Murder à la Carte (Maggie Newberry 02] Page 19

  “You will stay to dinner?” Again, Laurent squatted next to one of the ruined plants and held the stalk in his hand, looking as if he believed he might restore it in some way.

  “Merci, non,” Jean-Luc replied, removing his dirty blue cap and letting the icy breeze redistribute his sparse, gray hair. “I still have work to do tonight,” he said.

  “Ah, yes?” Laurent stood up and gestured for the dogs to accompany him. “Pruning of your own?”

  Jean-Luc stumbled over a loose vinestock and Laurent caught his arm, holding him tightly and keeping him erect.

  “Careful, old fellow,” Laurent said, his voice cool.

  5

  Connor had been planning to build an American museum on Laurent’s property? A museum of what? American art or American artifacts?

  Maggie had a brief image of bobby sox and Pilgrims and copies of Portnoy’s Complaint on a shelf. She parked the quirky Renault in her front drive and sat there, looking up at their farmhouse.

  Why hadn’t Connor said something to her? Did Grace know? Was the business about the museum all just bullshit? Connor’s way of irritating the locals?

  She bit her lip. Why hadn’t Connor mentioned that he and Eduard didn’t get on? Her mind raced to remember a conversation or a dinner where she had mentioned the Marceaus to Connor, but she could think of none.

  She remembered Grace saying Connor was rich. Rich enough to get his hands on...what were the words?...investment funds. Maggie stared up at the imperious, even majestic, façade of their stone farmhouse, its antique, weather-bowed balcony over the massive front door, its series of three Mediterranean-blue shutters winking out from the house.

  Had Connor really planned to build a museum here?

  Maggie carried the hard-won leg of lamb to the front door, which she pushed open with her hip. When had they gotten into the habit of not locking it? she wondered. The foyer was dark and cold. Instantly, Maggie was annoyed.

  Where was Laurent? Why didn’t he just pitch a tent amongst his precious grapevines and be done with the pretense of living with her?

  She walked into the kitchen and dumped the groceries onto the counter. The kitchen was tidy―Laurent always kept it that way―so she couldn’t tell if he’d returned for lunch during the day.

  Petit-Four scampered down the long staircase from the upstairs bedrooms and ran quickly into Maggie’s legs in the kitchen before doing a flopping hop-dance against Maggie’s calves designed to get Maggie to pick her up. Maggie scooped up the little poodle and nuzzled her sweet-smelling curls. God, if men could just give you this kind of welcome home, Maggie thought, I bet the world would need a lot fewer marriage counselors. Still holding the dog, she snapped on the kitchen light and read the digital clock on top of the refrigerator.

  Six-thirty! Where was he?

  Maggie set the dog down and pulled open the refrigerator door. She set the lamb for tomorrow’s dinner inside, then, slowly, and with much vexation, began pulling out the various tubs of leftover lapin and aubergine mishmash à la Laurent, and couscous. If Laurent wants a salad when he comes in, she decided, he can go out to the weed patch and pick it. She glanced at the clock again. It was unusual for him not to be here by now, she thought, listening to the pervasive silence of the house.

  “Where is everyone?” she said softly to Petit-Four. The house felt creepy to her tonight, although she was sure that was only because of the cave and its awful secrets. She shivered and set about mixing up the dog’s dinner, straining with her ears to hear any sound of Laurent’s homecoming. As she was setting the dog bowl on the floor, she spotted a slip of paper with her name on it.

  “Damn,” she said, unhappily, “what is this?” She picked it up, knowing before she read it what it was: a note from Laurent telling her he would not be home for dinner. She finished reading the brief note which ended with much “amour” on Laurent’s part. He’d gone off some place with Jean-Luc and wouldn’t be back until late. Maggie wadded up the note and tossed it into the kitchen garbage.

  No longer interested in supper, Maggie opted for a large glass of red wine and a bath instead. She opened every cupboard in the kitchen before the reality of her situation struck her: If she wanted wine, she’d have to go down to the cave and get it.

