Murder in Nice

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  “A reason.”

  “Yes, if you must know, I thought I saw a man go in here.”

  Maggie’s key was in her hand and in the lock within seconds. “Who?” she asked, her voice tight with concern.

  A man came to visit Annie? Annie was asleep. Wasn’t she?

  “Well, I didn’t get a good look.” Dee-Dee said, glancing down the hall as if contemplating making a run for it.

  Maggie stepped into the darkened room, confirmed snores were coming from Annie in the bed, and returned to the hallway. “What man?” she asked again. “Why would you care if a man was in Desiree’s room?”

  “I’d care plenty if it was Bob Randall,” Dee-Dee said in a taunting tone.

  “Bob Randall and Desiree are an item?”

  “Not in any imaginable universe,” Dee-Dee said. “But I’m sure she wishes they were.”

  Maggie hesitated and then pulled the room door shut. She turned to Dee-Dee and nodded toward the elevator. “Why don’t we take this conversation downstairs so Mrs. Morrison can sleep undisturbed? Say, the hotel bar?” Maggie forced herself to smile and was rewarded by what appeared to be a genuine smile back.

  The waiter brought two glasses of white wine and retreated to the mahogany-encased vestibule leading to the kitchen. The bar at the Soho was elegant. A small plaque indicated the hotel had been built in the late seventeen hundreds by an intrepid pair of Brits sick of the English winters but wanting to retain as many touches of home as possible. The bar looked like it could be easily transplanted back to the interior of any one of many elegant hotel bars in London.

  “I think we were all surprised the police didn’t ask more questions,” Dee-Dee said, sipping her wine. Maggie couldn’t help think that even the tiniest hint of blush would do wonders in perking up the woman’s sallow complexion. Did she not have a mother? Girlfriends? A mirror?

  “Bob said it was because they didn’t have a decent translator and none of us speak French. Except Desiree, of course.”

  “Lanie didn’t speak French?”

  “No, she hated the French. Regaled us all for hours with anti-France jokes. Some of them were pretty funny.”

  “Is it strange that she gave tours in France?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What about you? You’re not here because you love France?”

  “Oh, hell, no.” Dee-Dee laughed. “I’m here for the job. We could be in Helsinki for all I care.”

  “Don’t you feel your delivery will lack empathy or…depth if you’re not passionate about the places you’re going to?”

  “Yeah, I can see how you’d think that. Most people do. But this is a business, and more than that, it’s entertainment. It’s got nothing to do with the place.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “If you say so.”

  “When I came upon you in the hallway, you seemed concerned that Bob Randall and Desiree might be together in the room.”

  “Yeah, but now that I really think about it, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Are you and Bob together?”

  “I guess you picked up on that, huh?” Dee-Dee simpered.

  “Did Lanie know about it?”

  Dee-Dee’s smile evaporated. “She knew,” she said slowly, as if processing the information herself, “but it’s not like she wanted him. Bob said they’d nearly gotten together a couple of times but nothing happened.”

  “Did Bob want something to happen?”

  Dee-Dee snorted. “More like Lanie wanted something to happen.”

  “Because of the co-anchor slot.”

  “Hey, that is not why Bob and I are together.”

  “Sure. I believe you.”

  “Besides, Lanie was with someone.”

  “You mean her boyfriend, Olivier?”

  “Now, you see, that was always hard for me to believe that she and Olivier were together. Have you met him? The camera guy? He is seriously hot. No, because she and Jim hooked up at the beginning of the tour.”

  Maggie’s face must have looked confused because Dee-Dee added, “Jim Anderson? The old rich dude? The old married rich dude?”

  “Lanie was sleeping with him?”

  “Well, he is rich.”

  If what Dee-Dee said was true, Maggie had to admit it qualified as a pretty solid motive for Olivier.

  “Are you sure?” Maggie asked.

