Murder à la Carte (Maggie Newberry 02] Page 10

  “Well, they’re not pumpkin pies,” she said, finally, softening the words with an encouraging smile to Madame Renoir. The baker produced a small silver teaspoon and scooped the center out of one of the tians. She held it out to Maggie.

  “This isn’t really a pâtisserie, Maggie, darling,” Grace said softly. “There are lots of places in Aix. In fact, Aix is famous for its...” Grace watched Maggie as she tasted the spoonful of creamy, sweet pumpkin.

  Maggie looked up at Madame Renoir who, having accurately deciphered Maggie’s reaction, was beaming again.

  “C’est magnifique,” Maggie said to the baker.

  “Bon! Bon!” Madame Renoir began bundling up the puddings in various cardboard boxes while Maggie and Grace selected baguettes for the evening.

  “Où est Babette cet après midi?” Grace asked absently as she steered the little dog’s muzzle away from her large, gold earrings.

  Madame Renoir made an impatient hand gesture in Grace’s direction and rattled off a rather cross explanation of the girl’s absence.

  “You know, it’s weird,” Maggie said, plopping her dog on the floor to see what it would do. “Did I tell you what happened to me the first and last time I saw Babette?” The puppy shook its curls, then sat quietly at Maggie’s feet. It looked up at Maggie as if awaiting instructions.

  “You mean Gaston getting a freebie feel?” Grace eagerly deposited her own dog on the floor. “You told me. What a cretin.”

  “Est-ce que vous connaissez Gaston Lasalle?” Madame Renoir said suddenly to Grace as she pushed the wrapped tians toward Maggie on the counter.

  Surprised by the question, Grace told the woman that Gaston had helped pick the grapes at Domaine St-Buvard. She pointed to Maggie and said that Madame Dernier had spoken with the man and found him very unpleasant.

  The baker reacted dramatically. She turned to Maggie and began babbling frantically in French.

  “What in the world is she saying, Grace?” Maggie looked from Madame Renoir to Grace and back to the baker again.

  “I don’t...it’s kind of fractured,” Grace said, trying to keep one eye on the hand-wringing of Madame Renoir and one eye on her puppy as it pounced on her Ferragamos. “Something about...he’s a bad man...very méchant...very, I guess, evil? Oh, he’s a Bohémienne, and...”

  “What do you mean, like an artist or something?” Maggie frowned. Gaston Lasalle certainly hadn’t struck her as the sensitive type.

  “No, no, Bohémienne...that’s the Provençal word for gitane...you know...gypsy.”

  “Lasalle’s a gypsy?”

  “Will you let me listen? Dog, stop it!” Grace shouted at the puppy as it lunged again at her shoes.

  Madame Renoir wiped her hands against her apron, but only succeeded in coating them with more white powder. She turned to Maggie and shook her finger at her slowly. Her eyes looked worried and sad. Her words were slow but still incomprehensible to Maggie, who nodded seriously as if she could understand.

  “Oh, my God,” Grace said, glancing at Maggie for emphasis.

  “What?” Maggie asked. “What is she saying?”

  “You are not going to believe this.” Grace pushed the attacking puppy aside with her foot. “Madame Renoir says Gaston Lasalle is the grandson of the gypsy they hung in your vineyard.”

  “Faites attention,” the woman said sternly to Maggie. She pushed the package of wrapped tians closer to Maggie and held her hand firmly. “Be careful, Madame,” she said in English.

  4

  Laurent scooped up the steaming, saffron-yellow polenta onto two plates. Maggie watched him from her stool. She had been delighted to return from her shopping expedition with Grace at a little before six in the evening, to find Laurent emerged from his cave, and cooking up a cozy dinner à deux. She held a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape as she watched him work.

  “You have brought a fougasse?” he asked with surprise, lifting the flaky flat bread from its wrapping paper.

  “Madame Renoir pressed it on me,” Maggie said as she watched Laurent break the bread up and then position two roasted quail on one plate and four other birds on the second plate. “She thought she’d upset me,” she continued. “You know how she is. Her way of dealing with stress is to give you free buns.”

  “I love fougasse. “

  “Well, then, I guess my little trauma was worth it.”

  Laurent gave her an admonishing look from under his thick eyebrows. But he said, “The news about Lasalle is troubling you?”

