usual, he hadn’t committed to an opinion one way or the other, but facts were facts. They rarely entertained back home, or if they did, the occasion was related to Maggie’s work and not for pleasure.

  Windsor’s efforts were finally rewarded by first one and then the other lantern sputtering to life, their brightness flooding the dining area. He adjusted the wicks and positioned the lamps at opposite ends of the large table. Laurent excused himself to check on his ratatouille, and Maggie bustled about making sure everyone was warm and comfy and had a full glass.

  Connor alternately teased her and praised her as she flitted about her hostess duties.

  “Will you just sit down?” He crossed his long legs in front of him, barring her from adjusting the tablecloth again. “You’re going to make me feel like I should go in and see if the big guy needs any help, and you wouldn’t want me to do that, would you? I’m so comfortable just sitting here.”

  Laurent appeared with a large blue china crock full of pâté. He thumped it down next to a baguette and a basket of sesame crackers on the little table in front of Grace and Windsor where they sat on a stone lover’s bench.

  “Voila,” he said, wiping his hands on a white kitchen towel hanging from his belt. "Pâté de grive."

  “God, I love this stuff,” Grace said spooning into the dark spread with a small knife. “It looks great, Laurent.”

  Satisfied, Laurent disappeared back into the house.

  “The joys of owning your own French chef,” Maggie said, bringing a couple of small plates to Windsor and Grace. “What is it? It’s not foie gras?"

  “No, no, it’s better. You don’t know grive?" Windsor scooped up a dollop onto a cracker and poised it at Maggie’s mouth. “It’s thrush.”

  Maggie deposited the plates on the tablecloth with a thump. “Thrush?” she said incredulously.

  Connor ambled over with his own plate. “You guys eating songbirds again? Leave some for me. Tweet-tweet.”

  Grace laughed. “Don’t be a goose, Maggie. Oh!” She turned to Windsor and laughed again. “Am I drunk already? I just made a joke.”

  Windsor reclaimed his cracker. “How is it you don’t have a problem with goose liver, Maggie, but you do with thrush? Thrush is―”

  “Oh, it’s revolting!” Maggie said to hoots of laugher from the others.

  Laurent poked his head out of the French doors, a glass of champagne in his hand. “I see Maggie has sampled the pâté, n’est-ce pas?" This set them off even more.

  “Hilarious, y’all, just really―” Maggie said, smiling good-naturedly.

  “My God! It’s true!” Connor grabbed at his heart as if it had suddenly stopped. “She really does say ‘y’all’!”

  “Why did we invite these people here, Laurent?” Maggie turned to Laurent still standing in the doorway.

  He smiled. “They have not had enough champagne is the problem,” he said.

  “God, I love a Frenchman’s answer to everything, you know?” Connor got up to get the champagne bottle from the table and refilled everyone’s glass. “The answer―no matter what the question―is almost always ‘more champagne.’ A charming country, really.”

  Laurent joined them on the terrace. “Maggie thinks so,” he said, allowing Connor to fill his glass. “She enjoys the charm of the people of St-Buvard so much, she calls them peasants.“

  “No!” Connor whirled on Maggie, a grin across his face.

  “Is that wrong?” Maggie looked at Windsor and Grace. “Oh, dear. Is saying villagers better?”

  Connor nodded thoughtfully. “You mean like: ‘the villagers tracked the monster to the river...’”

  Everyone laughed.

  “All right, all right, I get the point...” Maggie said, grinning.

  Connor took a sip of his champagne and winked at Laurent. “Hey, Maggie, I’m not sure, but I think I know now why making friends in town has been a little slow for you...”

  “Ha ha, très funny.”

  Laurent put his arm around Maggie and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. Maggie was wearing an oversized blue silk blouse cinched at the waist over black linen slacks. Her hair draped down her back with a section of curls caught up in a silver barrette.

  “Oh, not to tease poor Maggie,” Laurent said. “She is being wonderful. Her French is much improved, do you not think so?”

  Connor settled himself on the arm of an old wooden deck chair. “Say something, Maggie,” he urged.

  “Buzz-ay off-ay,” she replied sweetly.

  “No, come on, Maggie,” Connor wheedled. “We’re your friends and we’re just trying to help you.”

  “Parles! Parles!" Windsor and Grace began to chant. Speak! Speak! Connor joined in.

  Maggie turned to Laurent. “Thank you, darling. A very much lot, okay? Don’t you have sauces to burn in la cuisine?"

  "Il n’est pas trop diffiçile!" Connor said, polishing off his wine and eyeing the bottle again.

  “Yeah, well if I had a pot of money that let me do nothing but study French all day long, I guess my French would be pretty good too―”

  “It’s true,” Connor said, his eyes crinkled in a grin. “And that’s just what I do all day long too.”

  Again, everyone laughed.

  “You know, Connor,” Maggie said, “speaking of what you do? I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Shoot, O Curious One.”

  “No, in the kitchen.” She smiled at him wi
th challenge and mischief in her eyes. “Laurent, is there something we can do for you in there? Toss the salad? Put pickles on a plate?”

  Laurent looked at his watch and seemed to be calculating the timing of his courses. “I suppose if you promised not to touch anything. That would be a help,” he said.

  Maggie ushered Connor through the French doors and into the living room.

  “Wow,” he said, looking around the huge room. “Square dancing next time? Or is shuffleboard your game?”

  “I know,” she said, still prodding him onward. “It’s huge, isn’t it?”

  Connor sighed and allowed himself to be directed. “That’s what all the girls say,” he said, as he walked through the living room to the warm glow of the kitchen.

  “God, do you ever let up?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Once in the kitchen, Maggie reached for another bottle of champagne and handed it to Connor.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s all this about you getting a local girl pregnant?”

  “God! What is the man cooking?” Connor held the champagne bottle tightly between two thumbs to force the cork out while he craned his neck to see inside the unlidded pots bubbling away on the stove. “It smells like heaven on a plate. Like ambrosia from the gods, like―”

  “Yes, yes, very tasty. Now, seriously, Connor, I know we don’t know each other very―”

  “Don’t know each other?” The champagne bottle made a muted pop as he eased the cork out of it. Maggie held out two champagne glasses. “We’re fellow Americans, right?” he said. “We’re both from the eastern seaboard, right?”

  “Okay, well, then, what is all this about―”

  “God, Grace cannot keep her mouth shut, you know? I love her to death but the woman must broadcast.” He poured both their glasses and looked at her.

  “Well, you know, Connor, it was Lydie that really started the beans slipping out of the jar.”

  He set the champagne bottle down and sighed. Both he and Maggie could hear the sounds of more laughter coming from the terrace. Maggie wondered who was being witty.

  “It was just one of those things, you know?”