Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5)

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

But the baby wasn’t having it. He watched in horror as she flung herself down face first and battered the gleaming hardwoods with her tiny fists and heels in a fury of impatience. “Zou-zou hungry nooooooooowwwwww!” she howled.

  Jean-Luc twisted off the lid to her bottle and grabbed the fresh bottle of milk from the counter—he hadn’t even had time to store it in the fridge this morning when she began demanding his attentions. He ripped off the silver foil and poised it over the mouth of her bottle, spilling it down the sides in his hurry.

  “Coming, ma petite,” he soothed, but he was drowned out by her urgent screams. His fingers trembled as he recapped her bottle, then turned to scoop her up into his arms, already enjoying the look on her face of anticipation of her desire fulfilled.

  “You see, little one?” he said, handing her the bottle. “That didn’t take long now, eh? Your Papa will always give his cher grand bébé what she wants.”

  “So where does this put us?” Grace asked. “You can’t work on the case until after the baby is born and Julia is being moved, where did you say? A hundred miles away?”

  Maggie sighed heavily. “Something like that. It feels like the end. Let me ask you: did you get the impression that Annette and Florrie were together?”

  “You mean at the bar when she spilled the beans about her inheritance? Kind of.”

  “Think about it. She was carrying flowers and Florrie was all spruced up. Michelle said he was wearing a new shirt.”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “I don’t know. Why would Annette and Florrie get together? Maybe they were together all along?”

  “You mean when she was married to Jacques?”

  Maggie shook her head. “Again, I don’t know how that’s significant.”

  “Have you heard any more from Michelle?”

  Maggie shook her head. “What a whack-job.”

  “Did you tell Roger about the attack?”

  “No, because that would involve Laurent knowing and so far he still doesn’t.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Well, there was just so much going on that he never asked, but, knowing Laurent, he probably knows all about it.”

  “Should you come clean in that case?”

  “My policy is pretty much to tip-toe past the doghouse and let sleeping dogs have their afternoon naps.”

  “Probably wise.”

  “Oh!” Maggie said looking at her cellphone. “Speaking of the little devil…”

  “Laurent is anything but little, darling.”

  “He just texted me! Oh, listen to this, Grace. He says to meet him at Florrie’s bar. He’s got some great news about the case. Finally! I knew he’d be able to get more out of Roger than I ever could.”

  “That’s wonderful! Unless you’re sure he’s not having you go to Florrie’s to confront you about the whole baseball bat incident.”

  “Not his style. Don’t you see? Because I’ve agreed to stop the investigation, he’s stepping up. Plus, now that things have eased up on the grape harvest and production for the year, he’s got more time.” Maggie noticed the battery level on her phone was low and so she turned it off and slipped it in her purse. “I’m just surprised to get a text from him. I didn’t even know he knew how to do that.”

  “Well, he’ll definitely need to know how once the little tyke comes along so he can communicate with him. I swear the only connection I’ve had with Taylor in two years has been by way of a phone screen.”

  “Okay, you need to turn around at the next exit. Drop me off at Florrie’s and then just head on home to relieve Jean-Luc. I’ll get a ride back with Laurent.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “I’m dying to know what he found out.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Grace watched through her rear view mirror as Maggie went into the bar. It hadn’t seemed to bother Maggie that Laurent’s car was not yet in the parking lot—or that no car was. She was just excited about the prospect of Laurent finally joining her in her investigation, whereas mere minutes before the text she only wanted to get home so she could get in the tub. Grace left her as animated as she could remember seeing her since before they’d gotten the news of Julia’s confession.

  It was hard to imagine the kind of person Julia must be to elicit this kind of loyalty and fierce determination in Maggie. Grace admitted that a certain dark side of her personality wasn’t at all disturbed by Julia being taken so forcibly from the playing field. She wasn’t proud of that thought and she wouldn’t dilute the ugliness of it by reminding herself that she, too, was going through a life crisis. Just not one that involved doing serious prison time.

  No, she wished this Julia person well. She hoped she would soon be released, and while not looking forward to actually meeting her, she did feel sure she would be able to convincingly fake her happiness for Maggie’s sake.

  Well, that sounded selfish, she thought as she readjusted the rear view mirror and accelerated to merge with the flow of traffic on the Route d’Avignon. There still weren’t many cars on the road—most self-respecting French men were already firmly ensconced at their big midday meal. When she needed to be alert was when they all decided to weave their way home, several bottles of good Cote du Rhone under their belts.

  She glanced at the screen of her cellphone to see if she could get the GPS to work. She knew exactly where she was and how long it would take to get to Domaine St-Buvard—fifteen minutes at this speed—but she was wondering if there might possibly be a shortcut through a nearby village. She noticed she had no signal, no reception and she cursed these little backwater villages that wouldn’t put a cell tower in.

  That was one of the things that Windsor liked best about living in France, she realized. And how bizarre was that, when he made his living—his fortune as it turned out—on the whole electronic software business. It occurred to her that unlike most of his contemporaries, Windsor still wore a wristwatch. She had an image of him checking it—usually to stall for time when he was trying to get his thoughts together. It was so much a part of him, her image of him, that she was shocked to realize she hadn’t really noticed before.

