Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) (8 page)

“Thanks. Because
I’d forgotten that for a minute.”

“At least be
honest, if not with me, then yourself. This girlfriend isn’t the real problem,
is she?”

“Well, she
doesn’t help.”

“You were looking
for a way out.”

“And if I was,
Maggie? Did it ever occur to you to wonder
why
that might be?”

“He hit you?”

“There are worse
things.”

“Such as.”

“Am I supposed to
live without love in my life?”

“You have two
kids, Grace.”

“And I know
you’re all excited about your own plan to add to the world population, Maggie, so
I hate to be the one to tell you, but having kids is not all it’s cracked up to
be.” Grace looked away, her face a mask of misery and hunger. “And I need
more.”

Maggie turned on
her heel and walked out of the room, careful to slam the door behind her.

When Maggie and
Danielle drove up the long, winding driveway in the village of Lignane, halfway
between St-Buvard and Aix, that led to Lily Tatois’s mansion, Maggie was
grateful for both her friend’s happy chatter and the distraction of baby
Zou-zou. It had seemed easier to just bring her with them rather than risk
another confrontation with Grace, who didn’t appear to be in much of a motherly
or babysitting mood as it was. Besides, Z, as
Oncle
Laurent had started calling her (only it sounded like “Zed”
when he said it) was
such
a good
baby. As toddlers go, Maggie knew she was probably not getting a representative
sampling of the typical behavior and tried not to count on it too much with her
little one.

“Oh, Lily will be
so distraught,” Danielle said, smoothing out Zou-zou’s baby-fine hair from one
of the child’s barrettes
.
Z sat on
Danielle’s lap. Maggie knew she should be restrained in a child seat, but she
didn’t have one and Grace hadn’t travelled with one. It was first on her shopping
list the next trip she made to Aix, if Laurent didn’t beat her to it.

“Do you know her
well?” Maggie asked as she navigated the long gravel drive. Several cars were
parked on the grassy perimeter of the drive, pressing down the high grass and
weeds to manageable levels.

“Oh, yes. We were
in school together. Those boys meant everything to her. Jacques and Florrie. She
never married, herself. They were her life.”

“Oh, that’s sad,”
Maggie said, her hand unconsciously dropping to her touch her stomach. “Were
they close, do you know?”

“How many times
Lily has told me of how devoted her nephews are to her. Especially Florrie, who
I think is her favorite.”

“I only met
Jacques a couple of times, Danielle, but I have to say he didn’t strike me as
the maiden-aunt-visiting type. He was kind of a jerk.”

“Maggie, I am not
comfortable speaking this way about the recently departed. The poor man is
passed. We should pray for the repose of his soul.”

“Yeah, sure,”
Maggie said. “Sorry.”

Maggie parked the
car on the grass at the base of the circular drive. The
mas
was larger than
Domaine
St-Buvard
but not as well maintained, although Danielle said Lily had
servants. Maggie let Danielle bring Z while she grabbed the basket of the
obligatory tarts and cookies that Danielle had prepared. She was surprised at
how many people had come to offer their condolences to Jacques’s aunt. Then
again, the woman was quite wealthy.

The minute they
stepped into the house, Maggie was assailed by the noise of at least fifty
people crowded in the foyer and spilling over into the adjoining dining room
and salon. Jacques may not have been the most popular man in Aix, but his aunt
was clearly loved. Maggie made her way to the food table, where she set out
Danielle’s pies and then returned to her friend to offer to take Z.

“We are fine,”
Danielle said, holding onto the now squirming baby. “I just want to give my
condolences and then we can leave. I know no one else here.” Danielle clucked Z
under the chin. “We will first just go and find a cookie, yes?”

Maggie realized
she would need to act fast if she wanted to talk with Lily for more than just a
few seconds. Peering into the salon, she saw what looked like a receiving line
moving in the direction of a large throne-like chair in which sat a beaming
white-haired woman.
Whoa. Not looking too
torn up, is she?
Maggie edged into the room and plucked a glass of sherry
from the tray of a passing caterer. She didn’t like the idea of asking any
questions so publicly—especially with people waiting behind her in line
to talk to the old lady—but a quick memory of poor Julia’s tear-streaked,
desperate face this afternoon fortified her conviction and she went and stood
in line.

