“Are you saying I drove him into the arms of another woman? Really original, Maggie. And supportive. Thanks a lot.”
“Well, did you?”
“Look, we haven’t been getting along for a while now.”
“Have you gone to counseling?”
“Like that helps.”
“Do you want to work it out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“Grace, you have kids!”
“Thanks. Because I’d forgotten that for a minute.”
“At least be honest, if not with me, then yourself. This girlfriend isn’t the real problem, is she?”
“Well, she doesn’t help.”
“You were looking for a way out.”
“And if I was, Maggie? Did it ever occur to you to wonder why that might be?”
“He hit you?”
“There are worse things.”
“Such as.”
“Am I supposed to live without love in my life?”
“You have two kids, Grace.”
“And I know you’re all excited about your own plan to add to the world population, Maggie, so I hate to be the one to tell you, but having kids is not all it’s cracked up to be.” Grace looked away, her face a mask of misery and hunger. “And I need more.”
Maggie turned on her heel and walked out of the room, careful to slam the door behind her.
When Maggie and Danielle drove up the long, winding driveway in the village of Lignane, halfway between St-Buvard and Aix, that led to Lily Tatois’s mansion, Maggie was grateful for both her friend’s happy chatter and the distraction of baby Zou-zou. It had seemed easier to just bring her with them rather than risk another confrontation with Grace, who didn’t appear to be in much of a motherly or babysitting mood as it was. Besides, Z, as Oncle Laurent had started calling her (only it sounded like “Zed” when he said it) was such a good baby. As toddlers go, Maggie knew she was probably not getting a representative sampling of the typical behavior and tried not to count on it too much with her little one.
“Oh, Lily will be so distraught,” Danielle said, smoothing out Zou-zou’s baby-fine hair from one of the child’s barrettes. Z sat on Danielle’s lap. Maggie knew she should be restrained in a child seat, but she didn’t have one and Grace hadn’t travelled with one. It was first on her shopping list the next trip she made to Aix, if Laurent didn’t beat her to it.
“Do you know her well?” Maggie asked as she navigated the long gravel drive. Several cars were parked on the grassy perimeter of the drive, pressing down the high grass and weeds to manageable levels.
“Oh, yes. We were in school together. Those boys meant everything to her. Jacques and Florrie. She never married, herself. They were her life.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” Maggie said, her hand unconsciously dropping to her touch her stomach. “Were they close, do you know?”
“How many times Lily has told me of how devoted her nephews are to her. Especially Florrie, who I think is her favorite.”
“I only met Jacques a couple of times, Danielle, but I have to say he didn’t strike me as the maiden-aunt-visiting type. He was kind of a jerk.”
“Maggie, I am not comfortable speaking this way about the recently departed. The poor man is passed. We should pray for the repose of his soul.”
“Yeah, sure,” Maggie said. “Sorry.”
Maggie parked the car on the grass at the base of the circular drive. The mas was larger than Domaine St-Buvard but not as well maintained, although Danielle said Lily had servants. Maggie let Danielle bring Z while she grabbed the basket of the obligatory tarts and cookies that Danielle had prepared. She was surprised at how many people had come to offer their condolences to Jacques’s aunt. Then again, the woman was quite wealthy.
The minute they stepped into the house, Maggie was assailed by the noise of at least fifty people crowded in the foyer and spilling over into the adjoining dining room and salon. Jacques may not have been the most popular man in Aix, but his aunt was clearly loved. Maggie made her way to the food table, where she set out Danielle’s pies and then returned to her friend to offer to take Z.
“We are fine,” Danielle said, holding onto the now squirming baby. “I just want to give my condolences and then we can leave. I know no one else here.” Danielle clucked Z under the chin. “We will first just go and find a cookie, yes?”