  “You don’t think it’s bizarre that the guy whose dear ol’ granddad is publicly and gruesomely offed in our vineyard shows up to pick our grapes? In the same vineyard? You don’t think that’s weird?” She decided, once more, to withhold a report on her little run-in with Gaston in front of the boulangerie two weeks ago.

  “You watch too much American TV,” Laurent said. “We will try one of our own wines, tonight,” He positioned salad leaves on two glass dessert plates.

  “Really? Is it ready?”

  “This one is meant to drink a little young. It’s not wonderful. But it is not bad, I think.”

  “Gosh, Laurent, what’s that?” Maggie pointed to the salad. “You should have told me you’d run out of lettuce, I could’ve picked some up for you. You don’t have to rip the weeds out of the yard.”

  Laurent’s smiled affectionately at her as he picked up a fork and gestured at the salad. “Dandelion leaves, rocket leaves, lamb’s lettuce.”

  “No Ranch dressing, I guess.”

  “Grilled goat cheese in olive oil.”

  Maggie sighed. “Anyway, I got all the stuff for dinner on Thursday. I think.” She picked up the salad plates and walked into the part of the living room that they used as their dining area. Laurent followed with the dinner plates and a bottle of wine under his arm.

  “Bon,” he said. “And you had a nice visit with Grace. That is very good. I am glad. Sit, sit, Maggie. It is getting cold.”

  “Well, aside from the dog relieving its surprisingly large bladder all over the front of Grace’s blouse...did you know she wears, like, original Chanel? The rest of the afternoon was pretty uneventful.”

  “Dog?” Laurent asked absentmindedly as he began working the cork out of the bottle.

  “Yes, didn’t I mention that? Madame Renoir gave Grace a dog. Cute little thing, smart too. Poodle, I think.”

  Laurent poured their glasses.

  “Try that,” he said.

  She took the large balloon glass in her hand and sniffed the wine’s bouquet.

  “I haven’t a clue as to what I’m trying to smell,” she said.

  “Just drink it, Maggie,” he said patiently.

  “Mmm-mm, tasty,” she said. “Very nice. Vin du Laurent. My favorite brand.”

  “It is a little young.”

  “No, no. It’s nice.”

  “A little too much tannic, too, I think. No matter.” Laurent studied the bottle with his own hand-scrawled label on it. “It will get better as I do. You will see.”

  “Well, the polenta is wonderful, as usual,” Maggie said. “And not fattening either, I’ll bet?”

  “Madame Marceau was here today.” Laurent cut into his quail.

  “Really? What did she want?”

  “She left you a gâteau for Thursday’s dinner, she said.”

  “No kidding? That was sweet.”

  “It is a Gâteau de Fruits Battus,” he said.

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “It is a traditional cake for a vigneron’s wife to make. It is made from the broken, too-ripe grapes.”

  “Are you telling me I’m supposed to make this grape-cake too?”

  “Non, non, I am just telling you. That is all.” He looked at her with mild exasperation. “Also, Jean-Luc stopped back by today.”

  “Quelle surprise,” she said, cutting into the polenta.

  “He brought us a couple of good dogs.”

  “Excuse me?” She looked up from her plate.

>   “Dogs. You know.”

  “I know what dogs are. What do you mean, ‘he brought us a couple of dogs’?”

  Laurent shrugged. “Which part is unclear?” he asked.

  “Do not be smart with me, Laurent. We have dogs now? Is that what you’re saying? We’re pet owners?”

  “These are not pets,” he said. “They are hunting dogs. Guard dogs. Dogs to go for walks with―”

  “But plural. ‘Dogs’.” Maggie frowned at him. “As in, more than one.”

  Laurent took the napkin from his lap and tossed it down on the table next to his plate, scowling.

  “Jean-Luc comes to my house to give me les cadeaux and I am going to say, ‘Mais, non, I must ask first my girlfriend?’ C’est ridicule.“

  “Well, gee, Laurent, I’m glad you find it so ‘ridicule.’ May I ask where these new members of our family are now?”

  “I have put them in the little walled-off part in the―”

  “In our garden?”

  “They are perfectly safe there.”

  “What if they dig up stuff and crap all over the terrace and―”

  “Enough, Maggie,” Laurent said sternly, resettling his napkin. “They are not to be doing any of those things. Pas du tout.”

