“You know, Gerry’s probably going to be on this Kiwi kick of his. I want you to be patient, okay?”
“I am toujours very patient.” He lifted a ladle of the roue and plunged it into the hot broth in another pot on the stove.
“I know you are, dearest. I count on it, in fact. Oh, there they are now.” A sturdy knock at the door brought Maggie around the dining room table and into the foyer. She gave her plum-colored tunic a quick pull, smoothed it over her capri pants, and then opened the door.
Darla looked gorgeous as usual. She wore a blue sheath of shimmering satin laced with dancing crystal beads that spun and flew at the ends of their gossamer tethers whenever she moved. Everything the woman wore took on a new dimension of sexiness, it seemed to Maggie—even baggy corduroys and tent dresses---yet Darla always looked as fresh and sweet as if she’d just caught a bus from the Sisters of Mercy convent. Her hair settled about her shoulders in a golden penumbra of loose curls. Her facial features were fine and delicate except for a large full mouth. Crow’s feet were already developing around her eyes—testimony to the intense concentration Darla tended to give even the mundane facets of her life. All in all, it was an intelligent face, Maggie thought. And a beautiful one.
“Darla! Ages!” Maggie squealed. “Long time no!” They kissed and hugged, holding onto each other’s elbows as they pulled back to get a better look.
“You look wonderful, Maggie, and again, I’m so sorry about your sister.”
“Thanks, Darla, thank you. Hey, Ger.”
Gerry wore plain khaki slacks with a black knit polo shirt. Maggie found herself wondering with surprise how he was able to sport the tan that he did working the hours that he did. She’d never really noticed it before.
“Where is he?” Gerry peered around the corner toward the kitchen.
“Oh, God, you’re not going to be a jerk tonight, are you?” Maggie turned to Darla, “He’s not going to be a jerk tonight, is he?”
“Don’t be silly. Gerry? A jerk?” Darla feigned disbelief. “But seriously, Maggie, where is he?”
“Not you too? He’s in the kitchen.” She leaned against the wall and raised her voice: “Laurent! Do you have a breaking point?”
“You mean he hasn’t found that with you yet?” Gerry’s eyes danced.
Maggie rolled her eyes at him.
“Laurent?” she called again.
“Une moment, cherie.”
“Ohhhh, Maggie! You lucky creature! He calls you ‘Cherie’!”
“Oh, you girls are disgusting.” Gerry put his hands in his pockets. “Can I just go in or are you going to make us get our hands stamped first?”
“Yes, yes. Come in. He’s in the kitchen doing tricky things with flour and beef juice and stuff.”
Maggie led the way to the dining room as Laurent was coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of white wine and four glasses in his hands.
Gerry stuck out his hand, realized the impossibility of this, and, instead, shook Laurent’s free elbow.
“Hi, I’m Gerry. I guess you’ve heard a lot about me.”
“Enchantez,” Laurent said, his eyes going quickly to Darla as he put the wine bottle down and reached for her hand. He smiled broadly. “Enchantez, Madame,” he repeated to her.
“Ooooh, me too, thank you. I’m Darla.” Darla stretched out her hand to receive the glass of wine Laurent was pouring.
Gerry appeared to be less impressed with Laurent than did Darla. He took his wine from Laurent and nodded his acceptance.
“So, Maggie,” he said, turning his back on the Frenchman, “how goes the police investigation?”
“Not good.” She ignored Laurent’s look of disapproval and ushered their guests into the living room. “Come on in and sit down and I’ll tell you a little about it. Are you just about finished in the kitchen, Laurent?” she called over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.
They settled themselves in Maggie’s tiny living room with its crazy-quilt collection of colored toss pillows and miniature hanging tapestries. The effect was still somehow clean, even spare, because of the frugality that Maggie had used in the number of wall hangings—and her determination to keep the walls unpainted and stark.
“Okay,” Maggie said. “I’ll be brief because it’s turning into a less-than-welcome subject in the house.”
“Oh?” Darla frowned. “How come?”
“Oh, you know, it’s sort of a depressing topic.”
