The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 10

  "I...I..." She gestured uselessly at the Macy's shopping bag at her feet, not trusting her voice to respond. Oh, Elise, how could you be gone? We were going to be a family again.

  "That's all right, just take your time."

  She noticed that the man's partner, or whatever he was, had stopped writing. She found herself thinking: He's seen this sort of thing a thousand times before. Seen someone, just like me, feel and act just like this. A thousand times over.

  She took a deep breath.

  "I got back to the apartment a few minutes before nine."

  "Did you notice anything different or strange at any time? In the parking lot, walking up to your door? Once inside your apartment?"

  Maggie shook her head as he spoke.

  "I noticed nobody was here," she said miserably. "I played back my messages first, thinking Elise, thinking she..." She looked away.

  "That's all right, Miss Newberry. Anything else?"

  "You're taking my answering machine?"

  "We'll need to examine it, yes. Anything else?"

  "No...not...I mean, what am I going to tell my mother and father?"

  Burton grimaced in a gesture of sympathy.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Newberry."

  Maggie smoothed her damp palms against the cotton fabric of her skirt.

  "The coroner will give his report after the autopsy. There'll be an inquest, of course. Probably next week. Once all the evidence is in."

  "Is the little charm...is it important?"

  "Perhaps."

  "She used to have a charm bracelet. When we were kids."

  "Yes?" Burton said. "Was she wearing it tonight, do you know?"

  "Wearing it?" Maggie looked around the room as if she were suddenly disoriented. "I can't imagine she even still has it. That was a long time ago." She looked at him, her face flushed with suppressed agony. "Maybe?"

  Burton signaled to his partner to check on Brownie in the back room. He turned back to Maggie. "We'll need to ask you to vacate your apartment, I'm afraid, for the next three or four days while we take fiber and hair samples. Where will we be able to reach you?"

  Maggie turned away from him. She needed to cry very hard for a very long time.

  2

  An hour later, sitting in the police cruiser as it rushed along the immaculate, sycamore-lined road to her parents' home, Maggie held Brownie's hand tightly, her lips pressed together in a grim line. She tried to tell herself that for her parents to have seen Elise in the state she had been in would have been tantamount to a revisitation of the horror tale The Monkey's Paw, where a grief-stricken mother wished her recently dead son back with her again and got her wish only to have something awful and repulsive return to her from the grave. That would have been Elise. With her ruined face and arms, pocked by blunt, used needles, her clothes and skin smelling of sweat and urine, her hair a matted mess of gnarly dread locks. This was the thing her mother would've swept to her bosom? Would've embraced tenderly?... And still kept the look of horror and revulsion from her face throughout?

  Maggie's vision blurred as she watched the passing neighborhoods. Nothing less than two million dollars. Mostly a lot more. La creme de la creme of Atlanta real estate. And her throat closed and ached because she knew that if Elise had been presented to them mad as a hatter, screaming and naked, filthy and profane, both her parents would have wept tears of gratitude to have her back.

  She looked at Brownie and tried to take strength from his solid grip on her hand. Tried to tap into his stoic front, his resiliency. And all she could think as the police car brought her closer and closer to Brymsley and her mother and father was: if by some miracle, some fantastic cosmic magic, you got the chance to have five minutes with a departed loved one, just five minutes to say how are you? I love you, I miss you ......

  And Maggie knew she had cheated them out of that forever.

  3

  Darla Parker picked up the tea pot with its imprint of faded roses and held it over her husband's tea cup. Her eyes watched him, not her aim, as he sat across from her, face buried in the newspaper. She spilled a little hot tea onto his sleeve.

  "Damn it, Darla!" Gerry snatched his soiled cuff away and looked at his wife angrily. "What is your problem this morning? Thanks a lot, okay?"

  Darla carefully replaced the tea pot and sighed. She folded her hands in her lap, her eyes still on her husband.

  "I mean, first you practically kill me with that stupid whatever it is you left on the stairs..."

  "Vacuum cleaner."

  "Look, Darla, don't start with me today, okay? I mean it. I'm serious. I've got this one day in the week to relax and forget the office and I don't mean to spend it at war with you, understand?" Gerry flapped the newspaper out straight and returned to the article he was reading.

