Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) Page 3

  Maggie put a hand on her stomach and directed her attention back to her laptop screen. In the time it took to bury one uncle—hers, this time, not his—and make a baby, she and Laurent had somehow managed to pull off the impossible. They—particularly one malcontented American expatriate— had taken their marriage firmly by the horns and turned it all around. Her resentment of Laurent’s focus on his vineyard evaporated when she realized how important his happiness, however it was derived, was to her. Then she realized how important she was to his happiness. That, and a two-book deal for a mystery series that came out of left field, had enabled Maggie to put Laurent’s passion about his grapes into perspective—and to kick start her own passion.

  Her editor had sent a series of changes on the first draft of her book. And while at first she almost had to sit down and put her head between her knees to keep from passing out, with time and the sturdy good sense from her straight-thinking husband, she soon accepted that strong revision was par for the course for most writers—even experienced ones. That, and soothing and encouraging phone conversations from both her agent and editor, soon had her breathing normally again. Even so, her editor had seen the need for a lot of changes to Maggie’s first draft of a murder mystery set in Paris during Paris Fashion Week.

  A lot of changes.

  Maggie scrolled down the manuscript on her computer and found herself nodding more often than frowning at what the editor had pointed out. She knew her editor was just making sure the book was the best it could be. After all, it was Maggie’s name on the jacket cover. She’d told Laurent, “Before I got this email from my editor, I thought I could write.” As usual, Laurent was not in an indulgent mood and she had received a Gallic snort in response that could only be interpreted as knock it off and get to work. She smiled at the memory.

  A motion glimpsed out of the corner of her eye made her look up in the direction of Laurent again and she was surprised to see him striding purposefully back toward the terrace where she sat. It was nowhere near lunchtime, and she was sure he meant to spend the morning in the vineyards. Before Laurent was halfway back to the house, Petit Four jumped down from the bench barking and ran to the double French doors that led back to the house.

  Between Laurent and the dog, it was pretty clear someone was either at the front door or was rappelling down the walls into the upper bedrooms. Maggie got up and went into the house. Now how had Laurent known someone was here, she wondered. She had gotten used to his knack for hearing and seeing things that only bats and some carefully attuned dogs could hear, but she still marveled at the ability. As she reached the heavy front door to the mas, Maggie was already out of breath. Her pregnancy left her wilted and tired these days from the simplest exertions.

  She pulled open the door and was stunned to find her best friend Grace Van Sant standing on Maggie’s ancient slate threshold, a Louis Vuitton bag at her feet, a pair of Prada sunglasses on her nose, and her two-year-old towhead on her hip.

  “Surprise, darling,” Grace said, her voice trembling just a little. “We’re here.”

  “I am surprised, is all, Grace,” Maggie said after all the hugs and luggage had been dealt with, Grace comfortably scooted into the main lounge, a glass of Côte de Rhone in her hand, a small plate of crudités on the coffee table before her. “Delighted, but surprised. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? And where are Taylor and Windsor? Can you stay?”

  From the minute her dearest of all friends had crossed into her home, bringing with her the ever-present whiff of Chanel No. 19 and a sense that her namesake, Grace Kelly, was trans channeling, Maggie knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just that Grace was here from Indianapolis without any advance notice at all. It wasn’t the fact she had come alone, except for baby Zou-zou. It wasn’t even the fact her excuses for the absence of her husband and other child were so vague. It was Grace, herself.

  Grace Van Sant was rich and always had been. That kind of money for that length of time formed a person. It shaped the way they looked at the world, gave them a languor they could transfer to just about any situation they found themselves in.

  Grace and Windsor had been living in Provence for three years before Laurent and Maggie arrived. Unlike Maggie, Grace had handled the language, the village, the food and the clothes as if she had been born to them. Everything was easy for Grace, Maggie had long believed. And she lived and moved like her name—smoothly, elegant, perfectly.