  She’d only been down there once or twice before and that was before they’d discovered Connor’s body down there. On the other hand, she was not going to spend a lonely, cold evening in this house―pissed-off at her lover―without a glass of wine. She scolded herself for her nervousness and turned the knob on the door to the cellar. It was locked. She twisted the lever to unlock it and opened the door.

  Instantly, the tight, closed air flooded up the stairs to her. The cave smelled dank and yeasty. She wrinkled her nose. It was dark but she remembered a light switch at the foot of the stairs. Stupid place to put it, she thought as she groped her way down the staircase. She looked briefly back at the lighted kitchen. Petit-Four stood over her dinner bowl, watching Maggie, and chewing. Maggie turned and descended into the cave.

  She remembered seeing a row of wine bottles stacked against the wall across from the staircase. She didn’t care if they were plunk or premium, whatever they were would be fine. She hunted for the light switch at the base of the stairs but she couldn’t find it. It didn’t really matter, she decided. The wedge of light from the kitchen cut a slim path of vision into the dark basement, illuminating the stack of wine bottles laying on their sides, punt side outward, in front of her.

  Maggie stepped off the steps to the wine bottles and reached out to grab the first thing it touched.

  That was when she heard the noise.

  A grating, shuffling noise.

  Close.

  Releasing the bottle, Maggie whirled around to leap for the stairs when he grabbed her. His arms snaked around her throat and stomach and pulled her back from the light, from the stairs, from safety. In her terror, Maggie could smell a buttery-smooth odor of wine and strong tobacco on the man’s breath. She could feel his face against her own―feel his teeth behind the awful grin.

  Chapter Ten

  1

  Maggie clawed at his face while she tried to scream, but her attacker held her tightly, suffering her impotent scratches without attempting to deflect them. Her left arm was pinioned at her side, her right crumpled uselessly against her chest. She heard someone croak out a gruesome “My God!” and realized that it was her. The large, hurting hands grabbed her blouse at the throat and roughly ripped the material away. Without releasing her, he pushed a callused hand into her bra and grabbed her breast. What felt like another pair of hands fumbled brutishly between her legs, then pulled at the elastic waistline of her sweatpants.

  Maggie screamed, then latched onto an ear and bit down. Tears poured down her face, mixing with the blood from the man’s ear, but she didn’t let go. She felt him pushing her onto the floor, felt his hands twitch violently upwards, away from her breasts, to protect his ear.

  Suddenly, a light snapped on, seemingly in her head, and her assailant’s face was instantly illuminated.

  Gaston Lasalle.

  Laurent was shouting hoarsely in French. He grabbed the Frenchman from behind and threw him across the basement. Maggie could hear the sounds of wood splintering as the man hit.

  Laurent pulled her to her feet. He touched her face with his hand. His eyes were filled with anger and uncertainty.

  “I’m okay, Laurent,” she said clutching at her shredded blouse. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m okay.”

  She could feel his arms trembling as he held her. Gently, he pulled away from her and held her by the shoulders.

  “Go upstairs, Maggie,” he said.

  Maggie could hear groans from Lasalle as he lay on the ground. She watched his shadowy figure lurch to his feet.

  “Go upstairs. Vas y!” Laurent said to her, giving her a small push in the direction of the stairs.

  Just then, Lasalle swung at Laurent with a full wine bottle that he had hidden beh
ind his back. Laurent caught the bottle with the flat of his large, meaty hand and wrenched it from the gypsy’s grasp. With his other hand he slammed his fist into Lasalle’s face. Maggie thought she could hear the cartilage shattering from where she stood on the foot of the stairs.

  As Lasalle folded to his knees Laurent hit him a second time in the solar plexus. The man emitted a strangled oof and doubled over. Laurent grabbed him by the hair.

  “Laurent, don’t!” she screamed.

  Laurent hesitated, holding the man’s head like something that had sat, piked and dishonored, on London Bridge for a week.

  “Maggie, go upstairs,” he said, rasping.

  “Don’t kill him! Laurent, please.”

  Laurent released the hair and Lasalle collapsed like a rag doll at his feet. “I will not kill him, chérie,” he said. “Please, go upstairs and leave me with him.”

