After nearly five years of living surrounded by all this natural beauty—not to mention what the Romans had brought to the table over a thousand years ago—Maggie had finally gotten to the point where she was happy where she was. And all the losses she had tallied on her long list of things she had left behind seemed like nothing to her now when she saw all that she had.
And at the very top of that list was Laurent. Her hand settled on her stomach as she thought of him, a smile edging her lips. They had not even talked about having children. She had had no idea, beyond the fact he seemed to be good with kids, if he even wanted children. Truth be told, she hadn’t been too sure about it herself. She had watched Grace and Win struggle first with Taylor—a brilliant hellion of a child—and then with the process of trying to become pregnant again. In fact, Grace’s agony during that bad year of injections and IVF procedures was not unlike what she seemed to be going through now. The thought surprised Maggie. Up until now, she had been focusing on how selfish Grace was to want to break up the family. She thought back to her friend’s misery and desperation when it looked like she couldn’t conceive again, when every attempt ended in failure. Until, of course, little Zou-zou happened. Maggie sat up in her chair as a bad thought struck her. Is it possible that Grace and Win’s present problems have to do with the question of Z’s true paternity? When they left France eighteen months ago Win had staunchly announced that it didn’t matter. Perhaps, somewhere along the line, it had started to?
If a DNA test had finally put an end to the doubt and speculation, it might well explain why Grace and Z came to France alone. As Maggie was imagining this, her cellphone rang and she saw it was her editor. She had let the prior two calls yesterday go straight to voicemail, but now she hesitated. Maggie watched as her phone continued to vibrate against the café table until it finally fell silent. She knew it was rude not to call her back, but what was there to say? She hadn’t done the edits requested of her. She had no idea when she’d be able to get to them. If ever. It was pretty obvious she was going to miss her deadline. Her editor was probably calling to demand the return of her advance. Paltry though it was, it had already been spent months ago. And why? Why had she lost interest in the one thing that had been so exciting for her just two months earlier?
Maggie motioned to the waiter for her bill. Was it the corrections themselves? Her editor at the publishers was pretty smart, and most of the things she pointed out in Maggie’s story needed fixing. Maggie could see that. She dropped a handful of euros on the table and stood to leave. No, it was just the feeling of being overwhelmed. Not just by the baby, but Julia and, of course, Grace. There was just too much going on right now. Was a stupid book more important than her best friend spending the rest of her life in a foreign prison?
As she walked down the bricked pedestrian walk way of the Cours, the sky blotted out completely by the arching plane trees over the center, Maggie vowed to call her editor back and explain why she was going to miss the deadline. Who knows? Maybe she’d even be sympathetic. She hadn’t really come off like that up to now, but maybe she would understand. Maggie slowed her gait and felt a stab of sciatica in her lower back. She massaged it with her hand and caught a glimpse of herself in a store window as she passed. Whoa. That is one big girl there. She eyed her large, protruding stomach critically and wondered if the doctor could possibly have gotten his dates wrong. I look like I’m about to drop any minute!
She noticed she was on the street that led to the L’ecole Primaire in Aix. She remembered that Taylor had gone there for a year before more specialized education was required. Her heart beat with excitement when she realized that this is where her child would go when he or she was old enough. The leaves from the plane trees were scattered across the sidewalk, which was lined with wrought iron fences, through which poked a colorful display of red geraniums and the pretty purple clochette that seemed to grow everywhere. It’s just like the school in the Madeline storybooks, she thought, smiling. True, it was a long way to come every day from St-Buvard, but she and Laurent had already discussed it and decided it was best.
She’d stopped to give her back a break, when a disorderly queue of school children erupted from the lane off the Cours in front of her. She stood back, delighted, and watched them as they crossed the street, their teacher herding them as if they were a hoard of unruly lambs. The children were dressed in colorful scarves and caps, tabliers and backpacks. Their chatter came to Maggie in snatches of childish, excitable French. She grinned and put her hand on her stomach. That’ll be you someday, cherub. Speaking French like you were born to it instead of laboring over every consonant like your Maman. Mind you, she thought, as she turned and began her walk up to the detention center, you’ll speak English like a native, too.
The waiting room at the Commissariat d’Aix en Provence was sterile and uncomfortable. Maggie had an image of a French home décor designer sitting down with the Aix chief of police to get the goal for the room.
“Well, of course, we do not want certain kinds of people to become comfortable here, yes?”
“Exactement! They are the family and friends of France’s lowest criminal element.”
“I can make the seats so hard they will not want to stay a minute longer than necessary.”
“Do it!”
“I can paint the walls the exact color of the vomit they slept in the night before in order to ensure they will prefer not to remain.”
“Excellent!”
Maggie squirmed uncomfortably in the hard seat and glanced at the digital clock over the locked door that led to the warren of detectives’ offices. Or they might just have opted for the cheapest possible alternative to a waiting area and this is where they landed, she thought reasonably. Although she did have to admit, she shared the waiting room with some pretty nasty looking characters—and given the intensity with which they stared at her, most of them had never seen a pregnant woman before.