  “Yeah, ‘pas du tout’. What are they, hounds or something? They’re gigantic, aren’t they?”

  “They will not be in your way. You are not to worry.”

  “Well, thank you, Laurent,” Maggie said sweetly. “That relieves my mind considerably. And, well, dearest, I have something to tell you too.”

  “Yes?” Laurent frowned and chewed, watching her.

  “I, too, have acquired a dog today without first asking your permission.”

  “It’s a joke.”

  “You’ll think so, chéri.” Maggie laughed in spite of herself as she saw Laurent’s eyes narrow. “Especially since this dog will not be sleeping in the garden at night.”

  “You are making a joke to get back at me.” Laurent allowed a small smile but glanced around the room as if expecting the emergence of a dog at any moment.

  “I’m not, Laurent, I’m really not.” Maggie began to laugh, suddenly relieved and tickled at the same time. She would let Laurent have his smelly old hounds to go cavorting around his precious vineyards with. He could hardly object now to Madame Renoir’s little gift to her. “I’m calling her Petit-Four, since I got her from a bakery.”

  Laurent stabbed at the remaining rocket leaves on his plates and shook his head. “I will never understand your kind of humor,” he said.

  “Yeah, ditto.” Maggie took another sip of her wine. “So, why did Jean-Luc give you dogs in the first place?”

  Laurent grinned. “It’s just until we have children of our own, he says.”

  “For crying out loud.”

  They both laughed and Laurent leaned over and took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Je t’aime, Maggie “ he said.

  “I love you too.”

  “You are excited about your parents coming tomorrow?”

  “I can’t wait to show Mother the house and all. I want to make this a Thanksgiving to remember always. I mean, think of it, Thanksgiving in Provence. It’s going to be perfect.”

  “Perhaps Nicole will make friends with little Taylor, yes?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie said doubtfully. “I mentioned it to Grace and she didn’t seem too sure. You know, she almost never talks about her. Do you think that’s odd?”

  “Connor says the child is very bad.”

  “What, bad, you mean she’s a brat?”

  He wiped his mouth and reached for a cigarette. “Oui, a brat.”

  “Poor Grace and Windsor. I wondered how come we hadn’t met the little darling yet. God, I hope she behaves on Thursday.”

  “Not to worry, chérie,” Laurent said. “We have ferocious Petit-Four to make her mind!” Laurent growled for emphasis. Maggie grinned and then disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve the coffee and the apple tarts.

  5

  Jean-Luc picked up the knife and let it fall casually between his legs. It pierced the wooden chair beneath him. His rough and worn hand grasped the handle loosely and then flicked it again between his legs with a satisfying thunk.

  “Must you do that?” Eduard Marceau said from where he stood on the large, shaded verandah at the front of his house. “Those benches came from Paris. If you don’t mind.”

  Jean-Luc grunted and pulled the knife out of the wood. He held the knife between forefinger and thumb and looked at Marceau.

  Eduard kept his eyes directed out to his fields and beyond. It was too cold to be really comfortable on the verandah, he knew, but he hated to bring the voleur Alexandre into his home with his wife if it could be avoided. He noticed the line of olive trees that separated his house from his vineyard. One of the olive trees was badly damaged from the fierce mistral wind that had visited them last week. Jean-Luc, noticing the destruction, had suggested that it had not been the mistral at all but just a bad wind blowing from the south. The man was un idiot. Eduard’s eyes turned, as they had for so many years now, to the land that adjoined his.

  “Do you not want to know how much I offered him?” Jean-Luc asked as he pocketed the knife and brought out a tattered pack of Gauloises. “It was a serious offer.”

  “If he refused it,” Marceau said, “it was not taken seriously.”

  “Dernier insists he wants to run the place for a year.”

  Marceau turned to watch Jean-Luc as the man blew out a great cloud of blue smoke. Jean-Luc wore his usual uniform of blue trousers and stained, dark blue shirt. His leather boots, although dusty, looked new.

  “Does your offer expire at midnight?” Marceau asked sarcastically. “Can we not wait a year after so long?”

  “He turned me down, Eduard,” Jean-Luc said flatly, smoking slowly, watching his companion through hooded eyes.