  “Ask anybody. Three days after we started the tour his old ball and chain throws a major hissy at breakfast saying Lanie’s a whore and not to ever come near her old man again. I’m not even kidding. It was serious gonzo stuff. You can dress those old broads up but they’re still raw ore underneath. Know what I mean?

  Maggie looked away from the table in confusion. “Jim Anderson’s wife…” she said, trying to piece it together.

  “Janet.”

  “Janet confronted Lanie publicly? A week ago?”

  “Yup.”

  “And threatened her?”

  “What would you call, ‘Go near my old man again and I’ll slit your throat’?”

  Five

  Laurent stood in the receiving lobby of the Arles train station. The drive to the station took thirty minutes, yet he remembered not a single minute of the trip—not even the two toll booths he had to pass through from St-Buvard to Arles. He glanced up at the overhead schedule boards. Maggie’s brother had called an hour earlier. Grace had spoken with him.

  Why do I get the feeling I will not like this man? he thought, frowning, hands on his hips. A slight vibration in his hip pocket alerted him to the call he’d been waiting for all afternoon. He sighed heavily and answered it.

  “So,” he said, his voice solemn, “have you decided?”

  The brief hesitation before his friend Michel spoke told Laurent all he needed to know. In fact, he might as well hang up now. Because not only did Laurent know what Michel had decided, he knew their friendship was over as a result of it.

  “Laurent, my friend,” Michel said, “you must understand how hard this decision was for me to make.”

  “I understand of course,” Laurent said, turning his attention to the long receiving hall that led to the train platforms. One had just gotten in, although not yet the one from Nice. A woman and her two young children were hurrying past.

  “Estelle would kill me to even think of such a thing.”

  “Did you tell Estelle about my offer?”

  Another hesitation. “I did, yes. It affects the whole family, Laurent. I can’t make this kind of decision on my own.”

  “Of course not,” Laurent replied drily. “I have another call coming in, Michel. I will talk with you again soon.” Laurent disconnected and tucked the phone back into his pocket.

  Merde. He wasn’t surprised, but he had held out hope that he might be. And now he was coming to the end. Michel, Geoff, Jacques and Robert. There was Jean-Luc, of course. But he wasn’t enough. And Jean-Luc had married into money. He could afford to torch his whole vineyard if necessary.

  Laurent thought of Maggie’s excitement about the upcoming trip back to the States this Thanksgiving. Unless he imagined it, she talked of little else.

  No, he was glad for Jean-Luc’s new financial comfort but he had no such luxury himself.

  He rubbed a hand across his face. He would think of another way. He was sure there was another option. He just hadn’t thought of it yet. He shook out a cigarette from his crumpled pack and put it between his lips. Perhaps now was not the best time to quit.

  It was good fortune that Grace was still here, he thought. He did not feel very sociable at the moment and the effort to entertain Maggie’s relations was not one he felt necessary to expend. If her brother had been interested in knowing him better, he’d had five years to reach out. Coming here now was at best an act of boredom.

  And at worst, suspicious.

  His eye caught the slender form of a woman walking quickly from the train platforms toward him.

  She walks fast, like Maggie, he thought. Very American in
that way. He also noted that she was trim, with full breasts and long blonde hair. His face was impassive as he studied her. He saw her hand go up in a wave as she recognized him. Laurent’s gaze shifted to the tall man walking behind her. Laurent had seen photographs of Maggie’s older brother—and had heard the stories. Ruthless. Cold. Arrogant.

  Just like every mark Laurent had ever had on the Côte d’Azur in the old days he thought as he watched Ben Newberry approach. The arrogant ones were always the easiest to rob. They suspected everyone of trying to take advantage of them except the one whose job it was to do precisely that. A small smile curved on Laurent’s lips. There had been satisfaction in feeling their trust in him.

  It made the inevitable con all the sweeter.

  “Yoo hoo! Laurent, right?” the woman called to him from fifty feet away. Laurent would never get used to the American habit of yelling out to people in conversation. It was a personal blessing to him that Maggie had stopped doing it years ago.