Looking around
the room, it was clear that whatever fortune Lily had wasn’t being spent on
updating the décor or furnishings of the
mas
.
The couches and draperies looked worn and in need of mending. The overall
effect was shabby, but still held the essence of elegance. And Lily herself was
pulling off the whole
grande dame
thing with experience and aplomb. Something about her—the way she held
herself and greeted the minions there to give homage to her—reminded Maggie
of Grace. She felt her stomach twist unpleasantly at the thought. She could not
remember ever having a fight with Grace that had felt even close to anything
like this. This
thing
that had
happened between them felt divisive and…permanent.

As soon as she
got close enough to smell the dowager’s perfume, Maggie could see that she was
flanked by family members who were also greeting the mourners in the line. A
man who looked like he could have been Jacques’s brother, and so must be cousin
Florian, sat to the immediate left of Lily. His eyes were red-rimmed and he
held one of his aunt’s hands in his own. To Lily’s right sat none other than
the deceased’s daughter, Michelle, who was in the process of glaring daggers at
Maggie. The woman next to Michelle must be Jacques’s ex-wife, Annette. Maggie
had assumed she might see these two here, but it hadn’t occurred to her the
confrontation would be so direct. It did occur to her as she edged closer to
the two glowering women that perhaps this wasn’t going to be the best time to
do anything but say
sorry for your troubles
and leave as quickly as possible. The thought came to her that Grace’s sarcasm
had been closer to the mark when she suggested that Maggie dispense with the attempt
to question anyone and just slip off to poke around the house.
Too late now.

“Hello, Madame Tatois,”
Maggie said, stepping forward to shake hands with Lily and deftly handing her
sherry glass to Michelle, who took it without thinking. “I am so sorry for your
loss.”

Lily murmured
something complicated in French, but before Maggie could attempt to respond Michelle
blurted out, “She is a friend of Papa’s
murderer
,
Aunt Lily!”

When her aunt
turned to her in confusion, Annette took the opportunity to clamp a heavy hand
down on her daughter’s arm, spilling Maggie’s sherry on her sleeve. “Not
now
, Michelle,” she hissed through
clenched teeth.

Before a full-fledged
family brawl could erupt, Maggie moved on quickly to Florrie and extended her
hand. “And you must be Florian, Jacques’s cousin,” she said hurriedly, aware
that Michelle was standing up now. “My husband, Laurent Dernier, sends his
condolences, as he was not able to accompany me today.”

“You are
Laurent’s wife?”

“Yes, and again,
our deepest condolences.”

“I tell you, she
is connected to the person who killed Papa! Why is nobody listening to me?”

Unfortunately, it
looked to Maggie as if too many people were listening to Michelle, as the noise
level and rate of heads twisting to see toward the front of the line had
noticeably increased.

Michelle grabbed Maggie’s
arm and twisted her to face her. “American whore!” she shrieked and threw the
contents of her sherry glass into Maggie’s face. Maggie gasped and reached out
blindly, the alcohol stinging her eyes, the fumes choking her. She could feel
the liquid seeping down the front of her dress.

“Michelle!”
Florrie cried out. “She is a guest in our house!”

“This is not
your
house, you
crapaud
!” Michelle screamed. As Maggie struggled to see through the
burning alcohol, she felt the girl grab her by the arms, her nails digging
sharply into her flesh. “Get OUT!” Michelle screamed.

Maggie began to
fall backwards as Michelle gripped her, and thrashed out with her arms in a
panic to try to prevent the fall. Michelle jerked away from her, leaving a
trail of bloody scratches down Maggie’s bare arms. Maggie pawed at her face to
wipe away the alcohol as she stumbled away from the group. When she opened her
eyes, she saw that Florrie was holding Michelle with both hands, his face
florid and stunned and looking at Maggie.

“Take her away to
compose herself,” Lily said to Florrie, who began to drag Michelle away.
 

“Are you mad? She
helped plan Papa’s murder! She is the accomplice to the murdering whore!”
Michelle’s shrieks and threats continued until they faded into the far recesses
of the house.

