Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) (2 page)

Maggie dropped
the phone back into her purse and, frowning, refocused her attention on the
road.

Now what in the world did that mean?

*
       
*
            
*
            
*

Laurent pulled the
gratin
from the oven and set it on the zinc-topped table in the kitchen. He glanced at
the hand-painted clock face next to the kitchen window and felt a small prick
of worry. She’s not late, he told himself. The light from the window was still
enough to flood the kitchen without need for electric light. He wished she had
allowed him to drive her to Aix—he could’ve gone to the
patisserie
and the
charcuterie
while she visited with Julia—but he understood
she was feeling a little restrained lately. It was harder to give her the space
she wanted but he was determined to do it—
up to a point
.

The kitchen was simple and spare, with terra cotta–tiled
floors and the large, zinc-topped table at its center. The sloping and spacious
salon had a double set of ten-foot French doors that opened out onto a graveled
courtyard. Their one hundred-year-old
mas
was a solidly constructed
stone building made to withstand the powerful
Mistral
. The surrounding grounds included Laurent’s vineyard—twenty-five
hectares of local grape and lovingly pruned and tended vines—and another
15 hectares of sprawling lawns punctuated with olive, plum, fig, and cypress
trees.

To Maggie’s never-ending delight, lavender and rosemary bushes grew all
over their property. On the slate terrace, she had set pots of lemon trees and
bougainvillea once she finally gave up on her beloved azaleas and Georgia
gardenias, which she planted every spring and watched die every fall. Laurent’s
herb garden was tucked neatly into a side corner of the terrace nearest the
kitchen, an endless source of thyme, basil, lemon verbena, and several
different kinds of rosemary. In the middle of the terrace, underneath a canopy
of the tall plane trees, sat a large stone dining table.
          

Most summer evenings, while it was still pleasant—not too hot by day
and yet not too cold in the evening—Laurent and Maggie ate outside,
carrying the dishes and cutlery to the table in shallow wicker baskets. The
last tomatoes of summer were served fresh-cut and drizzled with olive oil from
the region, vinegar, and chopped fresh herbs from Laurent’s
potager
.
 

When Maggie finally came home this afternoon, she had surprised him by
bringing lamb chops from the
charcuterie
in Aix. He shelved the makings for the
pissaladier
he had planned and got the outdoor grill going instead. They settled down
across from each other at the large stone outdoor table, steaming plates of
grilled chops with rosemary, thyme and garlic redolent in the early evening
air, Maggie found herself absolutely relaxed—even without the customary
glass of
vin-du-Domaine St-Buvard
.
Laurent served up a hefty spoonful of potato gratin with buttered gnocchi and Gruyere
cheese on her plate. As usual, she had left all the kitchen work to him and
gone straight upstairs to bathe and change clothes.

“You had a good lunch in town?” he asked.

“I did. But Julia is planning on seeing her ex-boyfriend, Jacques,
tonight.”

“Ahhh.” Laurent served himself and then took a sip of his wine. It was one
of theirs from the local co-op. “Where did you eat?”

Maggie stopped with her forkful to her mouth and grinned at him. “Because
that is the most important part of my lunch,” she said. “It was
Le Poivre
. Do you know it?”

Laurent shrugged, which could mean yes or no. Maggie was never sure which.

“Was it good?”

“Yes, it was wonderful. I had the duck. Mouthwatering. Not to worry, French
national pride is safe from yet another innocuous luncheon by two unknowing
foreigners.”

“If you are unknowing, why would it matter?”

“Anyway, the other thing about the lunch,
besides
how the bistro managed to keep its one-star rating—”

“It was rated?”

“I’m teasing, Laurent. Not rated. Still really good. May I continue?”

He nodded and broke a piece off the baguette on the table and handed it to
her.

“She is making dinner tonight for her ex-boyfriend, Jacques. You remember
him, right?”

“
Le bâtard
,” Laurent said on cue.

“Yes, that’s right. The total
bâtard
.
He wants to get back together with her.”