  Darla reached over and took a small sip from her own cup. She replaced the china gently in its saucer and then cleared her throat.

  Gerry threw the newspaper down onto the table and covered his face with his hands.

  "God, am I having a nervous breakdown, or what?" His voice sounded tired and strained.

  "Quit your job, sweetheart."

  "Oh, thank you so much." He pushed away from the breakfast table and glared at her. "Thanks a million for that bit of advice, Darl."

  "It's a bad job," Darla said, reaching for her cup again.

  "I own the job, remember? Who am I gonna quit to? Myself? I'm the boss, remember?"

  "It's making you miserable, Gerry. It's bad for all of us. I can see it if you can't."

  "Darla, we're not speaking the same language, okay? I mean, I'm speaking English but you're obviously not familiar with my particular dialect or something..."

  "Quit the job, Gerry."

  "Stop saying that! Stop saying 'quit the damn job', will you?" Gerry stood up, scooped up the newspaper and slapped it back down on the breakfast table. "I can't quit the damn job! Why not just say move to Alaska? Or get a lobotomy? Or become a priest? I can't! I can't do it! Jesus! Am I alone in the world? Is nobody listening to me?" He turned to leave the room when the kitchen wall phone rang. Enjoying the dramatic punctuation of its timing, he snatched it up and barked into it:

  "Yes?"

  He watched Darla get up slowly from the table and begin to clear the dishes.

  "Gar, it's me." It was Maggie.

  Darla gave Gerry a questioning look which he ignored.

  "Hey, 'me', what's up for you? Wanna grab a matinee or something? I could stand to get out of the house for a bit." He felt angry with himself for trying to hurt Darla, but he also felt angry at Darla. He turned to catch a glimpse of her but she stood at the sink with her back to him, rinsing cereal bowls and listening.

  "No, I can't, Gar. Listen, something's happened. I...." Gerry could hear Maggie's voice catch and he instantly stiffened. God, now what? he thought.

  "Maggie, what is it? What's happened?" He could sense, rather than see, Darla turn and face him.

  "It's...I...the police think Elise was murdered," Maggie continued. "...in my apartment building last night."

  "Good God!"

  "Gerry, what is it?" Darla was at his side now, tugging on his sleeve. "What's happened to Maggie? Is she okay?"

  "Her sister was killed last night in Maggie's apartment."

  "Oh, my God." Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She watched Gerry’s own shocked face, as if to watch him closely might reveal the whole gruesome story or, perhaps, even belie it.

  "Maggie, where are you?" Gerry asked, his voice tense.

  "I'm at home, at Brymsley. Brownie's with me. The cops took us here last night."

  "Jesus, Maggie, what happened?" Gerry slumped back into his seat and Darla stood near him.

  "I...she just...I really don't know. The police think she let the guy in..."

  "She let him in?" Gerry’s eyes flicked over to Darla and she shook her head in horror.

  "Yeah, well, the cops didn't see that the door was hurt or anything so th
ey think he knocked and she just let him in. I don't know. I guess living in France all those years, she just didn't have the same natural distrust or suspicions that we do over here about letting people in, you know, locking your car doors and stuff--"

  "Maggie, it could've been you. He could've gotten you."

  "The cops think...look, I can't talk a whole lot now, my mom and dad are right in the next room, you know?"

  "God, your poor parents. How are they?"

  "Not great. You can imagine. God, Gerry, if only I'd told them when I first found Elise, you know? I keep thinking--"

  "Well, don't. It doesn't do anybody any good and your first instincts were probably best anyway."

  "Even when I can hear my Mother in there crying all over again for my sister? I mean, like grieving for her twice in six months?"

  "It doesn't do any good beating yourself up for it, Maggie."

  "That's what Brownie's been saying."

  "He's right. Do you want some company? Do you want me and Darla to come by?"

  Darla nodded vigorously at him.

  "No, thanks. I think we'll just burrow in here, you know, just the family. But thanks, Gar, I appreciate the offer. I just wanted you to know."

  "I'm glad you did. I'm so sorry, Maggie. So sorry for you and your parents."

  "I know, Gar," she whispered in an effort to hide the tears in her voice. "Thanks again. Love to Darla."