Lily leaned over
and spoke quickly to Annette who, giving Maggie a look of pure hatred, stood
and addressed the receiving line. “Aunt Lily is tired now. I am sorry. If you
will write in the condolences book, there will be no more visits today. Thank
you all for coming.” When she finished she turned to Lily, but the old woman
was already beckoning Maggie to come closer.

“You knew my
nephew, Madame?” Lily asked her. Her voice was kind but her eyes, now that
Maggie really looked at them, seemed cloudy and vague.

“I did, Madame Tatois,”
Maggie said, rubbing her arms and forcing herself
not
to look at Annette, who she could feel was glaring at her. “And
I am so sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

“It is true,”
Lily said, nodding but now seeming to talk to no one in particular. “Florrie
was always the one good with money. I’m afraid Jacques wouldn’t have known what
to do with it.”

Okay, so that made absolutely no sense at all.

With that, Lily
turned to Annette, who began to help the woman out of her chair. Maggie didn’t
waste her opportunity to escape. She saw Danielle standing in the now dismissed
and disintegrating receiving line with little Zou-zou in her arms. Her mouth
was open in shock as Maggie motioned her to the door.

Chapter
Eight

Laurent’s
vineyard was as neat and tidy as a hausfrau’s linen closet. Every row was
weeded, every mound raked, every graceful green bough of grapes draped and
staked as meticulously as a careful line of stitches in the earth. Maggie
wasn’t surprised that Laurent gardened they way he cooked—with organized
fervor. Their kitchen rarely had a spoon or sauce pan out of place. As she
stood with him at the furthest point from the house at the north side of his
vineyard, she had to smile when she thought of how his lovemaking, impulsive
and passionate, was nothing like his gardening.

“You think this
is funny?”

She sobered up
and shoved her hands in her pockets, squinting down at the carefully raked
ground in front of her as if in studious concentration. She had been careful to
put on a long sleeve sweater to cover the scratch marks she’d received at
Jacques’s wake, but had no real hope that Laurent didn’t know everything that
had happened today. Somehow, he always did.

“Not at all,” she
said. “I am taking it very seriously.”

Laurent stood
next to her, his long hair thick and wild around his face, the stiff breeze
pushing it without restraint. He looked a little wild himself, she thought. His
eyes were flashing, and while they constantly surveyed his grapes and fields,
she didn’t mistake for a moment that his thoughts were anywhere but solidly on
her.

“Have you seen
Grace today?” she asked.

“I brought a tray
up to her at midday.”

“Did you speak?”

“She was
sleeping. I left the tray.”

“We had words,”
Maggie said. “Before I left with Danielle. I know Grace is upset. I’m afraid I
made her more upset.”

As soon as she
mentioned leaving with Danielle, she knew she had made a tactical error. The
last
thing she wanted to do was remind
Laurent that she’d had a drink flung in her face and a crazy woman launch
herself at her. At a condolences call. While eight months pregnant.

Laurent sighed heavily.
“We must come to an understanding, Maggie,” he said to her, still not looking
at her. “Very little do I deny you, I think, yes?”

She sighed herself
instead of answering him.

“But this I must.
You are to stop working on this
investigation
unless I am with you.”

“Laurent, we’ve
talked about this before—”

“
Oui!
And always the answer is the same.”

“So I’d think
you’d get tired of asking the same question.”

“I am not asking
any questions, Maggie. I am your husband. Am I not?”

“That is
irrelevant to my working on this case.”

He made a Gallic
snorting sound that she had heard before. Usually it was over the incompetence
of some groundsman or shopkeeper and it annoyed her to hear it used for her.

“If I cannot
demand of you to do as I say for your own sake—and certainly not because
you respect your husband’s wishes—then I must demand that you stop bringing
valuable items of mine along with you. Items that may become damaged or lost.”

“Oh, for heaven’s
sake, Laurent. Are you talking about the baby? Because obviously I can’t leave
the baby behind.”

“Exactement.”

“Okay, nice try.
You should’ve gone into law or something. We are at a stalemate, dearest.
Est-ce que tu comprends
stalemate
?”

“I thought we had
seen the last of these arguments over your
sleuthing
,
Maggie.” He said the word as if it had a bad taste to it.

“We had. But that
was because I was led to believe you accepted my doing it under certain
circumstances.”