Maggie realized she would need to act fast if she wanted to talk with Lily for more than just a few seconds. Peering into the salon, she saw what looked like a receiving line moving in the direction of a large throne-like chair in which sat a beaming white-haired woman. Whoa. Not looking too torn up, is she? Maggie edged into the room and plucked a glass of sherry from the tray of a passing caterer. She didn’t like the idea of asking any questions so publicly—especially with people waiting behind her in line to talk to the old lady—but a quick memory of poor Julia’s tear-streaked, desperate face this afternoon fortified her conviction and she went and stood in line.
Looking around the room, it was clear that whatever fortune Lily had wasn’t being spent on updating the décor or furnishings of the mas. The couches and draperies looked worn and in need of mending. The overall effect was shabby, but still held the essence of elegance. And Lily herself was pulling off the whole grande dame thing with experience and aplomb. Something about her—the way she held herself and greeted the minions there to give homage to her—reminded Maggie of Grace. She felt her stomach twist unpleasantly at the thought. She could not remember ever having a fight with Grace that had felt even close to anything like this. This thing that had happened between them felt divisive and…permanent.
As soon as she got close enough to smell the dowager’s perfume, Maggie could see that she was flanked by family members who were also greeting the mourners in the line. A man who looked like he could have been Jacques’s brother, and so must be cousin Florian, sat to the immediate left of Lily. His eyes were red-rimmed and he held one of his aunt’s hands in his own. To Lily’s right sat none other than the deceased’s daughter, Michelle, who was in the process of glaring daggers at Maggie. The woman next to Michelle must be Jacques’s ex-wife, Annette. Maggie had assumed she might see these two here, but it hadn’t occurred to her the confrontation would be so direct. It did occur to her as she edged closer to the two glowering women that perhaps this wasn’t going to be the best time to do anything but say sorry for your troubles and leave as quickly as possible. The thought came to her that Grace’s sarcasm had been closer to the mark when she suggested that Maggie dispense with the attempt to question anyone and just slip off to poke around the house. Too late now.
“Hello, Madame Tatois,” Maggie said, stepping forward to shake hands with Lily and deftly handing her sherry glass to Michelle, who took it without thinking. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
Lily murmured something complicated in French, but before Maggie could attempt to respond Michelle blurted out, “She is a friend of Papa’s murderer, Aunt Lily!”
When her aunt turned to her in confusion, Annette took the opportunity to clamp a heavy hand down on her daughter’s arm, spilling Maggie’s sherry on her sleeve. “Not now, Michelle,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
Before a full-fledged family brawl could erupt, Maggie moved on quickly to Florrie and extended her hand. “And you must be Florian, Jacques’s cousin,” she said hurriedly, aware that Michelle was standing up now. “My husband, Laurent Dernier, sends his condolences, as he was not able to accompany me today.”
“You are Laurent’s wife?”
“Yes, and again, our deepest condolences.”
“I tell you, she is connected to the person who killed Papa! Why is nobody listening to me?”
Unfortunately, it looked to Maggie as if too many people were listening to Michelle, as the noise level and rate of heads twisting to see toward the front of the line had noticeably increased.
Michelle grabbed Maggie’s arm and twisted her to face her. “American whor
e!” she shrieked and threw the contents of her sherry glass into Maggie’s face. Maggie gasped and reached out blindly, the alcohol stinging her eyes, the fumes choking her. She could feel the liquid seeping down the front of her dress.
“Michelle!” Florrie cried out. “She is a guest in our house!”
“This is not your house, you crapaud!” Michelle screamed. As Maggie struggled to see through the burning alcohol, she felt the girl grab her by the arms, her nails digging sharply into her flesh. “Get OUT!” Michelle screamed.
Maggie began to fall backwards as Michelle gripped her, and thrashed out with her arms in a panic to try to prevent the fall. Michelle jerked away from her, leaving a trail of bloody scratches down Maggie’s bare arms. Maggie pawed at her face to wipe away the alcohol as she stumbled away from the group. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Florrie was holding Michelle with both hands, his face florid and stunned and looking at Maggie.
“Take her away to compose herself,” Lily said to Florrie, who began to drag Michelle away.
“Are you mad? She helped plan Papa’s murder! She is the accomplice to the murdering whore!” Michelle’s shrieks and threats continued until they faded into the far recesses of the house.