Laurent looked up when Maggie stopped speaking, his expression blank.

“Well, don’t you see? Julia is very vulnerable right now. She might well do
it and that would be disastrous.”

Laurent poured himself another glass of wine. “Surely a half glass could
not hurt
le bébé
,” he said. He
reached for a small pitcher of water.

“Sure, okay,” she said, holding out her glass. “Did I not ever tell you the
story of how they broke up?”

“He hit her?”

“Okay, so I did tell you. Yes! He hit her during a drunken row.”

“And for that she broke up with him?”

“Well, not that that isn’t enough, but there was plenty of other stuff too.
It was the icing on her cake, him slapping her.”

“So a slap, not a hit?”

“You think there’s a difference between slapping and hitting a woman?”

Laurent took a bite of his meal. “Of course.”

Maggie frowned at him and took a sip from her wine glass. “Okay,” she said.
“One is bad. And the other is very, very bad.”

“Are you worried,
chérie
?”
Laurent asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Because if ever I was tempted to beat
ma
femme
, it would have been last year when you went to Paris and yet here you
sit—intact and unharmed.”

“Very amusing. In any case, I happen to know that Julia was beaten by her
father.”

“C’est terrible.”

“Yeah, so Jacques taking a whack at her was all the worse for that.”

“The chops are
parfait
, Maggie.
Superbe
.”

“They are, aren’t they? Well, you prepared them.”

“But you thought to get them. And after an upsetting lunch, too.”

“Well, I don’t like to see Julia doing something I know she’s going to
regret.”

“It is annoying when our friends must constantly ruin their lives when if they
would just listen to what we tell them. No?”

“I see what you’re doing, Laurent, and you’re wrong. I am not interfering.
I’m being a friend. I’m
helping
.”

“Did she ask for your help?”

“The request was implied as soon as she told me Jacques was coming to
dinner.”

“And is she still having him to dinner?”

“Okay, fine. But as a friend, I reserve the right to tell my friends when
they’re about to make a horrible mistake.”

“No wonder you have so many friends.”

“I have just enough, thank you. And besides, it’s an American thing. It
doesn’t translate over here and Julia isn’t French so it works just fine for us.”

“
Si tu le dit,”
he said with a
teasing smile.
If you say so
.

After dinner, Laurent stacked the plates and the two sat in the oversize
lounge chair on the terrace. Laurent draped a thick cotton throw across
Maggie’s lap. When he sat down next to her, she snuggled comfortably into his
lap and was rewarded by the feel of his warm, strong arms enveloping her. It
had been a long day, and she tired easily lately.

At one point Laurent laid a large hand on her belly, as if to feel the
baby’s movement.

“He just kicked!” Maggie said. “Did you feel that?”

“Oui.”

“Is our child going to speak both French and English?” she mused idly.

“Of course.”
  

“That’ll be nice.” They were both silent for a moment, looking up at the
night sky and watching the stars. “Does it ever scare you at all?” Maggie
asked. “All the changes that are coming?”

“Non.”

“Really? And you swear you’ve never done this before?”

“Not before you,” he said.

“What if it makes us different? What if we disagree about major stuff in
raising him? What if he looks nothing like you?”

Laurent laughed and kissed Maggie on the cheek. “I am secure,” he said. “As
long as he looks nothing like
Detective
Inspecteur
Roger Bedard, I don’t
care.”

Maggie turned to look at her husband in the semi-dark. “You don’t really
think that’s possible, do you?”

“Not as long as what you told me is true,
non
.”

A few years ago, Roger Bedard and Maggie had worked to solve a series of
murders in Arles at a time when Maggie was struggling with her first year of
marriage. Roger had made it very clear he would like nothing better than for
Maggie to struggle right into his open arms.

“Change is good,” Laurent said. “Without change, we stay the same and
nothing grows.” He patted her stomach.

“Yes, but we
just
figured out the
happy marriage thing,” Maggie said. “And it took us forever to do it. What if
this
change pushes us into a whole other
realm of problems?”

