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

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Babette, you mean?”

  Connor took a long drink and then nodded. “She’s cute as a button, have you seen her?”

  “Connor, you said yourself. This sort of thing just isn’t on in a town of this size, out here in the hinterlands.”

  “I know, I know.” He wiped a pearl of condensation from his glass. “I feel bad about it.” He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Jesus, Maggie, you’re not suggesting I marry the girl?”

  “I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” Maggie said truthfully. She regarded Connor carefully. “Have you talked to her?” she asked.

  “I’ve offered her money, I’ve offered to take her to Aix to have an abortion, I’ve...I’ve even offered to talk to her father, although, I thought that was above and beyond.”

  “You’d rather pay her off.”

  “And I feel bad about that!” Connor held up his hands, his champagne glass held in one. “But what can I do? I mean, she’s a nice girl and all and I feel like a rat, okay? Putting her in this spot. But what can I do?"

  Maggie frowned. “You have a responsibility, Connor.”

  “I very much care about this. I do.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I care about my actions,” he said. “And about what you and Laurent think of me.”

  “We like you,” she said.

  “I’m glad. I like you guys, too.” He grinned and reached for the champagne bottle. She declined, indicating her full glass.

  “What’s really awful,” Connor said, “is Grace knowing about this, what with what’s happening with her and Windsor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought she might have told you. She adores you.”

  “I think she’s wonderful, too.”

  “Well, about me getting Babette pregnant and all when she and Win are trying everything they can to get pregnant.”

  Maggie stood watching him.

  “She hadn’t said anything to you?” Connor asked.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “Yeah, it’s kinda tough.” Connor leaned against the counter and sighed. “I got my information from Windsor, not Grace. It’s been really hard on both of them.”

  “Do they know what the problem is?”

  “I guess all the tests say that there is no problem. She’s normal, he’s normal...”

  “And they can obviously produce children, right? I mean, there’s Taylor.”

  “One would assume. Listen, if you’ve finished grilling me about the fair Babette…?” He motioned toward the terrace with his champagne glass and smiled winningly. “Only, muss up your hair a little, will you? It’s my reputation, you see...”

  “Get outta here.” Maggie pushed past him good-naturedly and led the way back to the group outside.

  “Laurent won’t mind,” Connor protested. “He’s French. He expects this sort of thing to go on in his own kitchen.”

  “What has gone on in my kitchen? You touched nothing?” Laurent said as he met them in the living room on his way back into the kitchen. He wagged a big finger at the both of them.

  “Oh, Laurent, I’m sorry,” Maggie said, patting his arm as she walked on through. “We just added a wee bit of Worcestershire sauce to the roue. We both agreed it’s much improved.”

  “And I doctored up those little puff-ball things you had sittin’ there,” Connor added happily. “You’d left the grape jelly out, big guy. Easy mistake to make.”

  Laurent rolled his eyes at them both and turned back toward the kitchen as Maggie and Connor rejoined Grace and Windsor on the terrace. Once outside, Connor immediately went over to Grace and nestled beside her.

  “Have a nice little chat, did you?” Grace said, eyeing them both curiously.

  “Maggie wanted to make sure I wasn’t a total cretin by getting the baker girl pregnant,” Connor said, poking a finger into the empty pâté crock.

  “And did he convince you?” Grace asked brightly, turning in Maggie’s direction.

  “Well, yes, actually he did,” Maggie said, as she settled down on a small stone bench opposite the three. “And I agree, a small wedding service will be best under the circumstances. Nothing too noisy that might call too much attention to―”

  “You’re kidding.” Grace’s mouth fell open. Maggie struggled to keep her own face serious.

  “Windsor, take this woman home,” Connor said, jabbing Windsor on the shoulder. “She’s hopelessly drunk.”

  “You are kidding,” Grace said, her face falling into a sheepish grin.

  “She’s kidding,” Connor said, smiling. “So listen, what’s happening on the dinner front?” He leaned over and snaked a cigarette from a pack that Grace had placed beside her on the bench. “Je suis starving, you-all.”

