The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Read online

  His eyes shifted away from the church and back to his companion. It was too early to order a drink, even in Paris, and Gerard would very much have liked to have had something. He eyed the filthy bundle of flesh and clothes across from him.

  "It's all I have," he said in French. "It's all I could get."

  "That's not my problem," the other man, a foreigner, rasped in much poorer French. "It's not enough."

  Gerard raked a hand through his thinning, reddish hair.

  "Take it as an installment," he said. "I'll get more."

  "Soon," the little man wheezed. "Get it soon, Monsieur Gerard. Your credit with my boss is...am I saying this right? My French is not good." He smiled obscenely, his tongue darting out to moisten his little beak-like lips. "Your credit is very soft. You are understanding?"

  Gerard stared at the nasty creature. Perhaps he should suggest that the filthy crapaud use some of the money to have his lungs checked, or his teeth cleaned, or, peut-être, some newer rags? He scraped his chair back and stood up slowly.

  "Je comprends," he said.

  3

  The skirt of Maggie's stiff cotton sundress spread out in a fan against the lawn. She drew her bare legs up under her and sipped from one of the frosty glasses of lemonade Becka had just armed everyone with. Laurent stood a few yards away, in khaki trousers and a black polo shirt, holding Nicole's pony. The child, her jodphurred legs sticking out awkwardly, sat woodenly atop the Welsh pony. Laurent chattered to her in French and Maggie enjoyed hearing his fluency for a change.

  She hated to admit that Gerry might be right. It was possible that the language difficulties did serve as an impasse to a deeper understanding between them. She didn't doubt the passion or the love, but from time to time, she yearned for a more complicated exchange.

  Yesterday, in a rare visit to their local videotape rental shop, Maggie had been appalled to see Laurent head--not for the foreign films as she had expected--but to the horror/sci-fi aisle of the store. They had argued about it.

  "I can't watch this stuff," she'd said, her face twisted into her most unattractive grimace.

  "Why not?"

  "It's garbage. It's stupid."

  "Ahhh."

  "'Ahhh'? What does 'ahhhh' mean? I mean, come on, Laurent...blood and guts pouring out of a deadman's eyeballs? Give me a break. It's gross and meaningless."

  "D'accord," he'd agreed, placing his gruesome choices on the counter to be checked out.

  In the end, they'd compromised, if not happily. Maggie promised not to make retching noises or cover her eyes too much during his video and Laurent resolved not to sigh too heavily or yawn during the British drawing room mystery that she had selected. After all, she consoled herself on the drive home from the store, it could've been a lot worse. It could have been a Jerry Burton movie.

  As she listened to him now, talking fluently to her little damaged niece, she made a silent vow to take a French grammar class at the local community college. Soon.

  She turned to her mother who was seated on a white wrought iron bench next to her.

  "Do you think she enjoys that?" Maggie asked.

  Elspeth shaded her eyes against the sun and smiled at Laurent.

  "Watch her left foot, Laurent. She looks like she's a little lopsided."

  Laurent waved a finger in Elspeth's direction to indicate he had it under control. He trotted up and down the lawn next to the pony. Nicole clung to the saddle like a tenacious but somnolent jellyfish. Her little face was screwed into a squinting mask of concentration, or did Maggie imagine that? As the child bobbed along, it was hard to tell whether she was deliberately trying to stay on or was simply hanging on by instinct.

  "Laurent mentioned to your father the other night that you are planning a trip overseas." Elspeth took a long sip of her lemonade and then patted her lips with a lace-trimmed cotton handkerchief.

  "He did?" Maggie was surprised. Laurent hadn't mentioned another meeting or conversation with her father.

  "It's not true?"

  "Well, yes, it's true." Were Laurent and her dad becoming buddies or something? "I was going to tell you."

  "He said you were going because of Elise."

  Maggie cleared her throat and winced into the sun, trying to keep her eyes on the pony and its charge.

  "Well, sort of."

  Elspeth turned and looked at her daughter. She wasn't smiling.

  "Maggie."

  Maggie sighed. "Look, I don't know how to explain to you why I feel I need to go. I just feel it, that's all."

  "He said you think you may find her killer over there."

  “I've got a letter that Elise was writing before she died and I want to talk to the woman she intended it for. I know it may seem feeble, but I think it's worth a trip."

  "Will you need any help with money?"

  Maggie looked at her mother's profile. It was implacable, a little too smooth, a little hard.

