The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 17

  "Told him to get his sorry ass outta the building once. That's talking to him, ain't it?"

  "And he was okay about that? I mean, he left all right?"

  "He left."

  "But he came back."

  "I told you, he's got hisself a customer here. Must have."

  "But you don't know who."

  "I got my suspicions. And no, it's nobody I'm gonna tell you about."

  "Do you remember if he was around the night before my sister was killed?" That would have been the night I first brought her home, Maggie thought.

  "He was. Shuffling up the goddamn hallway on the third floor. I knowed he was there 'cause of the way he drags his feet, like he's drunk or something."

  "And you just threw him out?"

  "That's right. About three a.m. No problem."

  "Okay." Maggie looked at the man and then, helplessly, at Laurent. Again, she'd run out of questions and didn't know how to process the answers she was getting to the questions she had asked.

  Laurent indicated the doorway with his head and Maggie sighed. Might as well.

  "Thank you for your help, Mr. Danford," Maggie said stiffly. She touched Laurent's arm and they trudged silently back upstairs to Maggie's apartment. Laurent unlocked the door and Maggie threw herself down onto the living room couch.

  She raised herself up on one arm and watched Laurent who had seated himself in the large tub chair opposite the couch, his long legs stretching out and filling up nearly the entire floor space of the little room.

  "Well, I’d say we’re nowhere on this. I can’t buy the theory that this drug pusher is the killer. It’s too pat. I mean, what did he do? go around rapping on doors: 'I say, is the lady of the house at home and would she be interested in some crack?' I mean, isn’t it too much of a coincidence that he is a drug dealer and she was a drug addict?"

  "You think the police have made up this theory?"

  "I think they thought: dead junkie, on-premises drug dealer, let's put them together and wrap this case up."

  "C'est possible. And your friend? Monsieur Alfie?"

  "I'm not sure he's tied into this at all. They had a little ruckus. Elise was strung out and testy, Alfie probably remembers it worse than it was." Maggie shrugs. "I can't see him killing anyone."

  "You do not know him very well," Laurent reminded her. "Coffee?" He got up and headed toward the kitchen.

  "No thanks, it'll keep me awake." Maggie pulled herself up to a sitting position and rested her feet on the light oak coffee table in front of the couch. "And he doesn't strike me as being clever enough to do it and get away with it, you know? I mean, if Alfie killed her, wouldn't there be all kinds of circumstantial evidence leading right to his door? The cops would've picked up on it, surely."

  Laurent poked his head around the corner.

  "The police have not questioned the maman. They know nothing about his argument with Elise."

  "Boy, they really did a slack job, don't you think? I mean, wrapped this sucker up and moved on." She picked up a magazine and idly flipped through its pages. "I guess they've got this drug dealer in custody now but I doubt they get a confession."

  "Why not?" Laurent called from the kitchen. Maggie could hear the kettle begin to boil.

  "How can he confess if he didn't do it? And he's not going to cop a plea to murder, for crying out loud. I mean, why would he?"

  "Cop the plea...?"

  "Never mind. Maybe I will have some coffee after all."

  He came into the room with a small tray holding a china creamer, matching sugar bowl and two steaming mugs. Maggie removed her feet from the coffee table and he set the tray down.

  "Mmm-mm, thanks," Maggie said reaching for a mug.

  The phone.

  "I am sure it is not for me," Laurent said, shrugging.

  Maggie reached over and picked up the receiver.

  "Yes?" she said.

  "Miss Newberry? This is Carole Wexford. Alfie's mom? We talked a couple days ago?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Wexford, I remember." Maggie nudged Laurent's leg with her foot. He nodded his head: yes, yes, I'm listening.

  "I got one more thing to tell you that Alfie just told me but I got to have a promise from you that if I tell you, you won't be asking Alfie all about it, hounding him, like. Do you promise?"

  "What is it, Mrs. Wexford?" Maggie watched Laurent with large eyes.

  "Not until you promise me you won't come after Alfie asking him a bunch of questions. Now, he's real upset 'bout all this and he don't want to talk to you again, d'ya hear?"