  “You are a man of many appetites,” Windsor said cryptically.

  “God, Windsor, you sounded just like Peter Lorre from Casablanca when you said that.” Connor lit his cigarette and twisted in his seat to look at Windsor. “And Grace said you had no talents.” He took a quick drag off his stolen cigarette and blew the smoke high in the air over everyone’s heads.

  “You’re feeling your Cheerios tonight, aren’t you?” Grace smiled at Connor but Maggie noticed something a little cool under the smile.

  “We’re all hungry,” Maggie said as she hopped up. “Let me see how close we are to the first course.” Windsor stood up to refill everyone’s wine glasses as Maggie went to join Laurent in the kitchen.

  She stood at the open door of the kitchen and watched her lover’s broad back as he worked deftly at the range. Quickly, he ladled up ratatouille into five small blue ramekins, then turned and saw Maggie watching him.

  “Bon," he said. “You can bring out the first bowls.”

  “Can I bring in the first kiss first?” she said stepping up to him, careful not to entangle with any whisks, spoons or other kitchen apparatus he might be connected to. She noticed the single bead of sweat marking a line down his brow as he leaned over to kiss her fully on the mouth.

  The French, she thought with amusement, as he pulled away to resume his preparations. They don’t do anything half way when it comes to cooking or kissing.

  “We didn’t really put grape jelly in the d’agneau en croûte, “ she said as she carefully lifted the tray of steaming bowls.

  Laurent looked up from the bottle of Côtes du Rhône he was in the process of opening. “Je sais, chérie, " he said. I know. “Connor is a funny man, no?”

  “Pretty funny,” she said, watching his face closely.

  “But there is something not very funny under the joke, n’est-ce pas?" Laurent brought the cork out and held it up like an ill-shapen tooth extracted by a proud dentist. “Monsieur MacKenzie has, I think, a not very funny secret or two.” He turned his back on her to attend a bubbling pot. “Vas y, Maggie,” he said over his shoulder. “The stew is served hot tonight. Veuillez, vite, vite!"

  Maggie turned and hurried across the polished wooden floor of the living room to the glowing lights and laughter of the terrace. As she walked, she could hear Grace’s laugh, high and musical, floating in from among the hollyhocks and towering apple trees.

  “You’re kidding? You can afford a whole, complete house in Westwood? As in Westwood, Los Angeles? That’s where your other house is in the States?” Maggie pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and stood up over the table searching for a potholder.

  “Well, we’re rich,” Windsor said drunkenly.

  “Oh, Win, shut up.” Grace gave him a playful slap. “We are not rich.”

  “We are, too.” He looked sleepily up at Maggie who used the potholder to cover the heated handle on the espresso pot and was pouring their coffees.

  Dinner had taken a relaxing three hours to consume, punctuated with laughter and conversation that grew fuzzier yet somehow more interesting as the wine continued to pour. “At least, then, we’re really, really, really, really...” He looked at Grace with a dull, glazed expression “...comfo
rtable.”

  “You certainly are, that’s clear,” Connor said sarcastically, regarding his friend’s inebriated state just as Windsor’s elbow refused to hold up his chin, which collapsed into the remnants of his créme brulée.

  “Oh, Windsor!” Grace said in dismay. “You’re making a mess.” She looked up at Maggie and her eyes were unhappy and tired. “I’m sorry, Maggie. We’d probably better call it a night.”

  “That’s okay,” Maggie said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I guess it’s getting late anyway.”

  “It’s only eleven o’clock!” Connor protested.

  Laurent was sitting back in his chair, his arm draped gracefully over the back of Maggie’s chair. He smoked and watched Connor.

  “Can’t we put him to bed somewhere?” Connor asked, looking at Maggie and raising his eyebrows. “Maybe? Or, hell, we could throw him in the backseat of the car...? Gracie?”

  “Don’t call me that, Connor, “ she said testily. “And I’m not throwing him in the backseat―”

  “Grace, if you want,” Maggie said, “he could take a little rest on the couch. It’s just in the living room...”