“Maggie?” She looked up to see Roger standing in an open door, beckoning her toward him. She pulled herself to her feet and tried very hard not to lumber over to him. Perhaps because of the stares of the riff-raff in the waiting room, Roger dispensed with the cheek kissing this time and just led her back to his large, windowless office.
Maggie had been in Roger’s office in Arles several times when the two of them had worked together. He’d clearly had a promotion in more ways than just his title. While still lacking a view—such a shame in a town like Aix!—the office was well furnished and obviously reflected his new, higher rank. He gestured to a chair across from his desk and Maggie gratefully eased into it. Crap. Now even her feet were starting to ache.
“You are well, Maggie?” Roger asked, not looking at her, not smiling.
“Yes, thanks, Roger,” she said brightly. “And you?”
“Fine, merci. What is it I can help you with today?”
“Well, first let me thank you again for allowing me to come and see you. I know how busy you are, and now I see how important you are, too.” She waved a hand at his office.
He looked at her from beneath his eyebrows, registering her light sarcasm. She thought for a moment he was fighting a smile, but if so he won the fight.
“Your purpose today?”
“I have some questions about Julia Patrick’s case.”
“I have released all pertinent information to the media.”
“That’s funny. I didn’t read anything about the case in the paper.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Oh,” she said. “I see. Good one, Roger. Nothing pertinent to report.”
“Is that all?”
“Nope.” Maggie pulled out a piece of paper—one side was clearly a grocery list of some kind. She squinted at the other side. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “The crime scene was compromised.”
“That is not a question.”
“Okay, Roger, I’ll rephrase. How can you use evidence found at a crime scene that has been tampered with?”
; “How do you know evidence was affected?”
“How do you know it wasn’t?”
He shrugged.
“Someone’s life is on the line here, Roger,” Maggie said, fighting to keep her composure. Why is he acting like such a dick?
He took a breath and seemed to come to an answer on some internal struggle he had been having. “The poisonous mushrooms found in Madame Patrick’s car will not be admissible as evidence,” he said finally.
“Thank God!”
He looked at her quickly. “Just because a jury won’t know about them doesn’t mean that everyone else—the prosecution, the police, the victim’s family, eventually the media—won’t know. Their existence is very damning and pertinent to building our case against the suspect.”
“Okay. Whatever all that means. Question two: what was Annette Tatois doing the night in question? My understanding is she hated him.”
“That is none of your affair. Besides, Madame Tatois has a firm alibi for the time of his death.”
“Well, that’s the other thing. How can that be? Unlike shooting or stabbing, my understanding is that when you poison someone, you don’t have to actually be there when the victim has his last seizure, you know? I would have thought it would be more important to nail down Annette and Michelle’s whereabouts for about twelve hours before he died.”
“It seems our Medical Examiner disagrees with you.”
“Then your Medical Examiner is an idiot.”
“Of course. As is anyone who disagrees with you, n’est-ce pas? Are we done?”
“Roger, you are taking the easy way out here.” She forced herself not to say, again. “You have no confession and everything you do have is circumstantial. That’s not enough to convict.”
“Au contraire, Maggie,” Roger said heatedly, his calm façade falling off him with each word. “Circumstances dictate fact and they always have. What do you Americans say? Where there is smoke, you will find the fire? Madame Patrick is covered in smoke.”
“Fine,” Maggie said, trying to hide her frustration with him. “It looks like I am going to be forced to do your job since you won’t. I intend to talk with Madame and Mademoiselle Tatois, and anyone else who wanted Jacques dead.”
Roger clenched his fists against the table. “You will not talk with them!”
“Oh, yes, I will,” Maggie said. “You can’t stop me. It is a free country. Which, by the way, you’re welcome.”
Roger stood up, fists on the desk, and leaned toward her. “I will speak with your husband. Perhaps he can control you.”
Maggie didn’t like the sound of that, but she stood up to face him nonetheless.
“Screw you,” she said, putting her face close to his. Suddenly, she was aware of his cologne, how close his lips were to her own, the electricity snapping between them, and she emitted a small gasp at the realization. He must have felt it too, because his hand came up to her face, slowly, gently. And she did nothing to stop it.
But before he could touch her, she heard the whoosh of the door opening behind her. Flushing, Maggie took a step backward and stumbled over her chair. She caught herself and stood, knees shaking, wondering what had just happened.
“Roger?”
The sound of the woman’s voice—and by the form of address clearly not an underling—made Maggie snap her head to the door, where the figure of a beautiful young woman stood gaping at them. She was svelte, blonde and younger than Maggie by at least ten years. She entered the office and shut the door behind her. Maggie was impressed with her confidence. She knew she wouldn’t have had as much at her age. She wasn’t sure she had as much now.
“Have I interrupted something?” she asked coolly, appraising Maggie’s bulky form with unfriendly eyes.
It’s true, Maggie thought with amazement. Even late stage pregnancy is not considered a deal breaker in matters of the French heart.