Laurent entered the room, a glass of wine in his hand, but did not sit down. Instead, he leaned against the archway of the door leading into the living room. Gerry was aware that the man’s decision to stand made him feel a little uncomfortable.
“Maggie becomes unhappy when she is thinking of her sister’s death,” he said, watching Maggie with eyes full of care and protection.
“It depresses me,” Maggie agreed. “But I can’t not do it, you know?”
Darla nodded sympathetically.
“I mean, I have to find out what happened and the police aren’t doing anything—“
“This is not true,” Laurent protested.
“All right, they’re not doing enough for me.” She shrugged and took a sip of her wine.
“Gerry said you got a bad phone call last week, maybe from the killer?” Darla leaned forward on the couch toward Maggie.
Maggie searched Laurent’s face for any sign of irritation. There was none.
“Yes, yes, I did. And I was so blown away by it that I didn’t try to keep him on the phone or hear whatever else he had to say. I just hung up on him.”
“What did the cops say?” Gerry watched Laurent retreat into the kitchen.
“Nothing, really. They asked me to describe his voice and what time he called and all, but that’s it.”
“What did he say to you?” Darla asked.
“Well, he, in essence... he told me I was next on his list, or how would I like to be next on his list? Something to that effect. I don’t even remember exactly now. It freaked me out so much at the time.”
“But the police, they say it could be somebody who is simplement pretending.” Laurent stood in the doorway once more. He looked at Darla for confirmation on his word choice. She nodded encouragingly. “Pretending to be the killer of Elise,” he said. “Et maintenant, dinner,” he finished, “she is served,”
“Oh, yum.” As Darla hopped up, the loose crystal beads of her dress danced wildly all in one movement, like an ocean wave crashing over her body. The beads made a shusshing noise like a beaded curtain in a clairvoyant’s parlor.
“So, it might not have been the killer who called you?” Gerry moved into the dining room with the others.
“Well, it might not have been. That’s true. Elise’s murder did get a fairly extensive write-up in the paper. The cops say that always attracts people to call up and say cheerful things to the surviving family. Sweet, huh? Please, sit, sit.” Maggie indicated the empty chairs at the dining table and they all took their seats. She caught Laurent’s eye as he approached from the kitchen carrying their dinner and he smiled at her. Lovingly, forgivingly.
Gerry pushed his plate away and addressed Maggie.
“Not bad. You’re improving.”
She gave him a warning look.
“I didn’t make it. Laurent did.”
“Oh? My compliments to the chef.” He smiled stiffly at Laurent.
“Don’t be an ass, Gerry,” Darla said, her mouth full of Boeuf en Daube Provençale. “You knew Laurent cooked it. Dee-lish beef casserole, Laurent,” she said to her host.
“Je t’en prie,” Laurent said simply, smiling at Darla.
“And that soup!” Darla scooped up another spoonful of her Boeuf en Daube. “I need the recipe for that, although I’m sure it’s impossibly hard. Can you microwave it? You know, make it up early and then freeze it?”
“’Freeze it?” Laurent asked uncertainly.
“Oh, never mind, keep it a secret from me. It makes it taste better.”
“Well, finally,” Gerry said when Laurent set the tray down. “I was wondering when you people were going to finish feeding us.”
Darla gave him an amused look.
“Yes, well...” Maggie laughed. “The French have definitely got the endless-food-thing under control. I told Laurent, I’m going to look like a German hausfrau very soon now. He thinks I’m joking.”
“Speaking of joking...” Darla slid a slice of crespaou onto her plate and helped herself to a thick wedge of Brie. “Has Gerry mentioned his plans to emigrate to the South Pacific?”
“I thought you didn’t want me talking about that.” Gerry touched a piece of cold sausage suspiciously with his fork. There were bits of green and white things poking out of it.
“He said y’all are moving to New Zealand,” Maggie said. “How do you feel about that, Darla?”
Laurent flapped his napkin open and took a sip from his wine glass. His eyes met Maggie’s briefly.