“It probably will.”

“Well, that’s not good, Laurent!”

“Have faith,
chérie
. We will
master all problems that come to us—even a demanding baby who wants to
push
le papa
out of bed and keep
la
maman
all for himself! Now
that
is a
concern.”

“You don’t even know if it’s a boy,” Maggie said, turning back around and
nestling closer to him, feeling and enjoying the heat from his body as an icy
breeze wafted through the terrace.

“I know I will love you no matter what comes.”

Maggie sighed with pleasure and relaxed deeper into his embrace. She could
smell the scent of orange blossoms—gone many months ago—lofting down
to her on the cold autumn breeze.

Chapter Two

Jacques narrowed
his eyes and watched the group pick their way across the parking lot toward the
café. His eye was caught by a young woman who dropped her shoulder purse at her
feet, followed by her cellphone, which skidded and bounced on the irregular
stones. He could hear her moan of dismay and watched as her friends gathered
around to help her pick up the pieces. The girl was wearing dark leggings with
a form-fitting tunic pulled over the top. She had an athletic build and a fine,
shapely bottom. Jacques licked his lips and found himself hoping she would look
up—even in her crisis, even in the crowd—and see him. But the drama
was quickly resolved and the group—and his new love—moved on and
out of sight. He sighed, but felt happy for having enjoyed the little
scene—even to have almost been a part of it.
If only she had looked up, even just for a second
. This was proof
to him that he didn’t need to sleep with a woman to enjoy her. If he never saw
that girl again, he had enjoyed her immensely just sitting at his table at the
café while he waited for his cousin to appear.

Where was that connard?
Jacques flicked his eyes to the screen of his cellphone to
confirm that the
trou du cul
was
indeed late.
How can you be late for a
rendez-vous at your own bar?
he thought, the pleasure of the girl quickly receding
and replaced by the annoyance of being kept waiting. True, Florrie’s people
knew not to hand him a bill. And they were as attentive to him as they were to any
of their paying-customers. That is to say, not very. But it didn’t matter.
Florian’s Café
, if you could call it
that sat one street off the main highway. If you didn’t know it was there, you
would never find it. So far from Aix, there was no annoying stream of students or
tourists that one was forced to endure. How Florrie made a living on the place,
though, was a mystery.

Still
.
Free drinks or not, nobody likes to be kept waiting. Jacques caught the eye of
the sole waiter and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. The man disappeared
inside.

“
Allô, mon cousin
. You are waiting long?”
Florrie appeared as if from thin air, rubbing his hands together but remaining
standing in obvious anticipation of the embrace he expected from Jacques.
Grumbling, Jacques lurched out of his chair and held his arms out to receive the
hug and cheek kissing Florrie was clearly determined to bestow upon him.

“I am waiting
only however long past the time you said you would be here,” Jacques said,
reseating himself at the table.

“Forgive me,
cousin,” Florrie said, heaving his heavy frame into the wicker chair at
Jacques’s table. “I had to take a call. Aunt Lily called to confirm that we
would be by on Sunday for lunch. Now more than ever.”

“Good God, the
woman is relentless,” Jacques said as he reached for his cigarette packet. The
waiter appeared with a pitcher of water, and two more glasses of
pastis
. “Aren’t we
always
there for Sunday lunch?”

“Well, one of us
is, at least,” Florrie said pointedly, pouring his drink and holding it up to
watch the liquid instantly cloud into ribbons of milky yellow.

“Well,
one of us
may have to do for this Sunday
as well. It appears that Julia and I are getting back together.”

“Are you serious?
That’s wonderful, Jacques!” Florrie leaned over and squeezed his cousin’s arm.
Jacques had to admit the man looked genuinely pleased for him.

“When did this
happen?” Florrie asked.

“Well, it hasn’t
exactly happened yet,” Jacques said, lighting up his cigarette and blowing a
large cloud of smoke into the air around his head. “I am seeing her tonight for
dinner.”

“She is cooking?”