“I was just leaving,” Maggie said, refusing to look at Roger. What had just happened? “I can find my own way out.” She hesitated in front of the woman, who blocked her exit, before she stepped out of the way and allowed Maggie to slip out the door. As Maggie hurried down the hall and across the disease-pocked waiting room, she thought she could hear raised voices behind her.
Michelle couldn’t believe the gall of that woman. From where she sat in the outdoor café of the Rue de la Masse, she could easily see her as she pranced about in her provocatively bare running shorts and bra top. Did she think she was in Houston? She was clearly American. Why did Aix have so many? Why weren’t they in Paris? Or Nice? She was probably a student here. Michelle literally felt her stomach turn when she saw the woman lean against a tall tree and pull her leg up behind her to stretch out her muscle.
“Did I keep you waiting, babe?” He came up behind her and kissed her on the cheek before she even knew he was there. Michelle struggled to regain the good mood she’d had before she’d seen the American whore. Maman said they were all whores. Even worse than the English.
He seated himself across from her blocking her view of the runner and she had to force herself not to twist in her seat to continue watching. Instead, she smiled at him knowing the smile would eventually reach her eyes if she kept at it. Although he probably wouldn’t know the difference. She sat a little straighter in her chair, knowing the effect of her increased bosom would distract him from her wooden smile, if that was necessary.
“Oui,” she said. “Don’t you always? It is a little game you play, non?”
“No, it is not,” he said, frowning in a clearly inauthentic way, his bottom lip protruding to form his idea of a pout. Was he authentic about anything? In a flash, an image developed in her mind of him on top of her, panting and sweating. Yes, there were times.
“You know how difficult it is for me to get away.”
“So you insist.”
“I can’t just leave in the middle of the day, you know. You French may be used to taking three hour lunches, but I can tell you that wouldn’t fly with my company.” He looked around the café until he caught the eye of the waiter.
“Well?” she asked, peeking over his shoulder to see that the Lycra-clad American student had gone. “Can you stay for lunch?”
“Of course,” he said easily. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“Have the police talked with you yet?”
His handsome face lost a shade of its luster. “Why in the world would they talk to me?” he asked, his voice guarded, eyes wary.
“You knew him.”
“Many people knew him.”
“You threatened him.”
“And you know why.” She saw his good mood was gone, replaced by a nervousness and agitation that had him plucking at the menu and tapping his ring—his wedding ring—against the ceramic ashtray on the table.
“The police don’t really consider justifications, David,” Michelle said, “when they look at their suspects.”
“I thought you told me they had someone in custody.”
“They do.” Michelle shrugged and reached for her glass of rosé.
“Well, then why would they talk to me?”
“You’re right,” she said, shrugging. “No reason.”
“I hope you weren’t expecting me to be all sorry and full of consolation attempts, were you? Because you always said you hated him.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, maybe you just behaved that way, but the fact certainly remains. Christ, Michelle, why are we talking about him? Didn’t he cause enough damage while he was alive?”
Michelle reached across the table and touched his hand. “You’re right. Let’s forget him. And let’s forget this.” She gathered up her purse and cellphone. “Throw some money down. My apartment is just around the corner.”
From the stifling interior of her parked car, Maggie watched the two leave the café. Except for the brief hand touch they didn’t look like lovers, but while menus had been delivered to them, they left the café without orderi
ng. She fanned herself in the driver’s seat and had to admit that sounded like the behavior of lovers.
But what did that mean? So Michelle has a boyfriend. So what? She waited until they were out of sight before she opened her car door to allow a breeze in. Her thighs were rubbing uncomfortably together, and while the late September weather wasn’t exactly hot, neither was it cool and crisp. She felt wilted and clammy. A quick glance into the rear view mirror showed her face was an unattractive blotchy red.
Roger ought to see me now. Or his girlfriend. She would definitely not be feeling jealous.
So Roger has a girlfriend. Not sure why it surprised her, Maggie focused instead on the more salient fact, which was that she disliked the idea. Was I just hoping he’d pine for me forever? What kind of a torch was he carrying that allowed a girlfriend on the side? Knowing she was being ridiculous, Maggie tried to banish thoughts of Roger and his gorgeous girlfriend from her mind. She left the car, locked it, and began to walk in the direction Michelle had gone. With this section of Cours Mirabeau being one wide, long pedestrian walkway, she felt fairly sure she’d be able to keep Michelle in view without being spotted herself. Assuming the two were heading for a little afternoon tête-à-tête, Maggie didn’t bother hurrying. She pulled out her cellphone and glanced at the time. It wasn’t even three o’clock. She had plenty of time to wait out Michelle’s tryst, talk to her, and get back to St-Buvard before dinner.
She watched the pair turn off of the Cours, and when she got to the corner she was just in time to see them enter an apartment building. She glanced around and spotted a bistro across the street. She would have felt too exposed in an outdoor café and was glad for the extra cover. As soon as she took a seat at a table by the window, however, she saw the man she thought was Michelle’s companion burst out of the apartment building, his face like thunder. Uh-oh. Lovers’ tiff.
Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) Page 8