Chapter Fourteen
“How do you expect to pay for this, may I ask?” Gary shuffled through the Côte d’Azur brochures stacked on Maggie’s desk.
Maggie, uncomfortable in a now too-snug knit dress, gathered up her maps and travel brochures and placed them in the bottom of her briefcase. She closed the case firmly. She was tired from a long, late night of feasting and lovemaking with Laurent.
“I intend to charge part of it to my MasterCard.”
“The same card, I believe, on which you put that very expensive frock you wore to the Addies banquet a few months back?” Gary leaned against the windowsill next to her desk. He wore jeans and a light cotton sweater. Maggie noticed he wore leather moccasins instead of his usual wingtips. “The same card upon which you blew two hundred smackeroos last spring for that ungodly kitchen appliance you said would make your life complete?”
“The very one.”
“Don’t those people require payment periodically?”
“I’ll worry about it when I get back.”
“I see. The old worry-about-it-later credit plan. Yes, I think Darla subscribes to that too. Can’t say it works very well for her either.”
“Aren’t you dressed a little casually today, Herr Boss? I mean, I didn’t miss an interoffice memo, did I? This isn’t the afternoon we all have to go out and do the lawn in front of the building or something, is it?”
“Ah, Maggie.” Gary smiled and folded his arms. “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. I’m going to miss that keen, snappish wit. That biting—some might say, corrosive—repartee. You’ll have to write me a lot.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Maggie covered her eyes and felt a leaden weariness descend upon her.
Gary shifted uncomfortably on the windowsill. “You should support me on this. If I was to stay, I’d just go on being miserable, making everyone around me miserable. Besides, you’ll visit us down there—”
“Are you kidding?” Maggie uncovered her eyes and stared at him. “It’s ten thousand miles from here. It costs fifteen hundred dollars just to get there.”
“Look, Maggie, I’m not doing this to drive you crazy or to break Darla’s heart. I’m doing this because I have to. I have to! I’m dying here. How can I make it clearer to you?”
“Well, go then.” Maggie bent over to scrape up the contents of her spilled folder.
“And you’ll visit?”
“Sure.” She tried to smile but gave it up.
“You know, Darla has a hissy fit if I even mention New Zealand, and we’re scheduled to board the airplane in less than six weeks.”
“You are?” Maggie gaped at him in astonishment.
“Did you think I was joking? Maggie, I am moving, emigrating with my family to Auckland, New Zealand. I am getting residency, a work permit and leaving the good ol’ U.S. of A. Okay?” Gary tossed a paper clip at her wastepaper basket. “And Darla is a mess about it. Very unsupportive, if you want to know. And it would be nice, I’m just saying, it would be nice if there was one person on the planet besides my travel agent with whom I could discuss my plans and dreams.”
“Six weeks. What are you going to do down there for work?”
He grinned broadly, his eyes alive and happy for the first time in a year.
Maggie left work on time and headed to the Newberry estate, where Elspeth opened the front door while Maggie parked. Her mother wore a soft cotton sundress with blue and purple violets on a white background, a pair of gold sandals on her feet.
“Have you changed your mind about dinner? Your father’s home for a change.”
“I told Laurent I’d be home.”
“Call him. Have him come, too.”
“I can’t tonight. I’m just here to talk to Dad about something.”
While her mother gave iced tea orders to Becka, Maggie went to her father’s study, where he was sitting with the evening paper and a gin and tonic.
“Hey, Dad,” she said, giving him a kiss.
“Well, hello, sweetheart.” John Newberry’s face lit up as his paper crumpled into his lap. “Your mother said you couldn’t come to dinner tonight.”
“I can’t. I’m just here for a quick visit. Laurent is waiting for me at home for dinner.”
“I like the man. He’s got some very interesting stories to tell.”
“Oh, really?” Laurent’s storytelling abilities hadn’t really come up much in their relationship. Maggie found herself intrigued.
“Ah, well, probably not the sort of stories a young man tells his lady love. Quite the scamp in his day, was your Laurent. Reformed by love.” Her father straightened out his newspaper, folding it to a smaller size.
Although not surprised that Laurent had a mysterious past, Maggie was astonished he had shared any of it with her father, and that her father hadn’t been alarmed by whatever Laurent had divulged. Couldn’t have been anything too dangerous, Maggie decided, as she watched her father’s pleasant face relax into a concentration of reading. Her father seemed fascinated by Laurent, and for some reason she found she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea.
“I need to ask a favor, Dad.”
He tossed the newspaper aside and gave her his full attention. “Shoot.”
“I may have to return to Cannes.”
He frowned. “Does this have to do with Elise?”