Lily leaned over and spoke quickly to Annette who, giving Maggie a look of pure hatred, stood and addressed the receiving line. “Aunt Lily is tired now. I am sorry. If you will write in the condolences book, there will be no more visits today. Thank you all for coming.” When she finished she turned to Lily, but the old woman was already beckoning Maggie to come closer.
“You knew my nephew, Madame?” Lily asked her. Her voice was kind but her eyes, now that Maggie really looked at them, seemed cloudy and vague.
“I did, Madame Tatois,” Maggie said, rubbing her arms and forcing herself not to look at Annette, who she could feel was glaring at her. “And I am so sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
“It is true,” Lily said, nodding but now seeming to talk to no one in particular. “Florrie was always the one good with money. I’m afraid Jacques wouldn’t have known what to do with it.”
Okay, so that made absolutely no sense at all.
With that, Lily turned to Annette, who began to help the woman out of her chair. Maggie didn’t waste her opportunity to escape. She saw Danielle standing in the now dismissed and disintegrating receiving line with little Zou-zou in her arms. Her mouth was open in shock as Maggie motioned her to the door.
Chapter Eight
Laurent’s vineyard was as neat and tidy as a hausfrau’s linen closet. Every row was weeded, every mound raked, every graceful green bough of grapes draped and staked as meticulously as a careful line of stitches in the earth. Maggie wasn’t surprised that Laurent gardened they way he cooked—with organized fervor. Their kitchen rarely had a spoon or sauce pan out of place. As she stood with him at the furthest point from the house at the north side of his vineyard, she had to smile when she thought of how his lovemaking, impulsive and passionate, was nothing like his gardening.
“You think this is funny?”
She sobered up and shoved her hands in her pockets, squinting down at the carefully raked ground in front of her as if in studious concentration. She had been careful to put on a long sleeve sweater to cover the scratch marks she’d received at Jacques’s wake, but had no real hope that Laurent didn’t know everything that had happened today. Somehow, he always did.
“Not at all,” she said. “I am taking it very seriously.”
Laurent stood next to her, his long hair thick and wild around his face, the stiff breeze pushing it without restraint. He looked a little wild himself, she thought. His eyes were flashing, and while they constantly surveyed his grapes and fields, she didn’t mistake for a moment that his thoughts were anywhere but solidly on her.
“Have you seen Grace today?” she asked.
“I brought a tray up to her at midday.”
“Did you speak?”
“She was sleeping. I left the tray.”
“We had words,” Maggie said. “Before I left with Danielle. I know Grace is upset. I’m afraid I made her more upset.”
As soon as she mentioned leaving with Danielle, she knew she had made a tactical error. The last thing she wanted to do was remind Laurent that she’d had a drink flung in her face and a crazy woman launch herself at her. At a condolences call. While eight months pregnant.
Laurent sighed heavily. “We must come to an understanding, Maggie,” he said to her, still not looking at her. “Very little do I deny you, I think, yes?”
She sighed herself instead of answering him.
“But this I must. You are to stop working on this investigation unless I am with you.”
“Laurent, we’ve talked about this before—”
“Oui! And always the answer is the same.”
“So I’d think you’d get tired of asking the same question.”
“I am not asking any questions, Maggie. I am your husband. Am I not?”
“That is irrelevant to my working on this case.”
He made a Gallic snorting sound that she had heard before. Usually it was over the incompetence of some groundsman or shopkeeper and it annoyed her to hear it used for her.
“If I cannot demand of you to do as I say for your own sake—and certainly not because you respect your husband’s wishes—then I must demand that you stop bringing valuable items of mine along with you. Items that may become damaged or lost.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Laurent. Are you talking about the baby? Because obviously I can’t leave the baby behind.”
“Exactement.”
“Okay, nice try. You should’ve gone into law or something. We are at a stalemate, dearest. Est-ce que tu comprends stalemate?”
