“What is her alibi?”
“Roger would never tell me, which makes it really unconvincing.”
“Ohhhhh,” Grace said knowingly.
Maggie turned to look at her. “What does that mean?”
“Roger wouldn’t say because it involves someone in his organization higher up.”
“What?”
“Sure. Annette is obviously boffing Roger’s boss. Or someone like that. Could be a politician, but I’m betting it’s someone in the police hierarchy. Are you and Roger back on better terms since Laurent and he talked?”
“Somewhat.”
“If he won’t tell you what her alibi is, it’s because he can’t.”
“It does fit.”
“Yes, but her being protected by someone high ranking in the police department is bad because it means her alibi is gold-plated.”
“And that really sucks because everything else fits for her being the murderer. She loathed Jacques, and with him dead she stood to inherit Lily’s estate. When you add motive with personal animosity and throw in opportunity you’ve got a prime suspect. I mean, Julia didn’t stand to gain financially from Jacques’s death like Annette did.”
“Okay. So you’ve got Annette and possibly Mathieu. See? You do have some likely candidates for the murderer. Well done!”
“I guess so. But the fly in the soup is the question I keep asking myself about all this. Why is all the evidence laying at Julia’s feet? Why does she look so guilty to everyone?”
“Um, because she’s guilty?”
Maggie stopped and looked at Grace. “You think Julia is guilty?”
“I think it’s possible.”
Maggie looked pensively at her hands. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“No. I do know, however, that you’ve staked your claim on her as your new best friend. I can see why you wouldn’t want to believe you’re wrong about her.”
The look on Maggie’s face betrayed her feelings. Grace watched her face animate and flush with color.
“Facts, unpleasant as they may be, don’t lie,” Grace said.
“Except in this case,” Maggie said heatedly, “all the so-called facts don’t measure up to what I know about the person.”
“Even people we know really well can be capable of doing terrible things. May I remind you of a dear sweet village baker who tried to kill both of us?”
“Yeah, okay, Grace. I get it. I’m not saying I know anything for sure. I’m saying, in spite of not knowing, I need to take my friend at her word or else friendship doesn’t mean anything.”
Grace looked serenely at Maggie before answering. “And isn’t that exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you ever since I arrived, darling?”
Maggie stared at her with her mouth open and then slowly smiled. “Yeah, I guess you have.” They were quiet for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. “What’s with the bunny?”
Grace picked up the stuffed animal and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Evidently its left eye is hanging by a thread. I’ve been informed it’s a necessary repair.”
“We don’t have a seamstress in residence.”
“I think I can manage it. Z isn’t a stickler for even stitches.”
Maggie reached over to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Thanks, Grace. I feel a lot better.”
“That’s what I’m here for, darling. Now show me how to get Netflix working on the TV. I hear Laurent coming up the stairs and I’ll bet he’d just love to get us each a nice glass of wine. Well, juice for you. And maybe you can get him to rub your feet.”
“You’re just full of great ideas tonight,” Maggie said, snuggling deep into the couch.
That night, as Maggie was putting lotion on her elbows in bed, she turned to Laurent, who had already positioned a pillow over his head to block out the light.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, what did you say to Roger?”
“Pshht, rien,” he said. “The light, Maggie?”
“I don’t think it was rien. I think it was the opposite of rien. He called to talk to you today and when you weren’t here he apologized for harassing us.”
Laurent grunted but she couldn’t tell anything more from his reaction.
“You’re an alchemist, Laurent,” she said. “Do you know what that is?”
“Does it involve total darkness when I sleep?”
“I’m going to be expecting you to work your magic on the baby when he comes,” she said snapping off the light. “A man who can make difficult people do his bidding is a valuable man to have.” She snuggled down next to him and he pulled her in close to his chest. “And I am very glad to have him,” she whispered into his neck before closing her eyes and succumbing to sleep.
Michelle looked up at the darkened bedroom window of the stone mansion. She wasn’t expecting to see how large the house was. Her mother had only said it was old. Of course, she knew the bitch’s husband was a wealthy vigneron, but to see the fields of stripped vines stretching for miles in every direction—even in the dim morning half-light—had been galling. Of course she was rich. As with the English whore, she had brought her money with her from America to live like royalty in the beautiful Provencal countryside.
It had been a long walk in the dark and the bitter cold to the mas, but her moment of triumph was at hand. An hour’s bus ride from Aix in the middle of the night—with every form of vermin and degenerate riding with her, followed by a two-hour stumbling walk to reach the house. She knew there were wolves in this part of the country, she had heard them during her walk. But she had let her fear drive her steps, one after another, until she stood beneath the bitch’s window.
The arrogance! She felt she could sleep so soundly without even a dog to warn against attack. So comfortable and so sure of her safety that she couldn’t be bothered to lock her doors. But Michelle didn’t need to get inside the castle to kill the bitch.
That was the beauty of the plan.