“
Oui
,” he said, tossing down a dead vine
he had been holding in his hand. “Not. While. You. Are. Pregnant.”

Maggie sighed and
reached out to him to steady herself as she turned to face the house.

“While it’s true
we didn’t write that particular clause into the final agreement…”

“You are being
funny again.
Moi, je le deteste
!”

“If it’s any
consolation, I hate it, too. But where does that leave us?”

“I will go with
you.” He gave one last look at his vineyard.

“How can you do
that? Aren’t you set to start harvesting any minute now?”

He shrugged.

“Okay, Laurent,
stop it. That’s just childish. You can’t come with me or else your whole year
ends up in the crapper. It’s just bad timing.”

He gave her a
side look from under his eyebrows, his full lips in a stubborn line.

“No, Laurent,”
she said firmly. “I can’t let Julia rot in jail any more than you can let your
grapes rot on the vines.”

The two stood
together for a moment, Maggie facing the house and Laurent’s chin resolutely
set in the other direction, toward his vines. After a moment, Maggie slipped
her hand into his.

“I promise I
won’t take any chances, Laurent,” she said softly. “I promise I won’t do
anything to endanger me or the baby.” She watched his face and could see the
battle he fought to believe her. “I promise.”

Without
answering, he turned and drew her into his arms. He was too tall to rest his
chin on the top of her head, but Maggie squeezed him tight.

“I promise,” she said
again, her words muffled by his thick cotton sweater.

The next morning,
Laurent left the house before Maggie. She knew he would be with the other
vignerons
in his co–op most of the
day, deciding exactly when to pick and dividing up the labor as they did every
year. She noticed he left her the car and she felt a rush of affection for him.
She knew he only wanted her to stay safe, and it was true that a few incidents
in the past had led to some very close calls for her. It was also true that
this time she had more than just herself to think about.

In the end they
had compromised. Maggie agreed to stop questioning total strangers about the
case and Laurent agreed to allow her to continue to visit Julia in the
detention facility in Aix.

She had yet to
mention her meetings with Roger, and since Laurent didn’t ask she felt it best
to just leave it alone. After all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong and she had absolutely
nothing to feel guilty about. And she
did
need to know what Roger knew about the case that was developing against Julia.
She was aware that possibly Laurent had a baseline assumption she would not see
Roger, but she assuaged her guilt with the belief that she had no control over
what he assumed if he didn’t voice it to her.

She had a few
hours before her first appointment, so she parked the car and walked down the
Cours to the first outdoor café she came to. The plane trees, fast losing all
their blossoms and their leaves, still provided gentle shade in addition to the
ubiquitous blue umbrellas that stood at each table. She sat down facing the
Cours—always the best for people watching—and ordered a
macchiato
from the waiter. There was a
time, she knew, not so long ago, that she couldn’t have enjoyed this moment
without comparing it to Atlanta. She remembered how Grace used to laugh at
that.

“San Francisco,
maybe, darling,” she had said. “But I’ve
been
to Atlanta. To long for it when you see this is just addled.”

Maggie smiled
now, remembering. At the time, Maggie had argued that Grace hadn’t seen the
real Atlanta: the dense heavy trees that covered most of the town, the
breath-stopping dogwood and azaleas that erupted every spring making you forget
you lived in a real place and not some magical Arcadia. Grace hadn’t seen the
stately mansions of Buckhead or Piedmont Park after the first snow. She hadn’t
known Margaret Mitchell Square or Midtown in its heyday.
And those were all very good arguments for someone desperately
homesick,
Maggie mused as she took her first sip of her
espresso
. The beauty of the Atlanta that
she knew—the one she grew up in—was tucked away in the memories she
had of the special times there. Because nothing, or very little, she realized
now, could compete with the beauty she saw almost every single day of her life
in Provence. From the dusty village roads to the endless fields of lavender to
the dramatic evidence of Roman architecture that seemed to materialize at the
oddest moments. Had she ever had her breath taken away shopping for plums in Atlanta?
(Had she ever even shopped for plums in Atlanta?) That happened daily here.

After nearly five
years of living surrounded by all this natural beauty—not to mention what
the Romans had brought to the table over a thousand years ago—Maggie had
finally gotten to the point where she was happy where she was. And all the
losses she had tallied on her long list of
things
she had left behind
seemed like nothing to her now when she saw all that
she had.