  Which was why it was so disconcerting to see her now. The hand that held her sherry glass shook. She licked her lips repeatedly. She patted her hair as if not sure it was just right. And Grace was always just right. She constantly pulled out her cellphone to check the time. Or was it to see who hadn’t called?

  No, there was something definitely wrong and Maggie had a sinking feeling, a sinking, hard-to-believe feeling, she knew what it was.

  “I told you I’d come for the birth,” Grace said, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her Dolce & Gabbana slacks.

  “That’s not for a month or more,” Maggie pointed out to her. “And I thought you’d let me know when and where so Laurent could come to the train station and pick you up.”

  “Yes, well, now I’ve saved him the bother.”

  “Is everything alright, Grace?”

  “What? Don’t be silly, darling! I come back to France for the first time in nearly two years and you think something’s wrong? I’m not sure how to take that.”

  Maggie frowned, unconvinced, but Laurent entered the salon holding Zou-zou and deposited the baby into Maggie’s arms.

  “Lunch is ready soon, yes?” he said to them.

  “Oh, that sounds divine, Laurent,” Grace said, reaching out to take his hand as he moved to go back to the kitchen. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here.”

  Laurent gave her arm an absentminded pat. “Bien sûr,” he said over his shoulder. Of course.

  Lunch was its usual Laurent-spectacular. It was mid September, but many days were already too cool for eating out-of-doors, and Laurent deemed this was one of them. He had Maggie set the long, oaken farm table he had inherited with the house while Grace put the baby down for her nap. When she returned, he handed her a glass of wine and motioned for her to take her seat at the table.

  “One of yours?” she asked, sniffing the bouquet.

  “Non,” he said. “Much better. Well.” He stopped and glanced at Maggie for a moment. “Perhaps not much better.”

  “Laurent’s stuff is really good,” Maggie said. “His last harvest was so, so good. Flinty and dry but a little sweet.”

  Grace took a healthy sip and sank down into her dining chair. “You’re getting pretty good, yourself,” she said to Maggie. “Learning the lingo after all this time?”

  Laurent grunted and returned to the kitchen, but Maggie knew he was pleased with the interest she had taken in the vineyard and the effort she had made to learn what he did.

  “Well, you know what they say,” Maggie said seating herself. “Petit à petit…”

  “L’oiseau fait son nid.” Little by little, the bird builds its nest. Grace nodded. “You guys look like you really figured it all out in the end.”

  “Don’t jinx us, Grace. But, yeah. We’re finally happy. What with the book and everything.” She waved at her very large abdomen pressing into the side of the table.

  “Yes, you definitely have your distractions. I can see. What about socially? Are you two just stay-at-homes or do you go out?”

  “There are a few discos in Aix if you need some excitement,” Maggie said dryly. “Or were you asking if I’d replaced you yet in the best friend department?”

  “Can’t slip much past you. I haven’t found anyone in Indianapolis yet. It’s a hard town to break into. I’ve put in my applications for best friend but so far nothing. I understand you and Danielle have gotten close?”

  Danielle Alexandre was Maggie and Laurent’s elderly neighbor. While it was true that after Grace left Maggie reached out to Dan
ielle more than she had before, Grace knew well enough it could never be like what they had.

  “I’m really too busy for palling around much lately,” Maggie said. “It’s a good thing you left, Grace. I would’ve had to dump you.”

  “Charming, dearest. And good to know.”

  Laurent entered with a large tureen of bouillabaisse and set it in front of the women.

  “It’s not fish, is it?” Maggie asked, peeking under the china lid of the tureen.

  “Of course it is fish,” Laurent replied, nonplused. “It is bouillabaisse.”

  “You can’t eat shellfish?” Grace asked, reaching for her napkin.

  “She can eat anything,” Laurent said firmly, giving Maggie a raise of his eyebrow. “It is just her little joke.” He placed a large basket of garlic rounds on the table with a bowl of rouille.