“I thought we had seen the last of these arguments over your sleuthing, Maggie.” He said the word as if it had a bad taste to it.
“We had. But that was because I was led to believe you accepted my doing it under certain circumstances.”
“Oui,” he said, tossing down a dead vine he had been holding in his hand. “Not. While. You. Are. Pregnant.”
Maggie sighed and reached out to him to steady herself as she turned to face the house.
“While it’s true we didn’t write that particular clause into the final agreement…”
“You are being funny again. Moi, je le deteste!”
“If it’s any consolation, I hate it, too. But where does that leave us?”
“I will go with you.” He gave one last look at his vineyard.
“How can you do that? Aren’t you set to start harvesting any minute now?”
He shrugged.
“Okay, Laurent, stop it. That’s just childish. You can’t come with me or else your whole year ends up in the crapper. It’s just bad timing.”
He gave her a side look from under his eyebrows, his full lips in a stubborn line.
“No, Laurent,” she said firmly. “I can’t let Julia rot in jail any more than you can let your grapes rot on the vines.”
The two stood together for a moment, Maggie facing the house and Laurent’s chin resolutely set in the other direction, toward his vines. After a moment, Maggie slipped her hand into his.
“I promise I won’t take any chances, Laurent,” she said softly. “I promise I won’t do anything to endanger me or the baby.” She watched his face and could see the battle he fought to believe her. “I promise.”
Without answering, he turned and drew her into his arms. He was too tall to rest his chin on the top of her head, but Maggie squeezed him tight.
“I promise,” she said again, her words muffled by his thick cotton sweater.
The next morning, Laurent left the house before Maggie. She knew he would be with the other vignerons in his co–op most of the day, deciding exactly when to pick and dividing up the labor as they did every year. She noticed he left her the car and she felt a rush of affection for him. She knew he only wanted her to stay safe, and it
was true that a few incidents in the past had led to some very close calls for her. It was also true that this time she had more than just herself to think about.
In the end they had compromised. Maggie agreed to stop questioning total strangers about the case and Laurent agreed to allow her to continue to visit Julia in the detention facility in Aix.
She had yet to mention her meetings with Roger, and since Laurent didn’t ask she felt it best to just leave it alone. After all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong and she had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. And she did need to know what Roger knew about the case that was developing against Julia. She was aware that possibly Laurent had a baseline assumption she would not see Roger, but she assuaged her guilt with the belief that she had no control over what he assumed if he didn’t voice it to her.
She had a few hours before her first appointment, so she parked the car and walked down the Cours to the first outdoor café she came to. The plane trees, fast losing all their blossoms and their leaves, still provided gentle shade in addition to the ubiquitous blue umbrellas that stood at each table. She sat down facing the Cours—always the best for people watching—and ordered a macchiato from the waiter. There was a time, she knew, not so long ago, that she couldn’t have enjoyed this moment without comparing it to Atlanta. She remembered how Grace used to laugh at that.
“San Francisco, maybe, darling,” she had said. “But I’ve been to Atlanta. To long for it when you see this is just addled.”
Maggie smiled now, remembering. At the time, Maggie had argued that Grace hadn’t seen the real Atlanta: the dense heavy trees that covered most of the town, the breath-stopping dogwood and azaleas that erupted every spring making you forget you lived in a real place and not some magical Arcadia. Grace hadn’t seen the stately mansions of Buckhead or Piedmont Park after the first snow. She hadn’t known Margaret Mitchell Square or Midtown in its heyday. And those were all very good arguments for someone desperately homesick, Maggie mused as she took her first sip of her espresso. The beauty of the Atlanta that she knew—the one she grew up in—was tucked away in the memories she had of the special times there. Because nothing, or very little, she realized now, could compete with the beauty she saw almost every single day of her life in Provence. From the dusty village roads to the endless fields of lavender to the dramatic evidence of Roman architecture that seemed to materialize at the oddest moments. Had she ever had her breath taken away shopping for plums in Atlanta? (Had she ever even shopped for plums in Atlanta?) That happened daily here.
Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) Page 7