Murder in Nice

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  Maggie licked her lips and stood. She eased the stiffness out of her back and realized it was a souvenir of the night before, when she had slept on broken bricks and boards. She was covered with bruises and scratches. When she’d taken her shower earlier she’d removed the bandage from the cut on her calf and forgotten to put on another one. She limped to the kitchen, blinking against the bright overhead light.

  “Can you hand me a juice from the fridge?” she said, suddenly tired again. Is it the baby making me feel so lousy? she wondered. Her good hand involuntarily moved to rest on her still-flat abdomen.

  “Sure, sweetie,” Haley said opening the fridge and then handing a juice bottle to Maggie. “Need a glass?”

  Maggie shook her head and drank it down from the bottle. It was quenching and sweet and she felt instantly revived. “I can’t believe I slept so long. Did Laurent call? What time is it?”

  “Just a little after nine,” Haley said. She picked up two large bowls full of Laurent’s boeuf en daube and moved past Maggie to set them on the dining room table. “Do you feel like a glass of wine?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Actually, a glass of wine sounded pretty good. It would probably put her right back to sleep but, come to think of it, why not sleep? Why not sleep for hours and hours and hours? She’d had a hell of a night and anything Laurent had to tell her, he could tell her in the morning.

  “I’ll get it,” Maggie said. “You sit down. You’re going to make me feel guilty, taking care of the kids and then waiting on me.”

  Haley laughed. “Well, all right,” she said, settling down onto one of the dining room chairs.

  Maggie walked to the door of the cave on the other side of the kitchen. “Any preferences?”

  “I like any of Laurent’s.”

  “He has others down there, too,” Maggie said. “He likes for us to drink wines other than just the ones we make. A Côtes du Rhône, or a nice Rosé maybe?”

  “Anything but a Côtes du Rhône.”

  Maggie laughed and snapped on the light over the stairs leading to the basement. “You came to Provence and won’t drink a Côtes du Rhône? I think it’s practically a mandate here.”

  “Well, certain ones affect me worse than others. I can’t stand a Château Saint Cosmo for example. It gives me a terrible headache.”

  “Saint Cosmo? That’s a new one on me. God, the French will make anyone a saint.” They both laughed.

  Maggie went to the cave intending to fetch a bottle of whatever caught her eye, but something nagged at her in the far recesses of her mind. Like a searing bolt from the depths of her memory, an electric light briefly illuminated in her head—flashing an idea, a memory—and then went dark again, leaving behind a feeling of dread.

  Must be the basement. She never stepped into it without a feeling of dread creeping up her back. It was a small room with a series of high, ground-level windows, and was the only room in the house that was air conditioned, although Maggie was sure so deep in the ground it was probably plenty cold enough all by itself.

  Laurent had erected shelving and racks on both sides of the longest part of the room. She knew he had some method of organization, but since he normally fetched the wines from the cellar she had no idea what it was. She shivered and looked at the long rows and triple-stacked shelves of bottles, punt-side facing outward.

  Laurent need never know they drank a white with his boeuf en daube, she thought. She started to pull a bottle free from its slot, when she hesitated, aware that she was still feeling unsettled. Driven by an urge she couldn’t immediately understand, Maggie pried her smartphone out of her jeans pocket and scrolled to the notes she kept on it. The second she realized what she was doing, a light sweat popped out on her forehead.

  “You okay down there? Didn’t miss a step, did you?” Haley called. Maggie could tell Haley was no longer in the dining room. Her voice sounded like it was coming from the kitchen now.

  “No, I’m fine,” Maggie called back, hearing the artificial lightness in her own voice.

  In the time it took to recognize what she was doing, Maggie knew—before she ever found the entry on her phone—what her notes would say.

  After her conversation with the concierge, she’d jotted down the name of the wine that was sent up to Lanie that night—the name of the bottle of Côtes du Rhône that had gone missing from Lanie’s room.

  The bottle that had killed her.

  A Château de Saint Cosme.

