Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) Read online

  “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 tw
o 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 th
e 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.

  Six terrible months.

  Six wonderful months.

  She could see he was smiling now. It was that same old smile. The one that used to affect her so. The one that made her tummy flip-flop in anticipation of the moment he would take her into his arms and drill her with that all-possessing focus of his. The one that assured her she was the only one. No one else. Until, of course, there was.

  Julia turned away from the sight of Jacques standing there and reminded herself that it wasn’t just the slap, the lies and the other girl. A girl! No more than seventeen. How could she complete with that? Smooth skin, clear eyes, and eager heart. The child wore a midriff-baring top as easily and unselfconsciously as Julia did her flannel granny nightie.

  No, it wasn’t the lies and the infidelity. It was the undeniable, unassailable and relentlessly unavoidable evidence that Julia would never be young again—no matter how young she felt on the inside.

  A man who took that away from you, she thought as she dropped her apron onto the couch and ran a hand through her short curly hair, well, he should die a slow and horrid death.

  Chapter Three

  Sometimes Maggie swore she could smell the Mistral, that icy-cold wind that comes down the Rhône River Valley from the Alps to jolt the sun lovers of Provence back to their senses. As she sat with her laptop on the terrace of the beautiful stone mas she shared with Laurent, she found herself pulling her cotton cardigan tighter around her. Petit Four, her little hybrid poodle mix, was curled up next to her on the cushion of the bench where she sat. From here she could just see the form of her husband—always the tallest figure in any grouping—walking the perimeter of his vineyard with the men he had hired to bring in this year’s harvest. She loved to watch Laurent, especially when he was unaware of her. At more than six foot four, she often thought his natural grace of movement belied his size. She watched him now as he moved easily between the carefully trussed vines, pointing out this one or that to his audience.