  "No, thanks, Mom. I'm fine," she said.

  Elspeth stood up, setting her lemonade glass down on the bench, and applauded the approaching twosome with a wide smile.

  "Très bien, Laurent! Nicole!" she called. “Our own little National Velvet." She touched Maggie's head lightly. "I love you, Maggie," she said. "Possibly more than anything on this earth." She turned on her heel and walked back into the house.

  Astonished by her mother's words, Maggie stared after Elspeth's retreating back. Her drink glass was dripping blotches of condensation all over her freshly-pressed frock.

  "You are getting wet, Maggie," Laurent called to her. He picked Nicole up and deposited her on the ground next to her pony and led the beast to where Maggie was sitting. He tucked the reins under the pommel and let the pony graze while he flopped down next to her. Very slowly, as if she'd just regained the use of her legs, Nicole moved to where Laurent was seated and lowered herself to a spot beside him.

  "She seems to like you," Maggie remarked, indicating Nicole.

  "Ahh, mais oui!" Laurent patted the little girl's hand. "We are very fond of each other, n'est-ce pas, mon petite chou?"

  "What else did the detective tell you?" Laurent asked, smiling at Nicole.

  Maggie flicked away the droplets of water that had pooled in fat beads on her dress.

  "I did more telling than he did," she said, squinting in Nicole's direction. "He hadn't done much work on the case at all. It's sort of appalling when you think about it. That someone can die a violent death and the police only go through the motions of finding out why."

  Maggie combed her fingers through her hair. It spilled down onto her shoulders in a shiny sheet of black silk.

  Laurent pulled out some grass and sprinkled them on Nicole's lap. She looked at him somberly.

  "And so you told the detective everything you know?" Laurent asked.

  "Pretty much. I told him about Alfie and about Gerard being here at the time of the..at the time."

  Laurent nodded without looking at her.

  "And he either didn't believe me or thought it was no big deal. It's so hard to understand...what more do they want? I mean, I practically have a video tape of Gerard killing Elise, and the police do nothing." She looked guiltily at Nicole and then lowered her voice. "They don't even want to talk to him again."

  "But Gerard is not in Atlanta, is he?"

  Maggie looked at him with a startled expression on her face.

  "How did you know that?"

  "Mon Dieu! You have been telling me, n'est-ce pas? You said, Gerard, he leaves Atlanta the day you went to his hotel?"

  "Yeah, okay, that's right. I guess I did." She shook her skirt free of remnant grass blades. "But it doesn't matter. If the subject is murder, they can question him anywhere on earth if they want to. But they're not interested. What it comes down to is this: Burton doesn't give a flip who killed Elise unless it can put his name in the paper. That’s the way I read it.”

  "Tant pis, Maggee." Too bad.

  "Yeah, tant pis, all right." She stood up and gave h
er dress a shake. "Come on, let's take Nicole inside. I'm starving and it's mostly your fault."

  "Comment?"

  "Your cooking. It's stretched my stomach. I used to eat like a bird. Now, if I don't get multiple course meals on a regular basis, I feel like I'm on a starvation diet. Thanks a heap, Laurent. I hope you like your women hefty."

  Laurent hopped up easily for someone of his height and bulk. He caught her by the waist and swung her effortlessly into the air and back down again. He kept her pinned lightly in his arms.

  "Not too bad," he said judiciously.

  She smiled and gave him a hug. She felt her irritation with him dissolve.

  Nicole sat quietly between them, staring at the torn grass bits scattered across the lawn and her bright blue dress.

  4

  Burton sat in his Honda and watched the front of the little cottage on St. Juniper's Street. He'd watched the man, Alfie, go in about six o'clock, his arms full of groceries, and the woman leave about eight. She returned a half an hour later with a smaller grocery bag. Wine?

  Every minute of the investigation was precious now. In a desperate moment, he'd called the Newberry woman and admitted that the suspect they had held in custody for her sister's murder -- the dope peddler -- turned out to have been uninvolved. But it would have been no great loss to the world if the scum had gone down for it. Might as well be him, for lack of anyone else. But now, something Maggie had said yesterday on the phone made him think again about the retard. They'd not interviewed the mother. If they had, they would have discovered that she was protective and maybe treacherous. The Newberry girl had uncovered it. And it was as good a lead as any to follow in a case that sprouted damn few. With the heat he’d been taking lately from the Chief, he couldn’t afford to screw up another one.