  Twenty-one

  The proprietor of the restaurant led the way to a table by the window. Laurent had been there once or twice before. A few miles from Nice, Le Matin had a very evolved menu, but mainly it featured a lack of the high prices typically found in a restaurant so close to Nice.

  He knew Ben was surprised when they pulled off the A8 and into the unassuming little parking lot. He probably thought Laurent intended to cut his throat for his earlier behavior. Laurent shrugged as he picked up the menu.

  People must eat.

  The bistro was small and undiscovered, the way Laurent preferred it. He ordered for both of them. Maggie’s brother knew no French; it was easier this way. After the waiter took their order, Laurent regarded Ben across the table. They had spoken not a single word in the two-hour drive from Domaine St-Buvard.

  Ben watched him closely and then cleared his throat. “I imagine you were surprised when I asked you to escort me.”

  Laurent raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  The waiter brought a bottle of wine, which Laurent approved without tasting. The server poured their glasses and disappeared. Ben cleared his throat again, and this time reached into his jacket pocket and extricated the same thick envelope he had shown Laurent earlier. He touched the bandage across his nose and laid the envelope on the table in front of Laurent.

  “Before I forget or before the police take all my personal belongings,” Ben said, his voice nasal and thick, “I wanted to make sure you had these.” He fanned out the sheaf of papers and photographs onto the starched white tablecloth between them. “I won’t be needing them where I’m going.”

  Laurent didn’t speak.

  “I’m not going to apologize for how things went down,” Ben said, staring out the window at the parking lot. “You wouldn’t believe it anyway and there’s no point. Suffice to say, things got out of hand.” He touched his bandaged nose again and laughed. “Frankly, I think I went a little mad. It actually feels a relief to just let everything…happen now.”

  The waiter brought their starters, two plates of golden fried calamari with mini-bowls of red pepper and feta dipping sauce.

  “You didn’t kill Lanie,” Laurent said, reaching for his wine.

  Ben sipped his own wine and Laurent was impressed that the man was so relaxed.

  “I’ll tell you,” Ben said, “but only if you promise not to turn around and drive us back to St-Buvard once I do.”

  “I am surprised you think me incapable of lying to you.”

  “Whatever happened to honor among thieves?”

  “It’s a myth.”

  They ate in silence. Laurent knew Ben would tell him in his own time.

  “I love my wife,” Ben said. “There’s probably nobody in the world who’s ever seen us together who would believe that, but I do. And I am about to do the one thing in my life that doesn’t make me want to retch. After two years of feeling hunted, guilty and like the biggest prick on the planet, can you imagine how great that feels?”

  “It won’t once you’re inside,” Laurent remarked dryly.

  “I know,” Ben said quietly. “But at this moment I know I’m doing the right thing. And I can’t ever remember feeling better.”

  The server came with their moules frites and they focused on their meal without further conversation. Laurent paid the bill, and picked up the envelope of incriminating photos. As they walked to the car, Ben stopped to take in a big breath of fresh air.

  “I think I’m always going to remember this moment,” Ben
said. “This moment on a perfect summer night in the south of France where I did a noble thing.”

  Laurent grunted and slid into the driver’s seat.

  “There are no other copies,” Ben said as he buckled his seatbelt and Laurent pulled back onto the A8, heading once more toward Nice. “I don’t know whether it was seeing all the cute pictures of Jem on Facebook that Maggie posted or hearing my parents gush about how his was the most significant birth since Jesus, but Haley became obsessed with him right after he was born.”

  Laurent felt a tingling in the back of his neck, as if he were forgetting something. Was it something Ben said? He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Hadn’t everything fallen into place now? He had Ben’s evidence against him, the vineyard was saved…

  “I mean, I knew she was doing Internet research,” Ben said as he watched the scenery fly by, “but I thought it was about Provence, you know? I didn’t know it was about you until we got to France. By then, she’d hired private investigators to help find the bits she couldn’t.”

  “To what end?” Laurent asked.