  You don’t really know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

  Would they still be separating if they’d stayed in France? Would there have been some little short-skirted French cognate to Miss Leeza? Was it all Grace’s fault or had there been a problem before they moved home? Before Zou-zou was born.

  Before Zou-zou was conceived.

  She pulled off onto the exit to the village of St-Buvard and the car hiccoughed harshly and seemed to momentarily miss a gear shift. As she drove onto the lonely two-lane road with towering plane trees on both sides that led into the village, she thought of Connor again. Of how he had made her laugh, how he made her feel—as if there were no rules or at least nobody to care if there were. Suddenly, the road in front of her seemed to vibrate in her vision as she realized with astonishment that it wasn’t the fact that Windsor had insisted, in the end, about finding out who Zou-zou’s father really was. That wasn’t it at all.

  It was because by doing so he’d put to death—forever and ever amen—any remnant hope she had of thinking there was still a piece of Connor left to her.

  The car gave a violent lurch and Grace found herself punched against the strains of her seatbelt. What the hell? She twisted the wheel to pull the slowing car onto the verge, praying there was no self-locking mechanism when power was lost. It hadn’t even occurred to her to look at the petrol gauge. Laurent was meticulous about making sure the car was filled. But now, as she sat on the side of the road in the disabled car, she could see the petrol needle on the gauge sitting on empty. When she rolled down the window to get some air before she thought about her next step—which she was pretty sure was going to be literally—she smelled the gas.

  * * *

  On Danielle’s tenth trip to the window in an hour, she made up her mind to lie. It wasn’t something that came easily to her—especially
to plan to do it—but she was resolved nonetheless.

  The sun was dropping and she could see the rain clouds bunching up over the tree line. She had a windshield wiper on her car that didn’t work properly and now it appeared she would drive home in the rain. A stab of shame erupted in her chest. Lily would not have to deal with any such inconveniences, she thought.

  Ever again.

  “They’re here,” Danielle said brightly. “They’re here, Lily. I see them. They’re just parking. I told you they would come.” She hesitated at the window then scolded herself for delaying. If I am not here to give comfort, then why am I here?

  She went back to Lily’s bedside. The room was almost larger than her and Jean-Luc’s entire house. She could see that it had once been lush with stylish furnishings, but it was shabby now, as if the inhabitant couldn’t be bothered to keep it all up, or keep it clean. It had taken her by surprise, the fact that Lily lived with the worn carpets and the broken furniture, the clutter and the dust and the dirt. Where was her immense wealth? Was she like a character from a George Eliot novel? Rich, but so miserly that she lived as meanly as the poorest of her tenants? Danielle took herself in hand and shook the thoughts from her mind. Lily Tatois—for all they shared a first love—was never someone she knew well, or was now ever likely to. How she lived and why she lived that way would remain a mystery to her now.

  Reseating herself at Lily’s bedside, she could see it wouldn’t be long now.

  “Did you hear me, Lily?” she whispered. “They’re here. They’re coming.”

  “I heard you,” Lily rasped slowly, each word an effort. “Is…is Jacques here?”

  Danielle hesitated. “Jacques is gone, Lily. But the others…”

  “I loved him,” Lily said painfully. “Best.”

  “I know.”

  “He didn’t deserve it.”

  “Just rest now, Lily,” Danielle said, although she wasn’t sure why. Resting wouldn’t help anyone at this point. Lily’s next rest would be forever.

  “Tell Florrie I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll tell him yourself. He’s downstairs right now.”

  “Tell him.”

  “I will, Lily.”

  Not knowing whether she should or what the old woman would prefer, Danielle took Lily’s hand gently in hers and squeezed it lightly. When she looked into her eyes to see if she had more to say, she could see that she had gone.

  * * *

  A sudden panic seized Grace and she disconnected her seatbelt and bolted from the car. Not knowing exactly why the gasoline smell scared her, Grace stood staring at the car from the middle of the road, from where she could easily see the puddle of petrol dripping steadily out from underneath the car.

  All she could think was, Michelle wanted to kill Maggie, and somebody had tampered with Maggie’s car. A vision of car bombs—probably the result of watching way too many television police dramas—kept her from going near the car. Unable to reason herself out of her fear, she turned and walked away from the car—the keys still in the ignition—to begin her long walk to Domaine St-Buvard. The sun was starting to drop in the sky and the wind was starting to rise. The village of St-Buvard was arguably closer—by at least a mile—but that required confidence that Grace did not have that she could get help there, or a ride.

  After a few minutes, she turned to look back at the car, now far in the distance and looking positively malevolent hunched on the shoulder of the paved road. Laurent and Maggie will drive this way on their way home, she thought. They’ll see the car and wonder what in the world had happened. Should she have left a note on the windshield? Car ran out of gas. Think it’s probably rigged to explode.

  She turned back in the direction of Domaine St-Buvard, wishing she had a collar to pull up against the chill. She knew she was almost definitely being ridiculous and the sweater would have made a big difference. Well, they could laugh at her all they wanted. She wasn’t taking any chances these days.