  "I will. Bye."

  "Bye."

  He returned the receiver to its cradle and stood staring out the breakfast room's large bay window. From it he could see their eight year old daughter, Haley, playing with some neighbor children.

  "Oh, Gerry, how awful. Poor Maggie."

  Gerry tore his gaze away from his daughter and looked at his wife.

  "Maybe you were right, Darla. Maybe this job isn't such a good thing."

  Darla searched his face and tried to smile encouragingly.

  4

  That night, Maggie lay on the guest bed in her parent's house and stared up at the white ceiling. Tiny, fluorescent stars blinked back in a faint constellation painted on the ceiling. Maggie had never noticed them before.

  She had talked to Gerry that morning, she had talked twice more with Detective Burton, she had looked into her parents' eyes as they tried to understand when she told them of Elise's murder earlier that evening. She had held her father's hand and watched him nod seriously as if she were warning him that the Dow Jones might plummet soon. She had watched her mother weep again, nod understandingly as to why Maggie hadn't called when she'd discovered Elise, and slam down a hard, impenetrable wall between them--pushing aside years of love and kisses and shared secrets.

  After all the talking, Maggie had cried. Alone and without hope. She cried for her sister, who had finally come home, for the impetuous artist, the wayward daughter, the recalcitrant single mother. But most of all, for the sister who'd known her so little but who had, in her way, loved her.

  Maggie stared up at the ceiling dusted with its map of Pegasus and Orion and cried.

  The next day, Maggie sat and observed the child who was perched nonchalantly on a dark velvet hassock with long, looping fringe. The little girl's feet swayed against the soft hanging cords as if they felt good against her bare skin. Her eyes held Maggie's unflinchingly. Nicole sat in the middle of the Newberry living room, a light and cheery place which captured the sun's needles of light and spun them into prisms and rectangles of luminescence. Long patches of sun were placed as carefully around the room as if an interior designer had ordered them. Maggie felt almost at peace in this room. She continued to watch the child on the cushion. Almost.

  Nicole's face, as usual, gave nothing away. Her eyes, large and implacable, met Maggie's gaze easily.

  "And so, how has Nicole been?" Maggie's voice was light, her eyes pinning the girl in relentless scrutiny. "Everyone's been sort of upset today.”

  The child returned her stare.

  "Grandmére is very unhappy right now. Comprenez-vous? Trés triste?"

  "And it's me who's done it, you see." Maggie reached over to pat out a wrinkle in Nicole's cotton corduroy jumper. The child did not move. "Aunt Maggie has made Grandmére and Grandpapa trés triste. I wonder, do you give a shit that Grandmere and Grandpapa are trés triste?" Maggie smiled sadly at the girl who simply continued to swing her small bare feet into the fringe of the ottoman.

  Who is this child? Maggie wondered. Will she never come out of the warm little burrow in her mind and join the rest of us? Is where ever she is, so nice and safe that we will never know her? Maggie felt a pressure of added weight settle about her shoulders as she looked into the blank, cold eyes of the girl. She leaned over and touched Nicole's baby-soft cheek and thought, for an instant, that the eyes flickered in response. Am I angry at you, little one? Maggie was surprised as soon as the thought hit her-- was it true? Why?

  Maggie removed her hand.

  Was it because Maggie loved Elspeth so much that she couldn't imagine anyone else rejecting what she had to offer as a mother? Or was it because Nicole seemed to be doing exactly what Elise had always done before her? Which was to reject the two people that Maggie had held most dear. And the anger that Maggie had felt at Elise for turning away from them, for hurting them, was revisited on Nicole, who seemed, in her own way, to be doing exactly the same thing.

  "Darling?"

  Maggie turned from the child to see her mother enter the room and her heart ripped at the sight of her. Elspeth had had a hard night. Her beautiful face was weary and lined.

  "I'm here, Mother. Can I help do something?"

  Her mother moved into the room in a way that reminded Maggie of someone gliding up to a dance partner in expectation of a waltz. Elspeth stood next to the couch, her hands folded calmly on the back of it. She was wearing a blue silk shift with no jewelry. Her hair looked impeccable, as if she'd spent some time with it that morning.