  “Because of this whole infertility business, she’s become obsessed about who does and doesn’t deserve to have kids. She was convinced you were a bad influence on Jemmy.”

  “Her intention was to have Maggie raise Jemmy alone?”

  “I hate to say it because it really makes her sound bat-shit crazy, but I think she had some idea that we would somehow end up with Jemmy.”

  “In order to do that, wouldn’t she also need to get rid of Maggie?” There was that feeling again, only now it was an agitated flush that crept up the back of his neck and made him want to punch something.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Laurent slowed down, glancing at the sign that indicated the next exit was ten kilometers away, Nice twelve.

  “Your wife has already killed once,” Laurent said. “Give me your cell phone.”

  Ben handed him his phone. “You’re wrong, Laurent. Haley thinks Maggie doesn’t want Jemmy. With you gone, she thinks Maggie will be happy to give him up.”

  “Your wife is indeed insane. The call went to voicemail.” Laurent swerved the car into the median and climbed over the cement curb to reach the other side of A8 heading west.

  They were at least two hours from St-Buvard. One, if he hurried.

  *****

  Maggie grabbed the bottle of wine. Her hands were shaking so much she knew there was a very distinct possibility she was going to drop it. She clutched the bottle to her chest.

  Haley knew the name of the wine bottle that had been used to club Lanie to death. Not even the police knew that. Only Maggie, the concierge—and Lanie’s murderer knew it.

  “What is taking so long, Maggie?” Haley called from the top of the stairs.

  Maggie saw Haley backlit against the kitchen light. For a moment, Maggie was reminded of her night in the abbey. The frigidity of the cave, the light coming from way up high…the feeling of building dread.

  Ben never really confessed. He never actually said he did it. He just let me think he did.

  Every piece of evidence Maggie had against Ben worked for Haley, too. In some cases, better.

  She took a deep breath and began to climb up the stairs. Haley took a step backward, and Maggie prayed she wouldn’t see her hands tremble.

  All she has to do is shut the door on me. The thought of being trapped again in darkness and the cold made Maggie run the last few steps up the stairs.

  “I hope it’s the blood of Christ or something for as long as you took picking it out,” Haley said.

  Maggie noticed Haley didn’t smile when she said that. Did she normally smile at her own jokes?

  “I just can’t tell you how much I appreciate your taking care of the kids,” Maggie said, feeling a swelling of relief to be back in the well-lit kitchen.

  “You already said that,” Haley said, frowning. “I did it for the kids and, really, for myself.”

  What if Haley found out about Lanie’s pregnancy? Wouldn’t that be all it took? Or the fact that Lanie was trying to blackmail Ben?

  Maggie stood in the kitchen facing Haley, her breath coming in quick pants.

  It’s true Ben doesn’t have an alibi for that night…but of course neither does Haley.

  “What’s the matter with you, Maggie? You look like you saw a ghost down there. Was it your friend Connor?”

  Maggie dropped the wine bottle and it smashed into hundreds of shards across the hard tile floor of the kitchen. The rich Bordeaux wine splashed onto her slacks.

  “Jesus, Maggie!” Haley jumped away from the mess and grabbed a handful of the cloth towels Laurent kept in a stack on the counter. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  “How…how did you know about Connor?” Maggie asked, her eyes on Haley.

  “What? Well, your parents were here when it happened, weren’t they? You don’t think they’re not scarred for life when someone is murdered on the floor below them on Thanksgiving Day? You don’t think they don’t still talk about it?”

  “Well…I don’t appreciate the ghost reference,” Maggie said haltingly. “Connor was a friend and it was horrible.”

  Haley scraped up the bigger pieces of glass and dumped the wine-soaked towels in the kitchen garbage. Maggie’s eyes went to the sight of the broken glass on the kitchen floor sitting in a brown and red puddle.

  “Well, excuse me,” Haley said sarcastically. “I had no idea you took it so hard. That’s hardly the impression we hear of you back home. Do you want me to go down and get the damn wine?”