“It does. There are some answers about this whole business I think I can only get over there. I’d like you to trust me on this, and to lend me your Amex card for it, too.”
“I see. Will Laurent be going with you?”
“No, he says he can’t. He’s got some private chef gigs you set up for him?”
He nodded. “It might be the beginning of a fine business for him. I’ve connected him with some friends at the Club.”
“That’s good, Dad. Laurent loves cooking, that’s for sure. So, no, it’ll just be me.”
“How long?’
“Four days.”
“Am I allowed to ask what you’ll be doing there?”
“Dad, I’m not trying to be mysterious. But I know we all want closure on Elise’s death, and I’m convinced we’re not going to get it if we just sit back and let the Fulton County Police Department handle it.”
Her father eyed her and then let out a long sigh. “Darling, I wish you’d believe your mother and me when we tell you we do not blame you for anything that’s happened with Elise. How could we? The poor girl was on a collision course with her fate from the moment she took her first steps.”
Maggie watched her father’s eyes fill with tears and she felt more resolute than ever.
“It’s not that, Dad. I just need answers. I can’t move forward until I know why she was killed, and by whom.”
“And you think you’ll find them back in the South of France?”
“I’ve got a lead. I feel like I need to follow it.”
Her father hesitated for only a moment, then took her hand and squeezed it. “There’s an extra card in the desk, third drawer down.”
Maggie leaned over and hugged him. “Thanks, Dad.”
Maggie sat in her car in the back parking lot of The Parthenon and dialed the number she had found on the Internet for the Zouk Boutique in Cannes.
“Allo? Chez Zouk.” A woman’s voice came over the line clear and distinct.
“Oui, etes-vous Madame Zouk?” Maggie asked.
There was a pause on the line. Maggie suddenly wished she’d asked Laurent to make the call for her. Except for the fact that Laurent had become singularly unhelpful any time she mentioned going back to Cannes.
“This is Michelle Zouk. Who is this?”
She speaks English!
“My name is Maggie Newberry, Madame Zouk. I am Elise Newberry’s sister. Did you know her?”
There was a brief pause on the line. “Oui. I know your sister. She is well, I hope?”
“I’m afraid Elise has passed away, Madame. But I am going to be in Cannes in a few days and I was wondering if you and I could�
��if we…”
“I am heartbroken and saddened for you, Mademoiselle. Yes, come to Cannes. I would be delighted to meet the sister of my dear friend. I believe I have much to tell you about your sister that may lighten your heart.”
Maggie was dumbfounded in her gratitude. “Thank you, Madame,” she said, feeling tears threaten to overcome her. “I will call you this week as soon as I arrive. Thank you so much.”
She sat alone in the darkened car for a moment longer, knowing Laurent would be starting to worry, but wanting to enjoy the bliss of connecting with one person on this planet who didn’t seem to believe Elise was a degenerate low-life who got the only end anyone could imagine for her.
She dialed Brownie’s number and he picked up on the first ring. “Brownie? Hey, this is Maggie. Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”
“Maggie? Maggie who?”
“Very funny. I’m really sorry. I’ve been busy, you know, trying to figure out this thing with Elise.”
“How’s that coming?”
“Well, I have to admit not great. The cops are being no help at all. For example, I found out yesterday that Gerard—Elise’s boyfriend—was at my apartment building during the time she was killed.”
“Really? How did you discover that? Do the police know?”
“No, not yet. There are a few details that don’t fit just yet.”
“Like?”
“Well, Alfie said he saw Gerard before he got yelled at by Elise. Which would mean she was still alive when Gerard left.”
“Why is this news significant then?”
“Because, Brownie, Alfie is mentally handicapped so he could easily be confused about who he saw when.”
“That’s convenient. You don’t like the timeline, so you just punt to the fact that the handicapped delivery boy is an unreliable witness?”
“The point is, it’s not important when he saw Gerard,” Maggie said, feeling her annoyance with Brownie growing. “The timing of it can’t be substantiated using Alfie because, you’re right, he’s unreliable. But the fact that he described him at all is significant. It places Gerard here at the building.”
“Sorry, Maggie. I think you’re so focused on wanting Gerard to be the killer that you’ll see any evidence you find as pointing to him.”
“Look, I didn’t call to get your opinion of what I’m doing,” Maggie responded, feeling her annoyance tip over into the full-blown anger category. “I just wanted to ask if you remembered anything out of the ordinary from that night. Either around the parking lot or once you were inside the building.”
“Not really. I do remember the cops were really pretty lax with me.”
“Seriously?”
“They never checked my pockets or anything. I could’ve had a knife on me. In fact, I did have one.”