  “Oh, I have missed this,” Grace said, and Maggie could swear her eyes watered when she spoke.

  “Just fish soup, Grace,” she said. “No biggie. Right, Laurent?”

  But Laurent was off to the kitchen to fetch something else necessary to make the lunch perfect.

  “Well, it’s a biggie to me,” Grace said, spreading the rouille on a toast round. “I can’t remember the last time I had French food, let alone with friends.”

  “Windsor working a lot?”

  “You could say that. And Taylor is a full-time job. She’s worse now than ever. Plus, she hates me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true, Grace.”

  Laurent returned with a large ladle and spooned the steaming and fragrant stew into three large stoneware bowls. As soon as they were served, Maggie’s cellphone rang.

  “It could be my editor,” she said, looking at Laurent.

  “You can call her back,” he said.

  Maggie picked up her phone and looked at the screen. “It’s Julia,” she said and accepted the call before Laurent could speak. “Hey, Julia. What’s up?”

  Laurent sighed heavily and flapped a linen napkin across his lap.

  Grace nudged him with her foot under the table. “Who’s Julia?”

  “Une amie,” he said. “They met last year. They have become close.” He frowned and looked at Maggie, who was off the phone. “Qu’est-ce qui’il y a?” he asked.

  Maggie looked at him as if startled out of a daze.

  “Maggie?” Grace said. “Is everything alright?”

  “That was Julia.” She shook her head. “You’re not going to believe this.” She looked from Grace to Laurent. “Jacques is dead.”

  Chapter Four

  Maggie sat in the large, sunny lounge in Julia’s apartment. She had bolted out the front door and into her Renault while Laurent and Grace walked down the long gravel drive trying to talk her into staying. In the end, Laurent insisted on driving her and ushered Grace back into the house to wait for them. He promised they would not be late. Now, he sat in one of the many cafés that lined the Cours and waited for Maggie to emerge from the apartment building.

  “Was it suicide?” Maggie asked Julia gently. Julia was sitting straight-backed on her sofa, holding a glass of untouched wine in her hands.

  “What?” Julia seemed to forcibly drag her attention back to Maggie from whatever private world she was seeing in her mind’s eye. Jacques as she had last seen him? Maggie wondered. “No. No, I can’t imagine. That wouldn’t make sense. He wanted to reconcile, you know?”

  Maggie nodded. “But,” she said, “if you told him no, maybe he was so distraught that he…”

  “No, Maggie. I mean, yes, I told him no but he didn’t seem a bit distraught. If anything, he seemed…energized by my rejection. He was full-on for making me change my mind. He was up for the challenge. You know?”

  Maggie didn’t really, but she nodded. “When did he leave?”

  “Right after dinner,” Julia said, indicating the dining table with a jerk of her head. It was clear and tidy except for a glass bowl of nectarines. “He said he didn’t feel well. I told you he was having problems?”

  “Money problems?”

  “Well, yes, that too, I think, but I’m talking about his health. He didn’t feel good. I know he wanted to stay, but he left early. He looked terrible. Like he was in pain.”

  “How did you find out about…?”

  “His bitch of a daughter called me,” Julia said. Her mouth was pressed in a firm, tight line. “She called me screaming and…and…” Julia put her hands to her face and burst into tears. “She was horrible. Just horrible.”

  Maggie reached over and put her arms around her friend. “I am so, so sorry, Jules.” She rubbed her back. Over Julia’s shoulder, Maggie could see the large birdcage with the multi-colored lovebird in it. A friendly little thing normally, it seemed to be eyeing Maggie now in an indicting fashion, as if she were responsible for the unhappy sounds emanating from his mistress.

  “I shouldn’t blame her,” Julia said, swallowing her sobs and trying to compose herself. “She found him, you see.” She shook her head as if unable to clear the gruesome picture from her brain.

  “At his apartment?”