And at the very
top of
that
list was Laurent. Her
hand settled on her stomach as she thought of him, a smile edging her lips.
They had not even talked about having children. She had had no idea, beyond the
fact he seemed to be good with kids, if he even wanted children. Truth be told,
she hadn’t been too sure about it herself. She had watched Grace and Win
struggle first with Taylor—a brilliant hellion of a child—and then
with the process of trying to become pregnant again. In fact, Grace’s agony
during that bad year of injections and IVF procedures was not unlike what she
seemed to be going through now. The thought surprised Maggie. Up until now, she
had been focusing on how selfish Grace was to want to break up the family. She
thought back to her friend’s misery and desperation when it looked like she couldn’t
conceive again, when every attempt ended in failure. Until, of course, little
Zou-zou happened. Maggie sat up in her chair as a bad thought struck her.
Is it possible that Grace and Win’s present
problems have to do with the question of Z’s true paternity?
When they left
France eighteen months ago Win had staunchly announced that it didn’t matter.
Perhaps, somewhere along the line, it had started to?

If a DNA test had
finally put an end to the doubt and speculation, it might well explain why Grace
and Z came to France alone. As Maggie was imagining this, her cellphone rang
and she saw it was her editor. She had let the prior two calls yesterday go
straight to voicemail, but now she hesitated. Maggie watched as her phone
continued to vibrate against the café table until it finally fell silent. She
knew it was rude not to call her back, but what was there to say? She hadn’t
done the edits requested of her. She had no idea
when
she’d be able to get to them. If ever. It was pretty obvious
she was going to miss her deadline. Her editor was probably calling to demand
the return of her advance. Paltry though it was, it had already been spent
months ago. And why? Why had she lost interest in the one thing that had been
so exciting for her just two months earlier?

Maggie motioned
to the waiter for her bill.
Was it the corrections
themselves?
Her editor at the publishers was pretty smart, and most of the
things she pointed out in Maggie’s story needed fixing. Maggie could see that.
She dropped a handful of euros on the table and stood to leave. No, it was just
the feeling of being overwhelmed. Not just by the baby, but Julia and, of
course, Grace. There was just too much going on right now.
    
Was a stupid book more important than her best friend spending the rest
of her life in a foreign prison?

As she walked
down the bricked pedestrian walk way of the Cours, the sky blotted out
completely by the arching plane trees over the center, Maggie vowed to call her
editor back and explain why she was going to miss the deadline.
Who knows?
Maybe she’d even be
sympathetic. She hadn’t really come off like that up to now, but maybe she
would understand. Maggie slowed her gait and felt a stab of sciatica in her
lower back. She massaged it with her hand and caught a glimpse of herself in a
store window as she passed.
Whoa
.
That is one big girl there
. She eyed her
large, protruding stomach critically and wondered if the doctor could possibly
have gotten his dates wrong.
I look like
I’m about to drop any minute
!

She noticed she was
on the street that led to the
L’ecole Primaire
in Aix. She remembered that Taylor had gone there for a year before more
specialized education was required. Her heart beat with excitement when she
realized that
this
is where
her
child would go when he or she was
old enough. The leaves from the plane trees were scattered across the sidewalk,
which was lined with wrought iron fences, through which poked a colorful
display of red geraniums and the pretty purple
clochette
that seemed to grow everywhere.
It’s just like the school in the Madeline storybooks,
she thought,
smiling. True, it was a long way to come every day from St-Buvard, but she and
Laurent had already discussed it and decided it was best.

She’d stopped to give
her back a break, when a disorderly queue of school children erupted from the
lane off the Cours in front of her. She stood back, delighted, and watched them
as they crossed the street, their teacher herding them as if they were a hoard
of unruly lambs. The children were dressed in colorful scarves and caps,
tabliers
and backpacks. Their chatter
came to Maggie in snatches of childish, excitable French. She grinned and put
her hand on her stomach.
That’ll be you
someday, cherub
.
Speaking French like
you were born to it instead of laboring over every consonant like your
Maman
.
Mind you
, she thought, as she turned and began her walk up to the detention
center,
you’ll speak English like a
native, too
.