She had arrived early, just to be safe. She found a large yew tree near the entrance of the house that was crowded by dark bushes. She slipped inside the thick underbrush, feeling the long daggers of the branches cut her arms and neck but not caring. Her excitement kept her immune from the pain. When her mother had reported back about her visit to the mas, Michelle had demanded she tell her everything about what she had seen. She had been hungry to hear how rich the bitch was, but in the telling her mother had given her the most vital piece of her plan—the key, in fact, to Michelle’s ultimate revenge.
Maman had mentioned the empty milk bottles on the front steps. She had told Michelle of the fact with disdain in her voice, but Michelle knew that disdain was driven by envy.
Only the rich had milk delivery in this day.
How perfect that the very symbol of wealth—a blatant heralding of their superiority over others—would be the very thing that brought them down. As Michelle took her seat in the bush, she could see a direct line to the front steps. She saw the three empty bottles that sat there. The longer she looked at them the angrier she became, and she had to force herself to remember that by this time tomorrow nobody would ever order milk delivery at this address ever again. The thought calmed her.
It wasn’t long before she heard him. It seemed her ears picked up the sound from miles away, but that was probably because she imagined him in her mind driving closer, ever closer, in his delivery truck. When he finally turned down the long driveway in the dark wee hours, it was all she could do not to crow with delight and anticipation. She knew he would be too focused on his task to notice her, but even so she held her breath as the truck stopped in front of her, blocking her view. It took only seconds, but when the vehicle began to slowly back up the drive, restoring her line of sight, she saw the one thing she had been seeing in her dreams for weeks now.
Three full bottles of milk stood on the slate steps by the front door.
Hesitating only a moment to make sure no one in the house was yet awake, Michelle slipped from the b
ushes toward the front steps. She was proud as she approached the waiting bottles that her hands did not shake as she withdrew the plastic flask of bleach from her coat.
Chapter Nineteen
Roger was on hand in person early the next morning to escort Maggie to the detention section of the Palais de Justice. He spoke very little, but was absolutely courteous as she followed him in single file down the corridor to the room where she would wait for Julia. In fact, the only real difference that Maggie could detect in his behavior from the man who had stomped into her house and attempted to take her dog was in the fact that he had begun calling her Maggie again.
After he instructed the police officer at the end of the hall to unlock the door to the meeting room, he turned to her. “Officer Picard will be down in twenty minutes to escort you out.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He gave a curt nod and left her. When she had settled herself into one of the two metal chairs in the room, she willed herself to be calm and confident for Julia’s sake.
No matter what she looks like.
In the end, she was wise to have prepped for the worst. When the door opened, Maggie hauled herself to her feet to greet her friend. Julia had lost weight, her hair was long, her tiny gold hoop earrings were gone, and her face was a roadmap of lines and sagging flesh.
Maggie went to her and the two women embraced. Julia’s arms felt as frail as the bones of a chicken. Maggie had to stop herself from squeezing too hard. When she pulled away she saw dark bruises up and down Julia’s arms.
“Thanks for seeing me, Julia.”
As frail as her friend looked, Julia’s voice was strong and level, and for that Maggie was hopeful.
“Look, I’m sorry about hanging up on you the other week.”
“Do not apologize. I can’t imagine what you’re going through in here.”
“Best not to try.”
“I don’t know what to say about…everything that’s going on with you, Jules.”
“Don’t say anything. How’s that? The suicide, the confession…how about we just stick to what friends do? I don’t want to talk about that other shit.”
“Okay.” Maggie leaned over and picked up one of Julia’s hands and held it in hers. Julia didn’t respond, but she didn’t resist either. “Can I ask you a few questions about that night with Jacques?”
Julia looked at Maggie as if she didn’t have the energy to register incredulity. Her eyes were flat and nonexpressive. “If it makes you feel like you’re doing something,” she said. “Shoot.”
Maggie fought against reacting to Julia’s pessimism. She smiled encouragingly. “What did y’all talk about that night?”
“He asked me about my cookbook. He said he was coming into some money. He suggested we get back together.”
“He said he was coming into some money? Did you tell the cops this?”
“Of course. My lawyer urged me to hold nothing back.”
“Great lawyer. So was Jacques in a good mood at dinner?”
“I told you. He wasn’t feeling well.”
“That’s right. You said he told you that even before he came over.”
Julia didn’t answer.
“You said he made you feel sorry for him,” Maggie said.
“Did I?”
“Was there anything that happened during the actual evening that made you feel less sorry for him?”
Julia ran a hand through her hair, her face a mask of concentration as she tried to reconstruct the night in her mind.
“No, not really. I don’t know what I was expecting but…he hadn’t changed. He was still full of himself. He totally believed we were getting back together.” She looked at Maggie. “He mentioned his daughter, Michelle.”
“Mentioned how?”
“Said she was hounding him for money, which wasn’t new, but that he would be able to be a little more generous with her soon.”
“So he wasn’t a total sod.”