  Maggie heard Lasalle’s groans and hesitated. Then, she turned and ran up the stairs, biting a neat hole in her lower lip as she ran.

  2

  Maggie watched Laurent from the living room as he poured water from the kettle into the teapot and then positioned the cozy over the pot. He returned to where she was sitting on the couch, an afghan around her, Petit-Four in her lap, and a roaring fire in the hearth. He took her empty brandy snifter from her hand and set it down on the coffee table in front of them. Then, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her to him. Maggie could smell woodsmoke in his hair from his recent errand to fetch more wood from the side of the house. She nestled closer to him and felt the effects of the brandy coursing through her.

  He had returned early, deciding, simply, that he’d rather be home tonight than drinking with the villagers at Le Canard. Petit-Four’s frantic barking had alerted him immediately to trouble from within the house. Maggie had never even heard the dog. She hadn’t seen Lasalle leave the basement after Laurent had finished with him. She assumed that he left the way he had come―through the outside entrance in the garden. She hadn’t asked Laurent for details.

  “He was here the night of the dégustation,” she said to him now. She wasn’t indicting Laurent. She wanted him to know that there was no more reason for secrecy. Laurent nodded.

  “I sort of glossed over my other two run-ins with him,” she confessed, looking into the fire.

  “Je sais,” he replied, holding her tighter. I know.

  “Why aren’t we calling the police?” She shifted Petit-Four to Laurent’s lap. “Because they think you’re a suspect in Connor’s death?”

  Laurent shook his head and patted the little dog. “Non, non,” he said. “The police can do nothing.”

  “They can make Gaston leave us alone.”

  Laurent pushed a dark lock of hair from Maggie’s eyes. “Lasalle will not come back,” he said.

  “Why don’t you think he killed Connor?” she asked, “He was here, he’s an obvious sociopath...”

  “I think Gaston had nothing to do with Connor’s death,” Laurent replied. And with that, Laurent explained to a surprised Maggie his theory that Gaston Lasalle was only a tool used by others to encourage Laurent to sell St-Buvard.

  Maggie listened in silence, stroking the dog and watching the flames of the fire. After he was finished speaking, and she had had time to process what he had said, she knew she would not feel safe in St-Buvard any longer.

  “The pumpkin?” she asked.

  “Gaston. I’m sure of it,” he said. “And today? Over twenty good stocks destroyed. Cut at the base. Jean-Luc says it is naughty school children.”

  “So you think Jean-Luc’s involved?”

  “I am not trusting anyone for now.”

  “Eduard?”

  Laurent shrugged.

  Maggie then related what Madame Dulcie had told her in town about Connor and the American museum and Eduard’s vow to kill Connor.

  Laurent frowned.

  “You think he could have done it?” she asked.

  “Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know.

  “Laurent, are you saying it’s possible that Jean-Luc or Eduard or maybe the both of them have, like, hired Gaston to harass us?”

  “Someone is giving us a message,” Laurent said. “Tonight, I have sent them a message back. They know we will not leave.”

  “And why is it, exactly, that we won’t leave?” Maggie touched a small welt on the inside of her arm where one of Gaston’s nails had raked her.

  Laurent looked at her closely. “Can you let them run you away?” he asked.

  “What if they up the ante?” she asked.

  “Comment ça?”

  “You know, bring out their big guns, make it even tougher.”

  “We are tough, too,” he said, kissing her. “We will survive them.”

  Maggie leaned back into the couch as Laurent got up to pour the tea and to bring in some of Madame Renoir’s fougasse. For all Laurent’s strong words and refusal to be intimidated, she couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t decided to come home early tonight.