“Yes, of course
she is cooking. She loves to cook for me. You know that.”

“I hope you like
mushrooms. I hear that’s all that’s on the menu these days.”

“Trust me, that
is
not
all that’s on the menu
tonight.” Jacques’s eyes glinted with double meaning.

“Well, I’m glad
for both of you. I always liked Julia. I was sorry to see you two break up.
Just be careful, eh?”

“
Careful
? What the hell does that mean?”

“I just mean
perhaps you should take it slow. She was very angry with you when you broke up.
She said some things.”

Jacques waved
away Florrie’s words as if they were no more than the choppy blue smoke floating
between them. “We both said some things. People do when they are upset.
Ma belle
Julia is very passionate, eh? I
would expect nothing less from her—in or out of bed.”

“Just take it
slow, Jacques,” Florrie said.

Jacques put a
hand to his midsection and winced. The pains were coming more and more
frequently and he was nearly at the point of admitting he needed to see his doctor.

“Are you alright?”
Florrie asked, worry stark in his dark brown eyes.

Jacques waved a hand
dismissively at his cousin. “Yes, yes. Just a little gas. I’m fine.”

“Well, you look
like a groaning bag of shit if you want to know.”

The woman who
spoke the words stood behind Florrie, and because Jacques had his eyes closed
as she approached he wasn’t absolutely sure she hadn’t just materialized amidst
a cloud of black smoke and brimstone.

Florrie stood up
immediately and faced her. She was petite, dark-haired and had obviously been
very pretty at one time. That time was many years past, and now all that was
left was the vestige of frustrated insistence and despair at not meriting the
reaction from men she once took for granted.

“Annette,”
Florrie said. Jacques noticed his cousin neither greeted his ex-wife or offered
her a chair. He just stood as if totally at a loss as to what to do. As
Jacques’s
 
discomfiture receded, he
found a prick of pleasure in his cousin’s loyalty to him. Annette was
formidable at any age and any stage. Even now, he could see heads turning to
her from all over the café. And yet poor Florrie could only stand between the
two ex-spouses, impotent and unsure.

Annette took a
step closer to the café table and pointed a long polished finger at Jacques. At
this range, he could see she had recently had some work done and he felt a
moment’s stirring for her—of sympathy, of understanding, of desire.

“You have failed
yet again to pay the money that is owed to me, you bastard!”

Jacques took a
long drag off his cigarette and motioned for Florrie to sit back down, but he
didn’t. “What money is that?”

“You know
what money
. The money necessary for your
daughter to continue with her education. You know very well
what money
.”

“I am not legally
obligated to continue to pay that, as
you
know well, Annette. I have had this discussion with Michelle—”

“Well,
I
cannot pay it! I have no money!”

Jacques thought
about suggesting she go to the same well that obviously paid for the expensive
facelift she was parading about, but he didn’t feel altogether well and was certainly
not up for a public showdown on issues they had fought over endlessly already.

“Perhaps the poor
child might find employment of some kind? I have a friend whose son did that—got
a job. It was immensely appreciated by both parents, I’m told.”

“You are despicable
to let your only child wander the streets like a common panhandler to pay for
her education.”

“Well, that’s
certainly one way to do it, and I would applaud the child’s initiative if
that’s what she chose to do.”

“I hope you die
of the gout,” Annette snarled at him. “I hope your heart seizes up and
strangles you in your bed—alone and desolate. I hope you die from all
your sins at once.”

“Thank you, Annette.
Now please piss off. You’re frightening the patrons.”

“Your own
daughter detests you!” Annette whirled around to face the more curious café diners.
“She hates her own father and wishes he were dead.”

“I’m sorry about
this, Florrie,” Jacques said as Annette pushed her way out of the café terrace and
disappeared into the parking lot. Florrie vaguely shook his head as if to say
no problem,
but instead looked more like
a man confused and undone by the situation. He sat down heavily and ran a hand
across his face. Jacques thought about the changes to come—the money to
come—and he smiled to himself. He drank down the last of his
pastis
, feeling the burn of the liquid as
it edged its way down his throat. And he felt better.

