Prologue
The note was creased and blood-spattered, the words on it written in a shaky scrawl.
My dear,
Above all please know that I forgive you everything and I hope that you will forgive me also. I believe this is the best way for both of us. I have no regrets. Never forget that I will love you forever, little one.
Forever and forever,
P.
December 1956
The long, undulating dirt road dissected the vineyard landscape of ruined, black branches. The field’s vines, stripped of their rich load―picked and bottled months ago―now hung in withered, dark wisps.
At the end of the road, two rows of pear trees and silver olive trees stood as close as sentinels, their gnarled limbs intertwining as they flanked the pebble drive that led to the house.
The windows, mullioned and seeming to tremble in the dying sunlight, gave the house a forlorn, fragile presence. A lone stone lion roared mutely from the slate terrace, one ear chipped, its teeth no longer sharp.
At the statue’s base, the dying woman clasped a small scrap of paper, the words already clotted into an indecipherable blur by the trickle of her blood. The steps, made of porous rock brought down from the mountains a thousand years earlier, soaked up the scarlet stain.
The killer looked down at the woman briefly before turning to step over the man’s now-still body. And then, to the two children huddled in terror by their parents’ car.
The murderer shot them each once in the head, checking afterward to be sure they were dead, and that there would be no further suffering.
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 62