  3

  Roger Bentley gave the lapels of his Saville Row jacket a brisk tug and stepped out onto the street in front of the George V Hotel. He’d slept later than he’d anticipated, but there was no hurry, his train reservations weren’t for another hour. Nodding pleasantly at the doorman, and then again as he handed over a twenty franc note to the bellhop who piled his hand-tooled Louis Vuitton luggage into the trunk of the waiting cab, Roger settled into the back of the taxi. It was a beautiful morning, the kind of morning he always thought of when he thought of Paris. The streets, damp from last night’s rain, were alive with people. Jewelry shop owners were arranging their treasures in display windows, beautiful women were walking French poodles. The air smelled like a mixture of fresh baked sweet-cakes and a sewer. The job this time had taken less time than he’d anticipated. The pigeon had been willing, if not as tender as she once must have been, and Roger had been able to pluck her, bank the proceeds, and still leave her cooing―with plenty of time to make his escape. Not that the Paris gendarmes were a problem, he mused, smiling. They were too cynical, too busy, to listen to one more tourist’s bitter complaints about getting fleeced.

  As the cab sped off to Gare de Lyon, Roger removed an International Herald Tribune from his leather valise, and checked his watch to calculate his time of arrival in Lyons. If the train was on schedule―and, bien sûr, the remarkable TGV was always on time―he would arrive with time for a late lunch and perhaps, he hoped, be fortunate enough to meet someone like the mademoiselle he’d discovered the last time he was in Lyons. Flapping out his newspaper to straighten it, Roger smiled to himself. Out the window, he caught the wolf-eye of a young, homely prostitute standing at the base of an ancient fountain.

  Oh,now won’t Dernier be surprised to see me?

  4

  The early December morning broke clear and beautiful at Domaine St-Buvard. Maggie flung open her bedroom window and let in the cold air and the scent of woodsmoke from the surrounding farms. She looked in the direction of Avignon. The barely visible tops of Eduard Marceaus’ row of dark fig trees seemed to point the way to the city. Looking straight down into her walled garden, Maggie could imagine the elderberries, the glossy, crawling ivy and where the nettles would climb the gray stonewalls in summer. Her mother had told her there might be blackberries as well. At the time, Maggie had thought that, come spring, she’d fill all the guichets in the mas with blackberry pies. Now, the dark twisting branches looked unpromising, even a little treacherous to her.

  She could hear Laurent downstairs preparing breakfast. She hurriedly pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. Petit-Four, obviously knowing the best chances of breakfast scraps were to be found with Laurent, had abandoned Maggie thirty minutes earlier for the kitchen.

  “God, it smells great,” she said as she descended the stairs. “What is it?”

  Laurent looked at her with surprise. “Is boiled eggs and grits, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Grits?” Ma
ggie looked into the pot on the stove. “Where on earth did you get grits?”

  Laurent didn’t answer but began a low, tuneless humming that Maggie normally found annoying but this morning found oddly reassuring.

  “It’s a beautiful morning,” Maggie said, sitting on a kitchen stool and pouring herself a mug of coffee. Behind her a shiny array of burnished copper pots and pans hung over the four-burner La Cornue stove. The terra-cotta counter tops were clear, although Laurent usually kept every inch of counter space covered with dishes, pots, dishtowels or wine bottles. A large supporting pillar in the center of the room had been papered, over the last two months, with various wine labels from the region and Laurent’s own cellar. Maggie looked around for the small china ewer of thick cream she knew must be there as surely as there were pigeons in Paris.

  “What are you going to do today?” she asked.

  Laurent pulled two covered eggcups from a pot of boiling water and set them on the counter. He took a sip of his own coffee.

  “Je crois que...Jean-Luc will come by to look at Otto.” Otto was one of Laurent’s hunting dogs.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Maggie asked, picking up a toasted piece of French bread. She hated all of Jean-Luc’s visits, all his claims on Laurent’s time. She spooned a dollop of strawberry jam onto the roll. She resented the way he seemed to be encouraging Laurent’s vineyard dream.

  Laurent waved a hand to indicate that it was nothing, not even worth talking about. “A bruise, I think, perhaps,” he said.

  Maggie sighed with exasperation as he turned back around to unscrew the egg tians and serve up their breakfast.

  “Well, why does Jean-Luc need to come by if it’s only a bruise?” she asked.

  Before Laurent could respond, Petit-Four barked sharply and ran to the front door. Maggie hopped down from the stool and nearly collided with Laurent to look out the kitchen window. A black police car sat parked in the drive. Maggie took a quick breath.