  “Yes. She was supposed to meet him there or something. I didn’t get the whole story. And she found him on the floor. He must have…it must have happened last night. He was fully clothed. Oh, Maggie, I can’t believe he’s not in the world any more. I can’t believe, it’s impossible to believe, he’ll never b-b-bother me again.” Julia let her sobs break full force out of her and into her hands. Maggie held her and patted her back.

  “I know, sweetie,” she said. “I know.”

  The knock at the door made both of them jump. Annoyed at the thought it might be Laurent, impatient and coming to see what was taking so long, Maggie gave her friend a brief squeeze and jumped up to wrench open the door. When she did, she gave a gasp of bewilderment to find two uniformed police officers standing there flanking none other than Detective Inspecteur Roger Bedard—looking way too darkly handsome than any man had a right to.

  “Roger!” she blurted out.

  “I should have known,” he said, shaking his head when he saw her. Then his eyes travelled down the front of her dress and his mouth fell open. “You’re pregnant,” he said, stupidly.

  “And here I thought you weren’t a good detective,” Maggie retorted, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

  Quickly recovering himself, Bedard snapped out an order to his men and then pushed past Maggie into Julia’s apartment.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Maggie said. “You can’t come in here without a warrant or something.”

  Roger moved to stand directly in front of Julia where she sat, stupefied, on the sofa. Without looking behind him, he held out a hand for the handcuffs he expected to fill it and spoke directly to Julia.

  “Madame Patrick, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Monsieur Jacques Tatois. Please stand up.”

  “Roger, no!” Maggie tried to reach where Roger and Julia were standing, but one of the uniformed police held out an arm to prevent her.

  “Maggie, stay out of this,” Roger said sternly. He spoke again to his men and the man who held his arm out against Maggie dropped it to his side, but he continued to block her from going any further.

  “It’s okay, Maggie,” Julia called to her with a shaky voice. “It’s a mistake and I’ll get it sorted out.” She turned to Roger. “Where?”

  “Your consulate has been notified,” he said. “You’ll be held at the Palais de Justice here in Aix.

  “I’m coming with you,” Maggie said.

  Roger and Julia both turned to her. “Maggie, no,” they said, nearly in unison.

  “I’ll be fine, Maggie,” Julia said as she turned away and allowed Roger to cuff her hands behind her back. “Have Laurent come pick me up in an hour.”

  Roger took Julia by the arm and shoved her past Maggie toward the door. Before exiting, he turned to Maggie. “I wouldn’t bother.”

  Maggie could see the anger and hurt in his eyes, and something m
ore. Shame. He knew he had no right to his feelings. In a moment he was out the door and gone, but not before Maggie thought she could hear Julia start to weep again.

  * * *

  “What do you mean they’re holding her overnight?” Maggie waddled over to where Laurent stood in the living room of their home. He had just tossed down his cellphone and stood staring out the French doors into the distance, as if an answer might be out there that wasn’t available anywhere else.

  “Just that, ma chère,” he said tiredly. “They will not release her tonight.”

  “But I told Julia you would come pick her up.” Maggie looked helplessly at Laurent and then over at Grace, who was sitting quietly in an overstuffed armchair watching her.

  “Je sais,” he said, reaching an arm out to draw her close to him. I know. “But we must wait. They are not releasing her.”

  “Stop saying that!” Maggie put her arms around her husband. “Does this mean they have some kind of proof of her involvement? Is that possible?” Maggie looked up at Laurent as if expecting an answer and he shrugged.

  Grace unwound her long legs from underneath her and stretched her back. She crossed her ankles. “I guess the ex-girlfriend or the ex-wife always tops the list of suspects. Makes sense.”

  “But he was alone when he died,” Maggie said, pulling out of Laurent’s arms and addressing Grace. “How can it be murder when he was all alone?” She looked at Laurent as if a new thought had just come to her. “Maybe the daughter did it. Julia said she was a bitch and didn’t get along with her father. And she found the body. Isn’t that like a classic rule of thumb? The person who finds the body is most likely the killer?”