  "Yes, all right," Maggie said. "I promise to leave him alone. What did he tell you?"

  "He told me he made another trip to your apartment building that afternoon--"

  "You mean about the time my sister was--"

  "I ain't gonna say this twice, lady, so you better listen good the first time. He was deliverin' groceries that afternoon and saw some guy hanging out near the door where he fought with your sister early that morning."

  Maggie licked her lips.

  "Can he describe him?" she asked.

  "He said he was dressed real nice. All slick and a jacket and all. He had reddish-brown, sorta curly hair, maybe balding, and he was a big guy. Maybe six-one. Wearing them sandals with socks that some people wear."

  "Do the police know this?"

  "God, you don't listen, do you? I told you, Alfie just told me. And if you ask him about it or go the cops, he's gonna deny ever being there, understand?"

  "All right, Mrs. Wexford, I understand. Is that all?"

  "Yeah, but remember, stay away from my boy, d'ya hear? I don't want to hear you been snooping around him."

  "I'll leave him alone," Maggie said.

  The phone clicked dead in her hand as the woman hung up on her.

  "What is it?" Laurent took a healthy sip of his too-hot coffee. "More clues?"

  "God, I'll say," Maggie said quietly as she put the phone back in its cradle.

  "Alfie's mom just placed Gerard here at the time of the crime."

  2

  Detective Jack Burton quietly closed the glass paneled door of the office of the Chief of Police. His ears were burning and a flush crept up his neck and spread across his face. He knew the open squad room was not oblivious to him, no matter how busily they seemed to go about their duties. He'd had his behind chewed and the world knew it.

  The Chief was right. They'd been whacking themselves in the heads with hockey sticks over this one. Keystone Kops, southern-style. Their only suspect had an iron-clad and they had had to let him walk. Burton was to find the Newberry murderer within ninety-six hours or he was off the case.

  Jack headed back to his office, his head tucked in a protected crook of determination. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see cops looking up as he passed. He restrained himself from running the last twenty yards to his office, pulled open the door and forced himself to close it behind him without slamming it.

  Dave Kazmaroff sat, smoking, on the corner of his desk, staring out the window onto Spring Street. He twisted around to greet Burton.

  "Hey, man, what's happening?" His smile faded and he eased himself off his cocky perch when he saw Burton's face.

  "You bastard," Burton snarled, fists clenched at his side as he advanced toward Kazmaroff.

  "Hey, man, what are you talking about?" The younger detective backed away, taking a drag off his cigarette until the filter glowed in his mouth.

  "I'm talking about the shit you've been feeding the Chief, you scumbag."

  "Hey, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't said anything to the Chief."

  "Oh, no? Not even a casually dropped comment about how good cops need to learn to agree to disagree when it comes to developing a case? Huh? Ring a bell, asshole?"

  "Look, all I said--"

  "I know what you said, De-tective! I just got outta the Old Man's office!" Spittle had formed on Burton's bottom lip. He wanted to throw the yuppie bastard out the third story window. Maybe
he'd land on the hood of his own Jeep Cherokee.

  "Am I supposed to pretend I agree with every theory you've got? We happen to disagree on how this case is being--"

  "I'm the senior officer on this case, or had you forgotten that?" Burton clenched his fists. "I'd like to smash your face in," he said, moving away from the younger man. "Fact is, you're as stupid as I'd always believed. Because just in case your plan was to take my place, let me clue you in." Burton contorted his angry features into a sneer. A perverse part of him was enjoying himself and he could see that Kazmaroff was nervous. "The Chief said we've got four days. After that, our team is closed down and 'B' team takes over. Understand, smart boy? We both lose out. I go down, you go down." Burton heaved himself into his swivel chair. "Nice work, jerk-off."

  Dave Kazmaroff remained standing. He tossed his filter into an ashtray on his desk and shook out another cigarette from a pack in his shirt. He did not look up at his partner.

  3

  Gerry peeled back the bread in his sandwich and extracted a few imaginary hairs from his corned beef.