“This is good stuff,” Gerry remarked, pulling the wine bottle to him.
“Chateau Cos D’Estournel l982.” Laurent looked at him with surprise. “You are familiar, oui?”
Gerry shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve heard of it,” he said.
“I feel hacked off about it, if you want to know,” Darla said to Maggie. “He’s called New Zealand immigration and asked about the school year for Haley and how we can get residency and all that stuff. "
Gerry frowned and took a sip of his wine. “I’m calling around to get things set up and find housing and so forth. Plus, I need to find a job down there.”
“This really just seems so sudden to me,” Maggie said, taking a pear from the basket of fruit that she deposited on the table. “How did you pick New Zealand? Why so far away?”
“Did you know that Auckland is the furthest point on the globe from Atlanta?” Gerry said happily. “Except Perth, I think.”
“And that’s the whole point, I guess?” Maggie looked at Gerry.
“I’m sick of living like this,” he said. “Sick of being afraid for my family and reading about mass slayings at the MacDonald’s restaurants and drug killings in Cabbagetown—“
“We don’t live anywhere near Cabbagetown,” Darla inserted.
“Doesn’t matter. We live in the same city with it.”
“So you thought you’d try your luck in another hemisphere?” Maggie said cutting her pear into small bite-sized chunks. “I don’t know, Gar, it seems so drastic. Don’t you think so, Laurent?”
“I’m thinking it sounds like a bonne idee,” he said, shrugging.
“I thought you liked America,” Maggie stopped cutting up her fruit.
“I like wherever you are, cherie,” he said simply.
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking it sounds like the end of the world,” Darla said, pushing her plate away. “Hurry up and catch this lunatic, okay, Maggie? That way we can all stay in the U.S.”
“It’s not just him—“ Gerry leaned across the table.
“I know, I know,” Darla said. “But it’d be a start. Soon as Elise’s killer is caught, we’ll all start to relax a little.”
Maggie looked at Laurent and he covered her hand with his own.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you how the memorial service was,” Darla said gently.
“It was good. Generic.” Maggie released Laurent’s hand and regarded her friends from across the table. “I mean, no one really knew Elise. She’d been away so long...nearly seven years all together. So the eulogy wasn’t terribly specific.” Maggie cleared her throat.
Laurent reached for the wine bottle. He poised it over Darla’s already full glass.
“Encore du vin?” he asked.
2
The next morning the drizzle continued. The rain offered some relief to the sweltering city by lowering temperatures, but left behind a suffocating mugginess that left Atlantans gasping.
“I keep coming back to Gerard.” Maggie adjusted the telephone receiver against her ear and leaned against the glass wall of the phone booth.
“Perhaps she had a boyfriend?” Laurent asked. “Did you ask? In France, there are many passionate fights between lovers. It is....how you are saying?...not unusual.”
Maggie could hear a pot lid clattering against the oven. Does the man do nothing but prepare food?
“Yeah, well, we puritanical Americans are a little more self-contained when it comes to l’amour, Laurent,” she responded. “Sorry to disappoint you. Drugs or turf or money... those are all acceptable, American things to kill for, but love just doesn’t cut it as a real popular reason over here.”
“Ah, well.” She could see his usual Gallic shrug and she felt a surge of love for him. He seemed to have an affectionate interest in things American. As long as they didn’t actually jump into his grocery cart or keep him from smoking in restaurants or—heaven forbid—force him to perform any kind of aerobic exercise. Yet he was fascinated with Americans, with their health obsessions, their attention to cars and their neurotic attendance on their children’s whims. He enjoyed watching it all and was careful to remain an observer.
“I was toying with the idea of skipping dinner, my love.” Maggie twisted the telephone cord around her fist and looped the hard rubber ringlets between her knuckles.
“Pour quoi?” She could hear a tinge of hurt being quickly covered.
“I can’t eat so much, Laurent. I’m serious.”
“It is food, simplement.”