  “What a novel place to hide a couch.” Connor jumped up to catch Windsor under the arms in order to maneuver him into the other room. Maggie realized with surprise that, for no good reason that she could think of, she had been a little annoyed with Connor all night.

  “Laurent, can you help, please?” she asked.

  “I’ll take one side, Laurent,” Connor said. Maggie was struck by the fact that this was the first time she had ever heard Connor call Laurent by his name. They carried Windsor into the house. Grace watched with concern until the doors shut behind them. She sighed and lit up another cigarette. Laurent and Connor, after settling poor Windsor down on the couch, retired to the kitchen for Calvados. Maggie felt some relief and wondered why.

  “Don’t worry about him, Grace,” she said, smiling.

  Grace waved away a wisp of blue smoke and Maggie’s concern.

  “I’m not, I’m not,” she said. “He never does this sort of thing. Really.”

  Maggie pulled her chair closer to Grace’s and picked up a lighted cigarette from the ashtray.

  “You don’t smoke, do you?” Grace asked, frowning.

  “No, and I wish Laurent wouldn’t either.” Maggie held up the cigarette between two fingers and waved it as if she were about to bring it to her lips. “It can look sort of romantic though. When you do it, for example.”

  “I hate the things,” Grace said, looking at her own cigarette. “I’m incapable of quitting, though. I am sorry about tonight, Maggie.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Maggie looked at her with surprise. “Nothing happened.” she asked. “Windsor fell asleep...”

  “He got drunk.”

  “Sometimes Laurent does that,” Maggie lied.

  “I cannot imagine that.” Grace turned her glance briefly in the direction of the kitchen. “Monsieur Self-control? Not possible.”

  “Oh, he has his moments, believe me.” Maggie put down the cigarette. “You think Laurent is pretty flat, I guess, huh? Sort of, nonemotional?”

  “You could say that!” Grace laughed and touched Maggie’s arm. “But he’s gorgeous, Maggie, and that accent of his positively makes me damp, I am serious! Don’t you dare tell him I said that!”

  They both laughed. Grace’s annoyance with Windsor seemed to dissipate, the tension easing out of the moment like air escaping from a balloon.

  “Windsor and I are trying to get pregnant again,” Grace said, and sucked hard on her cigarette.

  “A sister or brother for Taylor?” Maggie asked cheerfully, not wanting to give away the game of already knowing.

  “Did you know Taylor plays the piano?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “No, I mean, she plays―like a miniature Mozart. She’s got a gift. God knows she didn’t get it from me or Win.” Grace stared out across the blackness that was Laurent’s vineyard. “She’s a brilliant musician and no one’s really sure how it happened.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow.” Grace shook herself out of her dreamy stare and smiled at Maggie. “Still a little pain in the butt too much of the time. But brilliant.”

  “So, you’re going for the rest of the orchestra, huh?”

  “We have gone through nearly three years of infertility, Maggie.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  “You don’t know what I mean, do you?”

  “I know it’s sometimes hard to conceive when you want to,” she said, pulling her demitasse toward her and pointing to the espresso pot.

  Grace shook her head. She crushed out her cigarette and shook the last one out of her pack. She twisted the empty package before lighting up.

  “What it means is a lot of tests and shots and drugs and trips to the doctor. It means wanting to kill yourself every time your period rolls around and, instead of morning sickness, you’re in bed with cramps again. It means having sex with your husband on a schedule―not when you feel like it. It means crying every time you see a pregnant woman or a little baby. And panicking instead of celebrating every birthday and not taking vacations because you’re afraid to miss a cycle of treatment.”

  Grace took a big breath and Maggie could see her hand was shaking. “Anyway,” she said, looking up at Maggie and smiling, “today’s the day, you know?”

  “‘The day’?”

  “I ovulated today. It’s my window of opportunity. Lucky me, n’est-ce pas?"

  “Oh.” And Windsor is passed out drunk on the couch in my living room. “Oh, Grace,” Maggie said, “is the window really that small?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Grace said bitterly, watching the glowing ember on the tip of her cigarette.