  "Has Brownie left already?" Elspeth asked.

  "He left after breakfast. He had to get back and do some stuff at his place. He'll call later, he said."

  "I'm sorry I missed him this morning."

  "Is Dad...where's Dad?" Maggie's gaze flicked behind her mother through the door to the hallway as if expecting her father to walk through.

  "He's gone to the club this morning, dear."

  "The club?"

  "We deal with things differently, Maggie..."

  "Yeah, well, the police will want to talk to him. And you too, Mother."

  "They said they'd call first."

  Boy, that's sweet of them. Maggie was surprised. She hadn't realized the police made appointments during an investigation. She thought they just barged into your life and started rifling through your things and asked you personal questions and then accused you of all manner of things you'd never even dreamed of doing before they put their case together and found the bad guy.

  "You've talked with them recently?" Elspeth asked.

  Maggie wasn't sure her mother really needed to hear all there was to tell.

  "Detective Burton of Hom...of Homicide," she said, looking away. "He wasn't very specific with me." She shrugged. "Probably didn't think he needed to be."

  "I see."

  "Are you going to come in?" Maggie asked.

  Elspeth shook her head and tried to smile.

  "I think I'll read in my room today, darling, if you don't mind. Annie will be here shortly to look after Nicole. How are you, ma petite?"

  The child turned and looked at her grandmother.

  "What are your plans for the day, Margaret?"

  Maggie shrugged and felt suddenly very tired.

  "I don't know. I might go back to my apartment and pick up a few things. Detective Burton said I could. They've got some people there, I guess, to help me. Then, I don't know." She turned away and smoothed out the creases in her linen trousers. They belonged to Elspeth. "Probably just come back here. Maybe I'll read for a while too."

  There was a brief sil
ence before Elspeth turned to leave.

  "Mom, I'm so sorry I didn't call you about Elise."

  "I know, darling. It doesn't matter."

  "I know it does. I don't know how I can live with myself."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Maggie. There's nothing to be done for it anyway." Her mother's back seemed to stiffen during the exchange as if her body couldn't lie as easily as her voice could. "Let's not talk about it in front of Nicole."

  Frustrated, Maggie nearly blurted out that they might as well make sure they were out of earshot of the couch and the Tiffany lamp too. She caught herself and nodded miserably, her eyes once again falling on Nicole Newberry.

  "She doesn't know," Maggie spoke the question flatly, knowing the answer.

  "There doesn't seem much point," her mother said. Maggie looked up at her with concern but Elspeth merely smiled wanly and waved away her daughter's disquiet.

  "I'm off now. If you'll stay with Nicole until Annie comes."

  "Of course."

  "Dinner is at six, as usual."

  "Okay."

  Maggie watched her mother's retreating back and felt worse than before Elspeth had come downstairs. She looked back over at Nicole who was also watching Elspeth's departure.

  "She's very sad right now, Nicole."

  The little girl blinked once and looked at Maggie.

  Was it a malevolent look? Did she know Maggie cheated her out of her one last chance to see her mother? Did she, unencumbered by the love and duty that bound Maggie's parents, feel free to hate her aunt for her stupidity and selfishness? For surely selfishness had been a major part of it, Maggie thought. The notion of presenting Elise to her parents as if she were a beribboned parcel had loomed dominant in Maggie's daydreams. Why had she agreed with Elise that she should hold off her parental homecoming? Not because she'd been afraid of how her parents would receive a bedraggled, bedrugged Elise. But because she had wanted them to believe that she, Maggie, was giving Elise back to them. And somehow, she felt that Nicole knew it, even if her mother and father did not.

  When the doorbell sounded, it was so gentle and musical that, for a moment, Maggie thought it was one of the many house clocks pleasantly, unobtrusively heralding the hour. Elspeth had a passion for clocks of all kinds and collected them to the point where her husband had finally forced her to weed them out of the house. It was true, Maggie thought as she got up from the heavy Queen Anne's arm chair to answer the door, Brymsley had begun to resemble a large and noisy clockmaker's shop a few years ago. All the ticking and chiming and onerous hourly and quarter hourly booming had nearly driven her poor father mad.