  “I’m out of the mood for wine,” Maggie said, bringing her lips together tersely to keep them from trembling. “And I shouldn’t be drinking anyway.”

  She shouldn’t have said that. She knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that she shouldn’t have said that. The look on Haley’s face was one of shock, then revelation and finally…hatred. The evolution of expressions chilled Maggie, and when she looked down at Haley’s hands she saw she gripped a large shard of broken bottle.

  “You’re pregnant?” Haley said, her eyes wide and boring a hole in Maggie’s midriff.

  “I…no,” Maggie said, hurriedly. “No, but we’re trying again. So I shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “You are pregnant,” Haley said. “I can see it in your face. You’re lying to me.” Suddenly her face opened up and she narrowed her eyes. “Did Ben tell you about Lanie?”

  Oh, this isn’t good. Maggie’s eyes darted again to the shard in Haley’s hand. This is not what I want to happen right now.

  “He told you, didn’t he? That I killed her? That slut? Well, did he also tell you that he screwed her the night of my reunion? Did he happen to leave that little bit out? And that she got pregnant by him?”

  It was the one piece of evidence that never fit, Maggie realized, the one piece she had deliberately chosen to ignore—the fact the killer had written slut on Lanie’s forehead. There was no way Ben would have done that. He didn’t have that kind of passion.

  “You wrote on her,” Maggie said, her eye on the large shard still in Haley’s hand. Suddenly, she became aware that there was something different about the house. Something she’d noticed in the back of her mind but couldn’t put her finger on. Something stridently wrong—wrong in-her-bones wrong—that she couldn’t place.

  “I did,” Haley said. “There’s nothing like old-fashioned cursive to get your point across. Lanie was always the master of the snarky text, the ace of the bon mot. It wouldn’t have been right not to give her the last word. So I did.” She shrugged. Maggie watched in horror as blood dripped from Haley’s hand onto the floor and she realized Haley was squeezing the shard in her fury…and didn’t even feel it.

  Haley noticed where Maggie was looking and glanced down at her hand. She looked back at Maggie. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Maggie,” she said. “Getting pregnant again. You can’t even take care of the child you have. Plus, you’ll be a single mo
ther. And that is a scary thought.”

  Maggie felt a strong chill invade her chest. “What are you talking about?”

  Haley affected a patient tone, but Maggie saw the gleam in her eye that showed her excitement. “I’ve got proof that shows Laurent was a conman operating on the Côte d’Azur,” Haley said. “Your husband is going to prison.”

  Was she lying…or crazy?

  Maggie licked her lips. I’m going to go with crazy.

  Haley idly scraped her foot in what was left of the glass and wine puddle on the floor. It made a loud and discordant grating sound that seemed to echo through the kitchen. The second Maggie heard it, she realized what was wrong. The house was too quiet. She looked in the direction of the baby monitor.

  The power light wasn’t on.

  Fear ratcheted up her spine until she was sure it was showing in her face. The monitor was always on. Haley was anal about it being on so she could hear every gurgle, every cough, every potential call.

  What reason would she have for deliberately turning it off? Because there could be no doubt it was deliberate.

  Haley still held the bloody shard. There was also no doubt in Maggie’s mind that was deliberate, too.

  Maggie forced herself to appear calm. She stood with her back to the dining room, facing Haley, who stood with her back to the open cave door. Between them on the floor were the remaining bits of glass from the broken bottle. Maggie forced herself not to telegraph her intentions by looking at the cave door.

  Her sling kept her arm pressed tightly to her chest and she leaned a hip against the counter to help support her.

  “You’re wrong, Haley. Ben confessed,” Maggie said. “He’s turning himself in for Lanie’s murder as we speak.”

  Haley jerked her head back. “You’re lying,” she said in a high voice. Her eyes flicked away from Maggie for a moment as if trying to digest this. The second she looked away, Maggie pushed herself off the counter and shoved Haley hard in the chest. Haley shrieked and grabbed for Maggie but she was off balance and went easily through the cave door, falling backward down the first few steps.