  * * * *

  The door was unlocked but there was obviously nobody here. Maggie sat at one of the little café tables in Florrie’s bar and wondered if the place was empty because it wasn’t open on Sunday? That was possible. Many of these little country places didn’t open on Sunday, she reasoned. She found it hard to believe this place had enough business opening on the rest of the days of the week to survive. But then, she’d been told Florrie had money.

  The initial excitement at hearing that Laurent had news, combined with the fact that he wanted to work with her to solve the case, had worn off. As Maggie sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair in the deserted café, she wished he could have told her his “wonderful” news at home, maybe while she was in the bathtub. She massaged the small of her back and felt a shooting sciatic pain needle into her hip. She shifted to assuage it but it hung on. Now that she thought of it, it was damn strange for Laurent to ask to meet her here. Had he ever asked to meet her someplace ever? Anywhere? A sick feeling tingled in her stomach and she tried to push the feeling away.

  Maybe it was the bar. This is where that psycho tried to kill her. Maybe this was her favorite place to murder people. Maybe she had somehow gotten a hold of Laurent’s phone.

  Maggie stood up and walked to the bar. If she couldn’t find a glass of water to help with the burning sensation that had just erupted in her esophagus, perhaps she could find a nice butcher knife to defend herself with since the silence and the incongruity of the message had begun to weigh on her.

  And the result was a steadily increasing uneasiness.

  Before she looked for a glass, she dug out her cellphone. There were no recent calls and she could see her battery was about to die. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a glass, filled it with water and stood behind the bar, drinking and trying to think.

  It’s Michelle, isn’t it? She’s coming for me and I have played right into her hands.

  Maggie put the glass down. Which is so weird, because although I definitely think she’s crazy, I hadn’t pegged her for Jacques’s murder. That was when it occurred to Maggie that the two did not at all need to go hand-in-hand. She heard a muted pinging sound and glanced at her phone to see that she had received another text message, this time from Roger. The light on her phone began to blink quickly and she guessed she had time to read the text, but not enough to make a phone call. It didn’t matter. Surely the bar had a phone. She clicked on Roger’s name. Just keeping you in the loop. Annette Tatois was murdered this afternoon at 1500 hrs.

  Maggie stared at the words until the phone died in her hand and went black. Still staring at the blank screen, her stomach cramping hard as she registered just how bad her situation was, she realized with a sudden shudder that it wasn’t Michelle who lured her to the bar.

  It was at that moment that she heard him walking toward her from the back room of the bar.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Florrie looked at her with hooded eyes, his expression blank. As she watched him walk toward her, Maggie couldn’t believe it hadn’t seriously occurred to her that it had to be him. It was so clear now. Florrie, who inherited third behind everyone else. Florrie, the good one. Florrie, the one nobody respected.

  Or noticed.

  “Madame Dernier,” he said in a flat voice, “what a surprise to see you.”

  He walked closer and Maggie felt the muscles in her shoulders tense. The bar counter was to her back and she pushed into it. She cleared her throat and willed the voice that came out to sound normal.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, her hand going involuntarily, protectively, to her pregnant abdomen. A searing pain emanated from deep inside and she grimaced as Florrie stood next to her. She was close enough to smell the garlic and the wine he’d had for lunch.

  “I’m afraid the bar is closed Sundays,” he said. “No one else will be coming today.”

  “I’m just waiting for Laurent,” Maggie said cheerfully, watching Florrie’s face as he studied her. Why had she dismissed him so soon? Because he hadn’t threaten
ed her? Because he had a full head of nice hair and didn’t wear a ring in his lip?

  “I got a text message from Laurent saying to meet him here,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. Trying not to sound like she knew he was a killer.

  “Oh, of course. What am I thinking?” Florrie said, licking his lips and staring dully into Maggie’s eyes. “Laurent was here but he had to leave. He asked me to tell you he couldn’t wait. A round goose chasing for nothing, eh?”

  “Wild.”

  “Comment?”

  “It’s…it’s a wild goose chase. Yeah, never mind. Wow. It’s just that that’s so unlike Laurent, you know?” Should she have said that? Did it matter? Florrie had lured her here for a reason. The tips of her fingers began to tingle in an uncomfortable way.

  For a reason.

  Florrie shrugged, but there was nothing insouciant or casual about his face. In fact, Maggie couldn’t help but see that he looked as if he were rehearsing something he was about to do.

  Something terrible.

  “If you can wait a moment,” he said, “I will be happy to take you home.”

  “That’d be great. Thanks, Florrie.” So he wants me in the car. Maggie could hear the rain coming down against the front windows of the little bar and the light outside seemed to noticeably dim.

  Just then the phone rang and Maggie jumped. It was a landline sitting just under the counter. Her fingers itched to snatch it up and blurt out that she was being held by a homicidal maniac, but she still hoped it could all be reasoned out—as long as Florrie doesn’t know that I know. Maggie stepped aside to allow him access to the phone.

  He hesitated.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  “People know we’re closed on Sunday.”

  “It could be about your aunt. I understand she’s fading fast.”

  He looked at her, startled, and then snatched up the phone receiver. “Allo?” he said breathlessly.