Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Chapter Eighteen

 

  The dog, just a puppy, was nestled in Maggie’s arms where she lay on the couch, both of them enrobed in a thick afghan. Laurent had bandaged the worst of the dog’s cuts—his feet were missing several toenails and there were a few shallow slashes across its rump—and fed him, of course. Now it slept deeply and peacefully, as if it hadn’t been tortured and beaten the night before, tied to a tree and thrown down a ravine.

  Maggie touched its floppy ears and smoothed a hand over its brow but the dog only twitched and slept on.

  Maybe, on some subconscious level, she had believed the suspect Burton had in custody really had killed Elise. And maybe she really did think—deep down—that the maniac who’d been gallivanting all over Buckhead last summer was the same guy, and so now the streets were safe again. What other explanation could there be for the fact that she had gone into the woods last night?

  That was pretty much what Laurent wanted to know, too. In fact, the tone of his questions ran a wide gamut, from reasonable soft-spoken ones to thundering what-were-you-thinking ones. If Maggie thought she had seen him upset before last night, the man had totally rewritten the chapter on frenetic worry since then. The way he carried on, she wondered if he’d ever allow her out of his sight again.

  But whatever the reason was, the fact remained that she hadn’t felt particularly afraid to go running around in the woods in the middle of the night. And the cold truth was that foolish decision had nearly cost her her life.

  If not for Laurent.

  He had returned to the apartment and found her gone and begun an immediate and noisy search of The Parthenon grounds, which awakened the night watchman as well as a good number of the residents. He had likely succeeded in scaring off Maggie’s assailant, too.

  Maggie picked up the icepack and held it to the back of her head. Laurent had found her lying crumpled at the bottom of the ravine, a large, swelling knot on the back of her head, the wounded terrier cowering by her side. He had insisted they spend the rest of the early morning in the emergency room at Piedmont Hospital to confirm that Maggie would not lose her memory or begin reciting chants in Urdu at some point in the future.

  She was released with the assurance that, although painful, she had sustained only a mild concussion. As she sat in her living room, her head banging like a kettledrum being attacked by a shovel, it felt anything but mild.

  Laurent entered the room, his eyes clouded with concern. He held a steaming mug of tea and a small flask of amber-colored liqueur. Wordlessly, he placed the tea in front of her and handed her the brandy.

  “I feel like I’m in an old Bette Davis movie,” she said, wincing as she drank the brandy. It hurt to tip her head back and the fluid burned in her throat.

  “You have called Gary?” Laurent sat down on the couch.

  She nodded and deposited the icepack in a bowl on the coffee table.

  Laurent had called the police from the emergency department, but Maggie insisted he not report it but speak only to Burton or Kazmaroff. Laurent left a message.

  That was six hours ago and they had yet to call back.

  As she watched Laurent’s face, so full of helpless anxiety and frustration, she felt a sudden urge to tell him not to worry. She would promise to stop asking questions and stop trying to find out what happened to Elise. She knew their lives would settle down if she did. And surely her love for Laurent was big enough that she could give him that much? She watched him with guilt and caring and said nothing.

  The phone rang and Laurent picked it up. “Allo?” He handed it to her. “It is Brownie.”

  Maggie accepted the phone as Laurent took the empty brandy glass into the kitchen. After she hung up, she padded barefooted to the kitchen. She wore a faded pair of navy sweat pants and a light cotton sweatshirt. Laurent was peering into the refrigerator, his back to her, rigid and expectant.

  “He wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Ah, yes?” Laurent looked over his shoulder.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I don’t mind, chérie. We French are secure!” He turned to face her.

  She moved forward and slipped easily into his arms. “Good thing. Makes up for my wobbly American ways.”

  He tilted her chin up with his fingers and kissed her on the mouth. “Perhaps a little food would help?”

  “No food,” she said firmly. “Oh! What about the dog? He needs to be seen by a vet.”

  “Monsieur Danford will take him today.”

  “I don’t know, Laurent. Do you trust that guy? He’ll probably chop him up for a stew to cook on his hot plate or something down there.”

  “He is happy to earn a few dollars to be of assistance to us, ma petite. He will take the dog and return him safely.”

  The outdoor buzzer sounded. Maggie looked questioningly at Laurent, who shrugged. She pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “Miss Newberry? It’s Detectives Burton and Kazmaroff. Will you let us in, please?”