“A knife?”
“You know the one I always carry? My Swiss Army knife?”
“They didn’t frisk me either, Brownie. I don’t they do that sort of thing. Anything else?”
“Sorry. Look, Maggie, I know you feel like you have to do this because of the whole guilt trip with Elise and all, but you probably really ought to talk to someone. You know?”
Maggie let her building ire with him seep away. He was a good friend. He cared about her. She took a breath and let it out.
“I’m talking to a bunch of people.”
“I don’t mean interviews to find evidence. I meant—”
“I know what you meant, Brownie. And thanks. I appreciate it, but I’m fine. Really.”
“So. How’s the home life these days?”
“Fine, thanks. And yourself?”
“Okay, none of my business. Did all the rubberneckers at your building bother to clean up their mess when they finally wandered away from the show in your apartment?”
“They did make a mess, I know.”
“When I showed up, it looked like the aftermath of a rock concert: empty potato chips bags, cola cans. Your neighbors are pigs, Maggie. Just saying. I picked up a bunch of garbage on my way out.”
“Thanks, Brownie. Yeah, the cops said they filled two garbage bags full of trash just from the hallway that night. After they went through it, they asked me if I wanted it. They’re just so helpful.”
“Which reminds me, I picked up what I thought was a piece of jewelry in the hallway that night and forgot all about it until the other day. I must have thought it was valuable when I first saw it. I was going to turn it in to your building’s lost and found.”
“We don’t have a lost and found. What is it?”
“I still don’t know. A kid’s toy, maybe? When I saw it wasn’t valuable, I thought I’d give it to Nicole.”
“You’ve still got it?”
“You can’t seriously think this is important?”
“It’s one more thing than I had fifteen minutes ago.”
“It’s nothing. Just a kid’s toy.”
“We don’t have any kids in the apartment. What does it look like?”
“It’s gold plated or something. Looks kinda cheap. I don’t know…like a ring of some kind, but not for your finger.”
“Can you drop it by my folks’ house?”
“Is your apartment off limits now that your frog boyfriend’s taken up residence?”
“I just thought it’d be more convenient for you. Drop it off at my place if you want.”
“I’ll drop the thing off at your folks’ place. If you’re not there, I’ll give it to your mom.”
“Thanks, Brownie.”
Later that evening, Maggie sat with her legs tucked under her on the couch in front of the light supper that Laurent had thrown together to keep them from starving until breakfast. Tiny sardines fried in batter, miniature onions swimming in some kind of spicy tomato sauce, raw carrots, artichoke hearts, radishes and, of course, the ubiquitous saucers of oil-drenched peppers and bread.
And since no meal was worth eating without du vin, there was a steadily breathing bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape to wash it all down with. Maggie wondered how long it would be before she started craving a cigarette and spending her mornings hanging around cafés, doing nothing but drinking espresso and watching the world go by.
She dipped a crust of bread into the trail of olive oil on her plate. Thirteen grams of go-straight-to-your-hips fat she thought as she popped the savory, sodden morsel into her mouth. She tried to remember the last time she had gone to an aerobics class or jogged around the block.
As soon as she’d walked in the door to her apartment, she’d greeted Laurent then gone straight to her laptop to book her flight to Nice and her hotel in Cannes. She hated the feeling she had while she was doing it—surreptitiously—because she knew Laurent was still so strongly against her going. But there was nothing for it. She had to go.
She prayed he’d get over it.
“It’s all delicious,” she said, smiling at Laurent next to her on the couch. They had taken their feast and spread it out on the coffee table in the living room. Tall tapers sputtered and dripped amidst their banquet setting.
“This is not cooking,” he protested, refusing, as usual, to accept a compliment for pulling things out of a refrigerator.
“Doesn’t make it any less tasty.” She popped a final viscous artichoke into her mouth and wondered if he’d notice if she stopped eating. “Can I go over my notes with you?”
He nodded, a slight shimmer of oil lining his full lips. He reached for his wineglass.
“Okay. I’ve got a witness—Alfie—who can place Gerard at the scene around the time of the murder. So now Gerard has motive and opportunity.”
“The police say—”
“I know, I know, that he was in his hotel room. But listen, I’d just given the bastard five thousand dollars. I’m convinced he could purchase all the alibi he wanted with that kind of money, regardless of what the police think. I just need to prove it.”
“C’est diffiçile.”
“Anyway, okay, that’s Gerard and he’s
my number one suspect so far.”
“And the drug dealer?”
“Laurent, the drug dealer did not murder Elise. That’s just the cops’ way of killing two birds: throw a scumbag dealer in jail and wrap up the confusing case of a dead woman who happened to be a junkie.”