  He crushed his cigarette under his heel and went to join the couple. Ben Newberry was allowing his wife to carry a heavy shoulder bag as well as drag a good-sized Pullman behind her, while he pulled a small roller bag. If he didn’t know anything about this man and hadn’t heard a single one of Maggie’s stories, he would know the full make of him in just these first five seconds.

  It was going to be a long week.

  “Oui, I am Laurent,” he said, reaching out to shake hands with Haley before taking her bags from her. “The trip wasn’t too bad, I hope? Sometimes it gets crowded early in the week.”

  “We really appreciate you coming to pick us up, Laurent,” Haley said, looking like she didn’t know what to do with her hands now that her burdens were removed.

  “Bien sûr,” he said. He nodded to Ben. “The car is just there.” Then he turned his back and led the way.

  “Maggie didn’t exaggerate how big you are,” Ben said. “What are you? Six three?”

  “Close enough,” Laurent said over his shoulder as he led them to the parking lot. It was after eight in the evening. For Laurent, it was barely dinnertime but he knew most Americans ate early. “Have you eaten?” he asked as the piled their luggage in the back of his Renault.

  “No, and we’re starving,” Haley said. “We snacked on the train.”

  “Bon,” Laurent said opening the front seat passenger door for Haley. His quick assessing glance took in her blonde hair, pale completion and, although she’d made an effort to hide it with makeup, a black eye. “We will dine at Domaine St-Buvard,” he said.

  Ben took his wife’s hand and pulled her away from the car. “Haley will be more comfortable in the back seat,” he said. “I usually sit in front because of my longer legs.”

  Perhaps he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t gotten Michel’s phone call just minutes before they arrived. Perhaps if he’d had a better night’s sleep—he never slept well when Maggie was not in his bed. But for whatever the reason, he was in no mood to be preempted by a guest who did not know how to behave as a guest.

  Laurent put two fingers against Ben’s chest and pushed. The man grunted in surprise and took a step back.

  “You will adjust, je suis sûr,” Laurent said, before turning and taking Haley’s elbow and guiding her into the front seat.

  *****

  What the hell was her problem? Randall thought in frustration. She knew he wanted to be discreet. It was probably his very desire for secrecy that was the reason Desiree insisted they be seen at every café along the Côte d’Azur.

  “We were together and that’s all anybody needs to know,” he said to Desiree as she watched him over her untouched glass of Pinot. “As long as you don’t talk too much, these French cops are about as backwater as you can get.”

  “Why must you be so offensive?” she said, frowning at him. “You are as bad as the American slut.”

  “And why must you rise to the bait every time someone says freedom fries? If anybody should worry about what the cops think, it’s you, Desiree. Everyone knows you hated her. And more than a few know you were alone with her that night.”

  Desiree took a long drag on her cigarette.

  She knows I hate how she tastes after she smokes.

  She blew a puff of smoke in his direction. “As were you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No, you told the police that’s not true. I know the real story.”

  “Look, now more than ever, Desiree, I think it makes sense for us to take a breath and maybe a step back. Everyone will be watching us—”

  “You want me to sneak up to your room at night but not sit next to you in the light of day?”

  “It’s not like that. I’m just saying we should be careful since this murder investigation shines a harsh light on everything it—”

  “I am not your whore to be shoved under the rug!” Desiree said, standing up and jabbing her cigarette angrily into the ashtray on the table.

  “Will you please stop causing a scene and just sit—”

  Desiree snatched up her purse hanging on the back of the chair and flounced out of the café, prompting a line of interested café patrons to turn and look at Randall. He felt sweat coat his brow as he waved to the server to get his attention.

  “L’addition, s’il vous plait?”

  The waiter appeared to shrug and then turned away, which could either mean he was getting the bill or wasn’t up for it. Randall sagged in his seat, defeated. Desiree knew he counted on her to handle this kind of bullshit. Why did he put up with her? Bitch!