Wash the death trumpets gingerly with a paper towel or other
kitchen towel. Linen is good if you are wealthy enough to throw away a
perfectly good linen towel cleaning the dirt off a mushroom.

Julia smiled to
herself as she piled the newly cleaned mushrooms onto her chopping board. She
would have to edit that entry later—or her editor would. Still, it amused
her. She picked up one of the largest of the mushrooms and held it to her nose,
inhaling deeply. Instantly, the moment that morning in the glade north of the
city came back to her. Even the feel of the early morning air, a brisk breeze
holding all the promise of winter, came into her mind and seemed to flit across
her bare arms. She placed the mushroom down and picked up her chef’s knife. She
wasn’t sure the time she spent each day foraging into the meadows and forest
outside Aix weren’t the best part of creating her mushroom book. She roughly
chopped the mushrooms and set them aside before deseeding the green pepper she
had purchased from the
Place Richelme
market that morning.

That was silly,
of course. The search was just one more wonderful component to this her most
amazing life project. Would she ever have imagined in her wildest dreams that
one day she would become the recognized expert on culinary mushrooms? Was it
possible to have imagined that even six months ago? Of course, she cooked.
French or not, one could hardly escape
cooking
while living in France. But her impassioned industry, some might say driven fanaticism,
to unlock the secrets of the simple mushroom—in all its glorious forms,
in all its magical capacities—
that
had not manifested itself until after Jacques left her.

She nicked the
tip of her finger with the sharp knife and dropped the utensil immediately in
surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cut herself in the kitchen.
She twisted a piece of paper towel around the stinging cut. The sensation,
combined with the thought of Jacques, was enough to make her reach for a handful
of the Death Trumpets once more and bring them to her nostrils. She inhaled
deeply and felt her heartbeat slow, her pulse steady, the tension in her
shoulders relax. It was appropriate, she decided as she dropped a large knob of
butter into a hot skillet on her stove, that one achieved these life-altering fungi
by groping—no, groveling—around on one’s hands and knees—in
the dirt and the muck no less. She watched the butter bubble and foam as it
skidded its way around the perimeter of the pan, then she dropped in the Death
Trumpets, the little bowl of crushed garlic and the diced pepper. She gave the
handle of the pan a firm shake to redistribute the contents.

She could hear
noises coming from the hall of her apartment building, and a quick glance at
the kitchen clock confirmed it was time for the office workers to trudge up the
stairs to their little sanctuaries within. What she had said to Maggie
notwithstanding, she didn’t know very many of her neighbors. They were happy to
keep to themselves, as she was. She had chosen this apartment—deep in the
heart of Old Town—during her first week in Aix. She was visiting a
boyfriend who had moved here for business, and had long since moved on, and had
fallen in love with the town. A small inheritance from her mother had allowed
her to pack up her rented London flat and make the transition. She knew she
left nobody behind in England. She often found herself wondering why that
didn’t bother her more.

She took the pan
off the heat, setting it on a back burner, and walked to her front window,
which overlooked the Rue Constantin. She opened the window to let the cold late
afternoon air suffuse the little living room in her apartment. She spent so
much time in the kitchen it often wasn’t until she was nearly ready to suffocate
from the heat and the smells of grilled, fried or baked mushrooms that she
remembered to seek out a restoring breath of fresh air. She stood for a moment
in the window, staring down into the street and watching the students, shoppers
and workers, even a few tourists this late in the season, as they moved up and
down the street below her.

And then she saw
him. It was a wonder she hadn’t seen him first. Unlike the constantly moving
humanity, he stood silent and immobile, leaning against the single lamppost and
smoking. And looking up at her window. Fighting the urge to retreat back
inside, Julia forced herself to watch him as he watched her. It had been six
months since she had last seen him. Six months since she had thrown him out,
her face flushed and stinging from his neat backhand during their argument. Six
months since she had closed the apartment door behind him and begun her life in
Aix without him.