  Chapter Five

  Late November came to St-Buvard in the form of a rude stretch of icy weather. Mornings left a halo of cold fog over the vineyards, the mist rising up in clouds as if the ground itself were gasping. The barking of far-off farm dogs would break the frigid air and echo down the valley away from the hilltop village. There was a definite scent of decay in the air that mingled with the thin curls of blue smoke from the village chimneys.

  Maggie had spent the two weeks since the dinner party concentrating on preparations for the Thanksgiving visit of her parents and niece, who were due to arrive in two days. Consumed with decorating their large, and now, it had become evident, drafty, mas, she had seen very little of Grace or Windsor or Connor. Except for almost daily phone calls and the occasional hurried lunch at Le Canard, Maggie had seen more of Madame Renoir at the boulangerie than she had of Grace.

  Laurent was earnestly involved in the production of his own wine label. More than a few times, Maggie had brought a plate of sandwiches down to him and Jean-Luc in the cave where they spent their afternoons conferring and testing the young wine.

  The afternoon was cold and wet, the sky a wash of bleakest slate-gray, as Maggie made ham and cheese sandwiches with fresh, fragrant slices of Madame Renoir’s excellent bread and aîoli, the area’s rich garlic spread. She heard Laurent and Jean-Luc’s heavy boots on the old wooden stairs as they ascended to the kitchen from the cave. Maggie wiped her hands against her jeans and checked her makeup.

  “Oh, chérie,” Laurent said, his eyes brightening when he saw her. “We will come to the table like civilized men, hein?” His dark blue pullover strained against his broad chest as he ran a hand through his hair.

  Jean-Luc removed his rag cap and nodded at Maggie. He smiled his ruined smile and tucked his big, farmer’s hands under his armpits as if sorry he’d brought them along.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said.

  “Finished for the day?” Maggie asked hopefully as Laurent pulled a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the cupboard above her head.

  “Mais, non, Madame!” Jean-Luc said, clucking his tongue as if Maggie had made a bad joke. “There is much to mak
ing a good wine, yes? Only the best grapes are employed.”

  Maggie carried the plate of sandwiches to the table while Laurent brought the bottle and three glasses.

  “You are hand-sorting through a hundred bushels of grapes?” She thumped the sandwiches down on the table and looked at Laurent with incredulity.

  He shook his head. “No, but mon oncle has planted several different varieties, n’est-ce pas?”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “Non, non, not bad,” Jean-Luc said, seating himself at the table. “It will make for a wine formidable!” He kissed two of his fingers. “Grenache et Cinsault et―”

  “Grenache?” Maggie accepted a glass of wine from Laurent. “You mean like that pink stuff you won’t allow in the house back home?”

  “C’est différent, Maggie, “ Laurent said, a smile edging his full lips.

  “God, don’t tell me you’re going to embarrass me to my friends back in Georgia.” She affected an imaginary conversation, “Oh, the wine we make? It’s sort of a French Mad-Dog 20-20.”

  “‘Mad Dog’?” Jean-Luc looked up questioning to Laurent who shook his head at the older man.

  “Ce ne fait rien,” Laurent said to him. “L’humour américain.”

  “I understood that!” Maggie gave Laurent a playful jab.

  “The Grenache we make will be totalement différent,” Laurent said as he reached for a sandwich.

  “Well, why’s it taking so long? You’ve got crushers and stuff, right? Just squeeze all the juice out―”

  “And we will have le bon jus de raisin,” Laurent said, matter-of-factly.

  “Grape juice,” Maggie said.

  “Very good, chérie!” Laurent patted her hand.

  “The juice, she is squeezed.” Jean-Luc pressed his hands together, crumbs clinging to his mustache. “This is already done.”

  Maggie nibbled at her own sandwich and smiled politely at Jean-Luc. “And now?” she asked. “Now that the juice, she is squeezed?”

  “Maggie.” Laurent’s voice was low and admonishing. She didn’t look at him.

  “It must be fermented, bien sûr,” the older man said, as if every one must surely know this.