She took a deep breath, knowing this next part was probably going to go a long way toward ruining their evening.
“When I’m in Cannes next week,” she said, noticing Laurent frown immediately, “I’ll visit Madame Zouk and also the Cannes Police Department. Surely, the French have something akin to the Freedom of Information Act over there? If the police have any records at all about Elise—or for that matter, the woman they palmed off to me as Elise and then conveniently cremated before anyone could discover the bullet hole in the side of her head—I’ll be that much closer to finding the answers I need.”
Maggie couldn’t help but notice how disturbed Laurent looked. He’d even stopped eating.
“You are going to investigate the body you thought was Elise’s?” His voice sounded flat, almost cold.
“Don’t you think I should? I mean, I brought her remains home thinking they were Elise’s. So who was she?”
“It was a mistaken identity,” Laurent said, watching her closely over his wineglass.
“Maybe.”
“Your parents have performed the DNA on her bones?”
Maggie shook her head. “It was going to take literally months for a private lab to do that, and I can’t tell you how expensive it was. And now my dad doesn’t see the point since we know for a fact that she’s not Elise.”
“True.”
“Are you okay, Laurent? You’re not eating.”
“I am just confused as to why this woman’s identity would be of any value to you. She isn’t Elise. And you know that.”
“It’s probably not of any value,” Maggie said, reaching for a toasted round of bread and spreading a large dollop of aioli on it. “But since I’ll be in town anyway, it won’t hurt to ask.”
“I wish you to not talk with Dubois.”
Maggie looked at Laurent. He had resumed eating, but she couldn’t help but think there was something going on behind his eyes. At least he seems to have accepted I’m going.
“Laurent, you know I need to make the police see that Gerard is our best suspect. That means building a case against him. Look at all the information I’ve found out just talking to people in the building and so on. I need to talk to Gerard.”
“You will not talk with Dubois,” he said flatly.
“Laurent—”
“I forbid it! He is a character dangereux. If he is killing Elise, then he can hurt you aussi.”
Maggie touched Laurent on the wrist. The outburst was something new. Laurent was normally so placid. She found the passion a tad thrilling on the one hand, but disconcerting on the other.“Okay, fine. Then I’ll just talk to Zouk.”
Laurent eyed her carefully. “You will go all the way to Cannes and not talk with Gerard Dubois?”
“If you insist.”
“I do insist. He is a bad man. Très mauvais.”
“Okay, I won’t approach him. I’ll gather my information and build my case without talking with him.”
He seemed to relax a little.
“In any event, I figure my best source is Madame Zouk anyway. If she knew Elise so well, then she definitely knew Gerard, too. I’m hoping she can help me prove that Gerard had a motive. If I can do that, and then bring Alfie’s testimony in to place Gerard here at the time of the murder, I might have a case.”
“I thought Alfie’s mother said he would not testify.”
“Details,” Maggie said as she popped an olive in her mouth. “By the way, when are you doing that personal chef gig for the Club?”
She could see he was making an effort to let their previous conversation go.
“There are two events now. Your father has been busy.”
“So you just go to people’s homes and make them dinner? Is that how it works?”
He shrugged. “Like catering. Only for a family or, in one case, a couple.”
“Dad said he can help you find all the work you want. I’m sure that’s true, especially after they taste your cooking.”
“Peut-être.”
Maggie’s cellphone began to vibrate on the coffee table. “I hate phone calls at night,” she said, standing to pick it up. “I’m always afraid of bad news.”
“Hello? Oh, hey, how are you?” She glanced over at Laurent and his eyebrows shot up.
“You’re kidding.” Maggie sat down abruptly on the arm of the couch. “When?” Her hand went to her mouth and she gnawed a cuticle. There was a long pause, then, “Okay, yeah, I will. Thanks a lot for calling. No, I know you will and I appreciate it. Thanks, Detective. Bye.”
“Well?”
“That was Detective Burton. He says they’ve got somebody new for Elise’s killer.”
“What happened to the drug dealer?”
“Huh?” She looked up at him, her mind a confusing tangle of thoughts and feelings. “Oh, he didn’t mention him.”
“Zut! Mon Dieu!” Laurent squeezed Maggie’s knee. “That is wonderful, is it not? Maggie?”
“Burton said this guy just walked in and gave himself up this afternoon.”
“Who is it?” Laurent poured her another glass of the heady red wine.
She tried to shake the labyrinth of confusing new questions out of her mind. “It’s nobody we know. Just some guy. Some faceless whacko who’s done it before. Nobody we know.”
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 19