  He poured the contents of Desiree’s glass into his own and turned to stare at the Mediterranean, unseeing. His stomach churned painfully. This whole tour had been a disaster from the start. He hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place and now…this. He downed the wine glass and closed his eyes.

  Dear Lord, I know I deserve damn little, but if prayer works, and if someone who could take a life for their own benefit deserves any kind of consideration at all in your book, then please God, I’m begging you, let the cops look elsewhere for Lanie’s murderer.

  *****

  The two-hour drive back to St-Buvard helped calm and focus Maggie’s thoughts. When it came time to finally say goodbye to Annie, Maggie hadn’t been surprised by how difficult it was. What had surprised her was the feeling that she was also saying goodbye to Lanie. While they hadn’t been in contact in the last several years, she had been a friend at one time. How many times in the last couple of days as Maggie accompanied Annie to the police station or sat with her holding her hand and talking had she gotten flashes of the Lanie she had known?

  So full of life, so determined to have the happy family and the love that had escaped her mother. To end up killed in a bathtub on the French Riviera and only the mother she was estranged from to claim her…

  Maggie shivered. She didn’t need to compare her own life to Lanie’s to feel grateful.

  Why had she been so lucky when poor Lanie had not?

  Maybe it was the friends Lanie had chosen? Even in high school, Maggie remembered Lanie’s friends as being largely fringe: tattoos, foul language, some drug use. Maggie’s thoughts quickly fast-forwarded to the people who shared the tour with Lanie. Was Dee-Dee telling the truth? If Janet really did threaten to kill Lanie, did the police know?

  Her phone rang and she glanced at the GPS screen on the car dashboard to confirm she had at least another hour before she would be pulling into the driveway at St-Buvard.

  “Maggie here” she said into her phone.

  “Hi, sweetie, tell me you’re about to pull into the driveway, I beg you,” Grace said.

  “Why? Is the visit going badly?”

  “We hate your brother. No, I take that back. I haven’t shared notes with Laurent on the subject. I hate your brother. Is that wrong?”

  Maggie laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Grace. Ben is an acquired taste. What’s he doing?”

  “He’s just a dick. Nothing is good enough for him. He doesn’t
even look at Jemmy. I guess he thinks he’s at a hotel or something. That’s how he acts.”

  “How’s Laurent handling him?”

  “He’s handling him…infrequently.”

  “Oh, he’s at the village café a lot?”

  “I don’t know where he goes to be honest.”

  “So you haven’t had a chance to talk with him?”

  “I’m sorry, darling, no. But you’re right. Something’s up with him.”

  “Yeah, this visit with my brother is probably ill-timed. What do you think of Haley?”

  “She seems normal but I can’t imagine what would prompt her to marry your brother. He treats her like a servant he doesn’t like very much.”

  “Poor Haley.”

  “Didn’t you say Ben met her through you?”

  “Yeah, we were friends in high school—with Lanie, actually.”

  “So the three of you were a girl group?”

  “Well, not for long. That was about the time Lanie decided she didn’t need the competition any more and gave me the heave-ho. As a result, Haley and I got closer.”

  “And then you did Haley the mother of all favors and introduced her to your horrible brother.”

  “In my defense, he wasn’t always horrible. I have some very endearing memories of growing up with Ben.”

  “Really?”

  “Alright, not really, but he’s a good provider.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “You can’t be happy with no money, Grace. Haley spends her days playing tennis and shopping at Lenox Square. Not really a hard gig.”

  “Trust me, I know that gig. I divorced that gig.”

  Grace and her then husband, Windsor, had lived in Provence for three years before Laurent and Maggie arrived. Unlike Maggie, Grace always handled the language, the villagers, the food and the clothes as if she had been born to them. In that way, they were a study of complete opposites. Where Maggie was compulsive, scribbling madly outside the lines, Grace was languid and careful, her eye always on the style, the mode, the rules. Somehow, against all logic, they had become the closest of friends.