“I know, darling, but it is also fattening, artery-clogging food—as scrumptious as it is. I can’t do it on a regular basis. I just want to grab a carton of yogurt or something tonight. Okay? And I’m going by to talk to the night watchman at our building—“
“I will come with you.”
“Okay, good. That’d be good.” Maggie rubbed her eyes with her free hand and watched the traffic on Piedmont Avenue from the grime-streaked window of the phone booth. “Anyway, I just want to drop in on my folks to say ‘hi’ and then I’ll be home.”
“Bon.”
“I love you, Laurent.”
“I love you, too, Maggie.”
After she had hung up and dodged the raindrops to get back into her car, it began to occur to Maggie that perhaps Laurent should find some kind of job.
3
Maggie pulled onto the Newberry estate and through the Brymsley gates.
Elspeth opened the front door as Maggie parked. She looked fresh and happy. She wore a soft cotton sundress of blue and purple violets on a white background and a pair of gold sandals on her feet.
“Have you changed your mind about dinner? Your father’s home for a change.”
“No, sorry, Mom, I told Laurent I’d be home.”
“Call him, have him drive over—“
“Mom, we’ll be here tomorrow night, but I can’t tonight.”
“Well, all right, darling.” Elspeth led them into the house
“How’s she been doing?” Maggie asked.
“Oh, fine. Very good. You’ll have a drink, at least?”
“Sure, I guess. A quick one. Dad’s home, you say?”
While her mother gave drink orders to Becka, Maggie found her father sitting in his study with the evening paper and a gin and tonic.
“Hey, Dad,” she said, giving him a kiss.
“Well, hello, sweetheart.” John Newberry’s face lit up as his paper crumpled into his lap. “Your mother said you couldn’t come to dinner tonight.”
“I can’t, either. I’m just here for a quick visit. Laurent and I’ll be over tomorrow for dinner.”
“I like the man,” her father said. “He’s got some very interesting stories to tell.”
“Oh, really?” Laurent’s story-telling abilities hadn’t really come up much in t
heir relationship. Maggie found herself intrigued.
“Ahh, well, probably not the sort of stories a young man tells his lady love. Quite the scamp in his day, was your Laurent. Reformed by love.” Her father straightened out his newspaper, folding it to a smaller size to make his reading tidier...less conspicuous?
Although not surprised that Laurent had a mysterious past, Maggie was astonished that he might have shared any of it with the father of his lover. Or that her father hadn’t been alarmed by whatever Laurent had divulged. Couldn’t have been anything too dangerous, Maggie decided, as she watched John Newberry’s pleasant face relax into a concentration of reading. It was true her father seemed fascinated by Laurent. And, for some reason, she found she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea.
“Mind if I use the phone, Dad, in the ante room?” Maggie stood up and held her notepad in front of her.
“Of course, darling, help yourself,” he murmured into his newspaper.
Maggie stepped into the small room used as the business part of her Dad’s study. Here, away from the den with its books and side tables and Steiffel lamps, were the desk and fax machine. There was even a copier machine that her father seemed never to use but had insisted on having. Maggie closed the door separating the two rooms.
Picking up the phone, she quickly gave the operator her overseas calling card code and the number in Paris. After several lengthy clicks, the line rang.
“Allo? Chez Zouk.” A woman’s voice came clear and distinct over the line.
“Oui, est-ce que Madame Zouk?” Is this Madame Zouk? Maggie asked.
“Comment?” Excuse me?
God, she was afraid of this. Her French was crap. Why didn’t she just have Laurent make the call for her?
“Madame Zouk. Je cherche Madame Zouk. Elle est la?” I’m looking for Madame Zouk. Is she there?
“Ahhhh! Madame Zouk, elle n’est pas ici . Elle a vacance en Provence. Comprenez?”
On vacation in the South of France? Maggie let out a long, breath. Her expectations and hopes draining out with the breath.
“Oui, merci, Madame. Merci beaucoup. Au revoir, madame.” Maggie hung up quickly just as the door opened and Becka entered with a small silver tray. On it was a lone Waterford goblet sparkling with her gin and tonic. A fat green wedge of lime bobbed to the top.
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