  Maggie sat on the couch next to Laurent, a mug of tea in her hands, the sleeping puppy in her lap. Opposite them, in mismatched tub chairs, sat Kazmaroff, in his cool chinos and Vuarnet sunglasses, and Burton, precision-pressed and held together like a rubber band around a bundle of nerves.

  “As you know, we have a suspect in custody who has confessed fully to the crime.”

  “Can you tell me his name?”

  “Robert Donnell.” Kazmaroff opened his flip-top smart phone and began reading from it. “He works as a bank teller at a Fulton County National Bank branch in Buckhead, where he has been a teller for twelve years. Preliminary questioning of his co-workers revealed he was thoughtful, considerate, but a little standoffish. He has no girlfriend and has never been married. He has a cat, but no friends or acquaintances outside of work. Most of his co-workers were not surprised at that.”

  “So what you’re saying is he just randomly killed Elise for no particular reason.”

  “It’s what he is saying. Yes.” Burton rubbed his hands together and made a squeaking popping sound with them. “Miss Newberry, even a psycho thinks he’s got a reason to kill. I mean, it may be a nuts reason, but it makes sense to him.”

  Maggie felt tired all of a sudden. She wanted to go take a nap…for the rest of the week. She felt a chilling nimbus of loneliness envelope her as the detectives appeared to subtly retract any help or support. “And what about the attack on me last night?”

  “The attack—which we are of course investigating—doesn’t appear to be connected to our case.”

  “How can you say that?” Laurent’s voice boomed out impatiently, causing Maggie to look at him in surprise.

  “Because we have our suspect for her sister’s murder in custody,” Kazmaroff said uncertainly. Maggie noticed that both detectives reacted to Laurent’s question as if the dozing bear in the circus had just slipped his chains.

  “Maggie’s sister is killed and two months later Maggie is attacked and it is a coincidence?” Laurent was standing now.

  “Look,” Kazmaroff said as he stood up. He gave Laurent a conspiratorial smile that suggested he would now tell him some inside dope, man to man. Maggie began to see why his partner couldn’t stand him. “I don’t know what city in France you’re from, but there is a lot of crime in this city. We average two fatalities a rush hour every single day. Did you know that?” He looked at Maggie and she couldn’t help but think she detected a note of pride in his tone. “We rank in the top ten cities across the country for homicides.”

  She bit her tongue not to say unsolved.

  “So if you’re asking could your sister be murdered one month and you mugged the next and those crimes have absolutely nothing to do with each other?” He addressed this last comment to Laurent. “Absolutely.”

  Maybe Burton picked up on the fact Laurent looked like he was inches away from wiping Kazmaroff’s unctuous smile off his face with his fist, because Burton put a hand ou
t as if to calm everyone down.

  “We are certainly going to investigate who did what to whom last night, you can be sure of that. Okay?” He looked at Laurent as if that might reassure him.

  “What about the phone call I got last week saying I was the next victim?”

  Burton looked at her in confusion. “You got a threatening phone call?”

  Laurent threw up his hands. “C’est ridicule!”

  “Yes. I left you a message that I got a phone call saying I was next,” Maggie said. “Sounds pretty connected to me.”

  Burton glanced at his partner and the two of them began to move toward the door. “We’ll pull the records on your landline to trace the phone call, okay? I guarantee you it was just a fluke and it’ll show up as the home number for a little old lady with nothing better to do than watch true crime reenactment shows and try to spice up her life. I’m sorry, but in my experience most people are just no damn good.”

  “So you’re saying you think the call was not specific to me. Nor the hit on the head, which I have to tell you, feels incredibly specific to me.”

  He stood. “I know. Again, I’m sorry. But my partner is right on at least one point.” He looked at Maggie and the now awake dog in her lap. “Buckhead isn’t as safe as it used to be. That drug dealer—the guy we originally held as a suspect for your sister’s killing?—still hangs out around here, so I wouldn’t take any more midnight walks in the woods. Even without psychotic killers on the loose, you can’t afford to play Anne of Green Gables in a big city like this. Okay?”

  Maggie nodded politely at him while she wondered if they could arrest her if she asked Laurent to throw them out on their Banana Republic khakis.

  When she closed the door behind them, Laurent went out onto the small stone balcony that faced Peachtree Road to smoke. Maggie ran a comb through her hair. She looked awful, she decided, as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror. A tiny vein under her right eye, normally imperceptible, was vivid against her white skin—an unmistakable sign of weariness and stress. After splashing cool water on her face, she gave her cheeks a brisk rub with a rough towel to bring back some color. She still looked awful.