“No, he was. But you’re right. It was a strange thing for him to say.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, he talked about visiting his Aunt Lily on Sunday. There was a big Sunday lunch at her estate every week. He was always kind of derisive about going. About Florrie, too, whom he called the “good” nephew. Is any of this helpful?”
“I don’t know yet. In the back of my mind I can’t help but think the murder has to do somehow with the inheritance. And Lily.”
Maggie watched Julia’s shoulders sag inside her baggy prison jumper and she leaned out and touched her arm gently. “Julia, I know it’s hell in here, but please don’t give up.”
“You don’t know what it’s like.”
“That’s true. But confessing to something you didn’t do is not going to make things easier.”
“It will just make them happen faster.”
“The law and all its processes are going to happen at the pace they’re going to happen. You can’t speed that up. Besides, that’s not why you confessed.”
“No.”
“It’s because of Mathieu, isn’t it? Because you’re trying to protect him?”
“No!”
“Okay, but you know, Jules, if it was Mathieu, it’s not very loving of him to let you take the fall for this.”
“You’re right,” Julia said, crossing her arms across her chest. “Which is the best argument for why it couldn’t be him.”
“Well, then who?”
“I don’t know. Why not Annette? Nobody hated Jacques more than she did.”
“I thought of that. The problem is, Jacques was going to inherit money in a very few months and Annette would be able to sue him to get a good chunk of that.”
“I thought you said Annette was the new heir?”
“She is, but she didn’t know that at the time Jacques was killed. It wouldn’t have made sense to kill him when he’s about to inherit. Especially since the general assumption was that Florrie was next in line to inherit.”
“Sometimes killing doesn’t make sense. Sometimes it’s about exterminating someone so vile that you can’t stand the thought of him breathing the same air that you do.”
“Whoa. Seriously, Julia. You and Annette are neck and neck for how much the two of you hated Jacques and I never really knew that before.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am if not for him,” Julia said with weariness,
“That would only be true if you killed him, Julia. It’s the person who did kill Jacques who’s responsible for your being in here. Jacques is dead. He can’t hurt you any more.”
“God, you’re naive, Maggie. Or maybe you’ve just never been hurt by anyone. You’re lucky.”
“Just a little bit longer, Jules.”
Julia’s face became more animated as a thought came to her. “Listen, can you get a message to Mathieu for me? They won’t let me contact him.”
Maggie frowned. “Laurent has forbidden me to see him. But I suppose I could get Laurent to come with me.”
“I’d appreciate it, Maggie. Thank you.”
“What’s the message?”
“Just that I love him and I trust him and I beg him not to do anything rash.”
“Rash, like what?”
“Just tell him, Maggie.”
“Okay.”
Grace sat at the Café L’etoile Verte opposite the police detention center and waited for Maggie to appear. What remained of the pale golden leaves of every plane tree that lined the street in front of the restaurant gave the appearance of a heavenly gateway—an avenue of ethereal light, especially when the early morning sun slowly illuminated the street. A Sunday morning, it was too early for any real shopping to help while away the time, and in Grace’s experience, whenever she stayed still for longer than five minutes in public she was usually approached, whether physically or just with inquisitive, suggestive glances. In some ways, those were even more invasive. She brought her coffee cup to her lips and kept her gaze directed toward the front door. Even so, she could fee
l them watching her.
She’d been told before, countless times, of her physical likeness to the long-dead princess Grace of Monaco. You’d think there would be at least two generations past those who wouldn’t even remember who she was, let alone what she looked like. But this was France, and worse, the south of France. Memories were long here, especially when they involved beautiful American actresses who claimed royal princes and thrones that should have gone to French natives.
Grace watched Maggie hesitate in the archway of the café terrace, scanning the outdoor tables looking for her. Good Lord, she looked like she was about to drop that baby any minute now. No wonder she was miserable. Grace lifted her hand to get Maggie’s attention, and when she did she could see out of the corner of her eye that heads at every single table in her near vicinity turned toward her. Were they hoping to see what my husband looked like? she thought with amusement. Did any of them think they now stood a chance with me, seeing that my date was only a very pregnant woman, also clearly not French?
“Hey, Grace, what are you having? I need to get off my feet. Oh, my God, that was intense.” Grace watched Maggie turn to the waiter before she draped the shoulder strap of her handbag on the back of the chair. “Café crème, s’il vous plait.”
Grace smiled at her, wondering if she had any idea of the public theatre she was a part of. She was half tempted to turn to the surrounding tables—all men, of course—and ask if they could hear okay or should she and her friend amplify a little more for their comfort?
“How was she?” Grace asked.
“About what you’d expect. Not great. She asked me to give a message to Mathieu.”
“Will Laurent allow you to do that?”
“I’ll have to do it with him.” Maggie smiled briefly at the waiter as he set her coffee cup down in front of her. “Merci. I’ve been dying for this,” she said taking a quick sip of her coffee. “Sorry we didn’t have time this morning for a cup at home.”
“No problem, darling,” Grace said. “My phone reception is spotty. Do you know if Laurent got Zou-zou up yet?”
Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) Page 21