  Marceau looked back out to the fields of his neighbor. “So, either he does not want to sell,” he said, “or he does not want to sell to you. Or the offer was not what he was hoping for.”

  A thin vein of smoke wafted over to Marceau.

  “I think he intends to stay,” Jean-Luc said. “I offered him more than I can pay. More than I know you are willing to pay.”

  Marceau looked at him with disgust.

  “And still,” Jean-Luc continued, sucking in his tobacco smoke until the small cigarette seemed to shrivel into a tube of empty paper. “Still, he refused.”

  “He cannot stay,” Marceau said grimly, watching the smoke rise from the Dernier fireplace beyond the abutting vineyards of dark grays and heavier purples, the jutting forms of the depleted vines and their hanging wires ghostly and forbidding. They reminded him of the concentration camp, so many years ago. “He cannot be allowed to stay,” he said.

  6

  The next morning, Maggie got up early. She made a quick inspection of Petit-Four’s cardboard box at the foot of their bed to make sure there had been no mishaps during the night. She scooped up the little dog and settled it on their bed―to the mildly disapproving grunts of Laurent who was still in it. The poodle, a ball of gray and downy white fur, sat between their pillows, looking from Maggie to Laurent and back again.

  “She likes you,” Maggie said, scratching the animal behind its ears.

  “I am so pleased,” Laurent murmured to his pillow.

  “And pretty soon, Petit,” she said, whispering close to its furry face, “you will be out of that nasty box and sleeping on the bed with us, yes? Comprends-tu, puppy?” She gave Laurent a mischievous look and he rewarded her by opening one eye for effect. She laughed, picked up the dog and left the bedroom to inspect the guest room.

  She rearranged the bowl of fresh flowers and lavender by the bedside table, on what she hoped would be her mother’s side. Is it funny not to know on what side your mother and father sleep in bed? she wondered as she fluffed the bed pillows. She remembered early mornings of slipping into bed wi
th both of them when she was a little girl. Perhaps they switched around as she and Laurent sometimes did? She felt herself blush to be comparing her and her lover’s sleeping habits with those of her parents. She plumped the stark white cotton duvet and settled the lace pillows into place and left the room.

  Laurent was still shaving when she came in to take her shower. They had finally agreed that Laurent would pick up her parents and Nicole at the Marseille airport while Maggie stayed to attend to last minute details in preparation for their visit. She still hadn’t swept any of the rooms or beaten the few small rugs that would go in her parents’ room or made the positively prehistoric guest bathroom look like something other than a medieval chamber of hoses and nozzles and weird contraptions that drained instead of flushed.

  She wanted everything to be perfect. Down to the welcoming bottle of iced Dom Perignon and the difficult little truffle pies that she had decided in a mad moment to make. Even Laurent had raised an eyebrow at that.

  “Cassoulet au truffes?” he had said. “Pourquoi? It is not even truffle season.”

  But it was too late now. She had imagined the picture of her folks entering the massive front door―golden light streaming into the side bar windows onto the yellow stones of the foyer―and her there, waiting, with a lace-cloth table display of china plates full of little miniature tartlets―all buttery brown on top―each with a mouthwatering nugget of truffle hidden inside.

  She decided she was almost certainly mad.

  As soon as she’d kissed Laurent good-bye, Maggie set about preparing her truffle tarts, figuring these, of everything else to be cooked, would be the most prone to accident or failure. It didn’t help her anxiety that Laurent had pointed out that, as a result of the large truffle per pastry, each tart cost just a little less than ten dollars a piece. Maggie cleaned and chopped the Chanterelles, distributed them evenly into six small earthenware dishes with butter and then wedged the precious truffle squarely in the middle of all of it. Petit-Four curled up contentedly on an old shirt of Laurent’s in a corner of the kitchen where she could keep her eye on Maggie and enjoy the smells of the kitchen.

  Why are my nerves so bad? Maggie wondered, as she rolled out the puff pastry onto a large floured wooden board. Is it truffle-phobia? Or nervous anticipation? Carefully, she topped each of the little truffle dishes with a lid of rolled pastry and sealed the rims. Standing back from the cookie sheet upon which sat the six completed, unbaked tarts, she made a small sigh of relief. So far so good. She looked at the little dog, whose bright eyes smiled back at her immediately. She tossed it a piece of cheese Laurent had left from his breakfast.