  Laurent appeared in the hallway. She could smell the scent of tobacco on him as it clung to his clothes and hair. She eased past him and went to a chest of drawers in the dining room. Laurent followed her. He leaned against the dining room table, his arms crossed, and watched her.

  Maggie pulled out a large leather photo album and began flipping the pages.

  “They are trying to tell us that Elise died for no reason. That she was just some random body that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She stopped and then tugged a color snapshot out from the plastic pages.

  “You are going out?” he asked.

  “Not right away. But I have to ask Alfie a question,” she said. “Where are you going?” She noticed his cigarette pack was in his shirt pocket, which usually meant he was going out.

  “I did not think you would feel like going out so soon.”

  “Laurent, you don’t have to ask my permission to go somewhere. And you certainly don’t have to stay here and babysit me.”

  “I am taking the dog to Monsieur Danford downstairs. Then I have a lunch engagement with your father. I am happy to break it, chérie, but I thought you were feeling better.”

  She hesitated. She knew the two of them were becoming close. Was Laurent looking for a father figure? She really didn’t know much about his family. Was his father even still living? She touched his arm. “I’m glad you and my dad are getting along so well. I’m just surprised, I guess. He never spent much time with any of my friends before.”

  He leaned down to kiss her. “You will be careful, eh? And then come back and go to bed?” He held her chin in his hand.

  “Yes, yes. I promise. Listen. Don’t tell my dad what happened last night, okay? He’ll just freak and there’s no point. Oh, and please tell him I don’t want you knowing any stuff about my teenage years or anything.”

  “Pfut! We have covered all that many weeks ago.” He scooped up the puppy and held him in the crook of his arm. Before he left, he gave her one last knowing smile.

  Maggie went into the bedroom to pull on jeans and a tee shirt, and then into the kitchen. Laurent had made ham and cheese sandwiches using a slightly runny Camembert instead of Swiss slices. She took one of the wrapped sandwiches from the counter, poured a glass of juice and sat out on her balcony.

  It struck her as bizarre that here she was eating a ham sandwich, with Laurent off to keep a lunch engagement, and just last night she’d been knocked unconscious into a ditch. She touched the knot on the back of her head.

  Maggie tried to see the attack in elementary terms. Had she—as the cops seemed to think—merely interrupted a dog abuser during his moment of gleeful torture? Or had someone been watching her through her apartment window and used the dog to lure her out? Was the attack meant for her? More importantly, was it connected to Elise’s death?

  She drew the photograph out of her pocket and stared at it. The photographer had caught Elise looking annoyed and unsmiling. Maggie tried to remember when it was taken. After a tennis game, maybe? But Elise wasn’t dressed for tennis.

  She couldn’t remember what was going on in the picture to make Elise frown, but what she did know, what she believed in every fiber of her being, was that when she showed this picture to Alfie this afternoon he was going to say he’d never seen the girl in it before. And if that was true, then it meant there was someone else who had frightened him that day.

  She finished off her sandwich and looked around her apartment. She thought it looked lonely and too quiet. Had she already gotten used to the little puppy’s presence in the small flat?

  Or was it Laurent’s presence she now needed as much as she did oxygen in the air?

  She left the apartment and walked to the front of the building to the little stone bench, which sat a few yards away from a bus stop and the grocery store. And she waited.

  It wasn’t long before she saw him come out of the store, his arms cradling a box of groceries. She hated to accost him. She knew, as gentle as she would be with him, that he would still be upset. She glanced at the photo of Elise and her heart broke all over again. Upset or not, she had to know. She got to her feet and intercepted Alfie before he was even on the sidewalk to The Parthenon.

  “Hey, Alfie.” She smiled and tried to look surprised at seeing him.

  He stopped walking and began pulling on an ear and blinking rapidly. His eyes darted everywhere at once.

  She held up the photo before he could speak. In her experience, something visual always prompted an innate curiosity in practically everyone. She’d learned that from years of dealing with—and manipulating—advertising clients. She’d yet to have it fail her.

  “Can you look at this, Alfie?”

  Instantly, his eyes flickered to the photo. He stopped and stared at it, then up at her. “Pretty,” he said.

  He didn’t recognize her.

  “You don’t know this lady, do you?”

  He shook his head in confusion. “Is she waiting for her groceries?”

  “Nope.” Maggie tucked the photo into her pocket. “No, she is not. Thanks, Alfie. Have a great day.” She turned and walked back to her apartment. The police hadn’t shown Alfie a picture of Elise.

  And he had never laid eyes on her until today.