  "Just eat it, Gerry." Maggie picked up her own sandwich and poised it in front of her face. "Why were you so testy this morning? What is the deal?"

  "You want to know why I'm testy? You want to know? I'll tell you."

  "I wish you would."

  "I'm worried about you."

  "Don't be worried about me. Worry about yourself. I hear the cost of sheep farming is skyrocketing."

  "Very funny. You and Darla should open up an act together. Preferably one on the road."

  "What is it, Gerry?"

  "All right, you want to know? And Darla said I should keep my mouth shut--"

  "Well, maybe you should."

  "...And I'm only saying this because we're friends."

  "Just say it."

  "I want to know how in the hell you can have any kind of meaningful relationship with a guy who can barely handle the basics of asking where the men's room is."

  "Excuse me?" Maggie put her sandwich down and frowned at him.

  "Your French boyfriend. His English is so bad, I'm surprised y'all can converse on anything more complex than how much parsley to put in the ragu."

  "Well, it's not your worry, is it?"

  "Hey, don't get pissed, Maggie. I'm just saying, the guy can't speak English."

  "I understand him fine."

  "Oh sure, the language of love. Give me a break. Your French is shit, excuse me. Is there any substance to y'all's conversations?"

  "None of your business."

  "Meaning, 'no'."

  "Meaning none of your business. Where did all this come from? I could tell you didn't like him the other night--"

  "That's not true--"

  "Oh, bullshit, Gerry. You were practically rude to the man."

  "That's not true! How can I speak to him? He doesn't speak English! Have you two had an argument yet?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about a fight. Have you two made it to the disagreement stage?"

  "Gerry, not everyone is as stubborn and disagreeable as you are. Some people get along for great periods of time."

  "Great boring periods of time. And excuse me, Miss Sweetness and Light, but you are not describing yourself. If you haven't had even a small fight with this guy, Larry--"

  "You know his name."

  "...then y'all are just playing house. There. I've said it."

  "And you feel good about it."

  "Yes. Yes, I must say I do. I wouldn't want to lie to you, Maggie. The fact is, I don't like him."

  "No kidding." Maggie bit into her sandwich and rolled her eyes at him. "I'm a mature human being, Gerry," she said, her mouth full of turkey and rye. "So take notes: all my friends don't have to like each other. I'll live with it. Besides, Darla liked him."

  "She likes Dan Quayle too."

  "Look, you don't like him, fine. Next subject of conversation, if you don't mind."

  "Well, I said what I had to say."

  "That's clear."

  "May I have your pickle?"

  "And while we're being so helpful with one another, may I ask a question about your travel plans?"

  "Shoot."

  "You're still moving to New Zealand, right?"

  "Correct."

  "And nobody in the office knows yet, am I right?"

  "Just you."

  " And would you say that your...um...interest in the goings on at the office has, say, slid off a bit?"

  Gerry looked uncomfortable. He reached for the mustard.

  "I suppose that's possible. After all, I don't intend to be there much longer."

  "Sure, I can see that. But, in the meantime, you've signed off on all projects in-house?"

  "That's ridiculous! I'm in meetings all day long."

  "Wrong. Your body's in meetings. You are in Bora-Bora or Ruaphehu or some such place. Gerry, we can't afford to have you off in la-la land while we still have clients."

  "Well! I like that! It's my agency, if I have to remind you, Maggie."

  "Oh, put a sock in it!" Maggie glanced around at the diners surrounding them. A couple of them looked their way. “Aren't you about to dump your own advertising agency? Aren't you about to drop-kick it into the great unknown while you go peel kiwis in Dunedin?"

  "Will you stop with the kiwis, already? New Zealand has other exports, you know."

  "Just stay awake while you're with us, please. At least until you come to your senses. You'll hate yourself if, after this phase passes, you've lost a client."

  "It isn't a phase."

  "Yeah, okay." She dumped some ice into her Coke cup and shook her head. "Whatever. Hey, what about Patti-cakes? She decide you're not quite the man she thought you were?"

  "Seems to have, thank God." Gerry talked around a mouthful of sandwich. "She's pissed at me and seems to be sniffing around young Bob, now."

  "Oh, no."

  "Yeah, he doesn't know what to make of all the attention, and, under the circumstances, that's probably good."

  Maggie laughed.

  "What a place. How can you bear to think of leaving it?"

  "My sanity demands it." He looked at her strangely, his eyes misting.

  "Oh, Ger, don't you think this will all work itself out?" Maggie touched his hand with hers.

  "Sure, it will, Maggie. I have every confidence that it will." He brightened. "Finished? I believe this is your treat?"

  "You asked me to lunch!"

  "Yeah, but that was before I knew you were going to criticize my performance as an adman. I can only redeem myself by sticking you with the check."

  She nodded. "I can see that."

  As she stood up, hoisting her purse strap onto her shoulder, she stopped suddenly.

  "Gerry, I forgot to mention Paris."

  "This sounds like a scene out of Casablanca."

  "No, really. I've got to go overseas next week. Will that be a problem"

  "Not for me. Is it on account of this investigation thing you're doing?"

  "There are some people I need to talk to over there. I shouldn't be very long. Four or five days."

  "Maggie, do what you have to do." He stood up and handed her the check. "I certainly intend to."

  Chapter 14

  1

  Gerry straightened the storyboards on the floor and looked at his telephone. His desk was covered with the various materials used to present a pickle campaign to a new client earlier that day. Storyboards, all with green the predominant color, were propped up against the side of his desk. Stacks of carefully collated scripts: print copy separated from outdoor board copy, separated from broadcast continuity, lay adjacent to stacks of paper explaining, in great and expansive detail, media recommendations and account-handling information. An arsenal of radio-spot cassette tapes lay scattered about the base of the telephone.

  There was a time when all this used to get him charged up, Gerry mused. When the experience of a job well done would have hit all hi
s feel-good buttons. The new client had loved the creative presentation, had approved, without reservation, both the media budget and the suggested placements. Under normal circumstances it would be one to re-live over agency lunches, to boast about--without need for hyperbole--to one's colleagues at all the ad community functions.

  Under normal circumstances.

  He sighed and pushed himself out of his chair. Under these circumstances he couldn’t give a flying damn. He opened up his office door and peered down the hallway. Awfully quiet for the afternoon of a great client victory, he thought. On the other hand, did they expect him to bring out the champagne every time they won a significant account? At least Maggie had to take back that business about his mind not being on the clients. Today's success story certainly threw that theory in the crapper.

  Gerry wandered down to Maggie's closed door and stood there, frowning. The traffic manager, Dierdre, was passing in the hallway.

  "What's the deal with Maggie?" he asked.

  "Private phone call, I guess.” Dierdre said. "Should I buzz her to be at the condom meeting?"

  "Stop calling it that, would you? It's a prophylactics client, for God's sake. You make it sound like we're practicing safe sex in the conference room. No, don't bother her."

  Dierdre walked away and Gerry lingered for a moment outside Maggie's door. He spotted Patti and Pokey making their way to the conference room for the meeting and ducked into the supply room to avoid a confrontation. It was easier to deal with her under the protection of a meeting in progress, he'd decided.

  Jenny poked her head into the room.

  "They're looking for you, Gerry," she said sweetly, the light never reaching her eyes.

  "Oh, good. Just checking to make sure we've got enough paper. Great. We do! On my way." He handed her a paper stack and hurried down the hall for the meeting.

  2

  The oily little fishbone of a man glared at Gerard from across the café table. All along the Rue de la Clingancourt, shopkeepers were opening their doors and beginning the morning ritual of hosing down the patch of sidewalk in front of their stores. The Sacre Coeur was just visible in the distance, its bone-white onion dome dotting the horizon like a bright exclamation point. Gerard thought of his grandmother when he saw the cathedral, that ferocious old crow who, every Sunday, would drag him and his brother-- unprotesting but unwilling--up the hundreds of steps to mass. He could still feel the pinched grip of the withered old hand clamped on his small-boy's wrist. He did not remember Grandmère with love.