  Jack shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat. He hated stake-outs, hated waiting for something to happen and half the time you weren't even sure what it was when you saw it. He'd already spilled the remnants of cold 7-ll coffee on his pants. Gluey miniature doughnuts sat in their own sugar and grease on a cardboard strip on his dashboard. He'd eaten ten of the dozen in the packet.

  Alfie had opportunity. He practically lived next door to the murder victim. His motive? What kind of motive does any maniac ever have? Maybe Alfie doesn't have such a good relationship with Mama. Burton leaned over and drew out a stale pack of Winstons from the glove box. He shook one loose into his mouth and took a long drag on it, unlighted. Alfie was certainly capable, physically, of the stranglings.

  Burton tapped his finger against the dashboard and waited. He didn't have enough evidence to have the boy picked up and he didn't have the time to wait for him to slip up. His only real chance seemed to be in bringing the kid in for questioning and maybe beating a confession out of him. Or hassling the mother. Surely, she knew what was going on, else why so venomous when questioned by the Newberry woman? He took another smokeless drag on his cigarette. Maybe that was the key. Pick up the mother. Most people can't lie worth shit. Tell her the boy'll never do any hard time, he'll be sent to a hospital or something. Maybe push the fact that she'll have an opportunity to resume a normal life without him. Without guilt. That could just be the magic button. No more having to take care of him until she's too old and worn out to have some kind of life of her own. Burton tapped the steering wheel with his cigarette.

  His cellular phone blinked at him to pick up. He hesitated. Chances are it was Kazmaroff and he was the last s.o.b he wanted to deal with right now. Reluctantly, he lifted the receiver off its base.

  "Burton," he said.

  "Jack, it's Dave," the voice crackled. "Guess who just turned himself in down at HQ?"

  5

  Maggie dipped her crust of bread into the trail of olive oil on her plate. Thirteen grams of go-straight-to-your-hips fat, she thought as she popped the savory, sodden morsel into her mouth. She tried to remember the last time she had gone to an aerobics class or jogged around the block.

  They had had Sunday dinner at her parents' house. This was a "light supper" that Laurent had thrown together to keep them from starving until Monday breakfast. Tiny sardines fried in batter, miniature onions swimming in some kind of spicy tomato sauce, raw carrots, artichoke hearts, radishes and, of course, the ubiquitous saucers of oil-drenched peppers and bread. And since no meal was worth eating without du vin, there was a steadily-breathing bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape to wash it all down with. Maggie wondered how long it would be before she started craving a cigarette and spending her mornings hanging around cafés, doing nothing but drinking espresso and watching the world go by.

  The wine was heavy but good. Maggie took a long sip from her glass and wondered if there would be much talk at the office tomorrow if she showed up wearing a mu-mu.

  "It's all delicious," she said, smiling over at Laurent. They had taken their feast and spread it out on the coffee table in the living room. He sat, an over-sized linen napkin tucked into his shirt collar, across from her. Tall tapers sputtered and dripped amidst their banquet setting.

  "There is no cooking," he protested, refusing to accept the compliment for pulling things out of a refrigerator.

  "Doesn't make it any less tasty." She popped a final viscous artichoke into her mouth and wondered if he'd notice if she stopped eating. "Can I go over my notes with you?"

  He nodded mutely, a slight shimmer of oil lining his full lips. He reached for his wine glass.

  "Okay. I've got a witness--Alfie--who can place Gerard at the scene and at the time of the murder. Gerard has motive and opportunity."

  "The police say--"

  "Yes, yes, he was in his hotel room. But listen, I'd just given the bastard five thousand dollars. I'm convinced he could buy all the alibi he wanted to with that kind of money, regardless of what the police think. I just need to prove it."

  "C’est diffiçile."

  "Anyway, okay, that's Gerard and he's my number one suspect so far. Next is Alfie."

  "The idiot?"

  "Laurent, we don't call them that over here. And he's not an idiot even if we did call them that. He's mentally handicapped."

  Laurent shrugged.

  "I've got Alfie down, though not as a real strong contender at this point. He also was here at the time of the murder. And maybe, according to his delightful mother, maybe he had motive too. I don't know. So that's Alfie and Gerard."

  "And the drug dealer?"

  "The cops have let him go."

  "Ahhhh."

  "Yeah, so there's nothing there."

  "I wish you to not talk with him."

  Maggie looked at Laurent and sighed.

  "Laurent, I need to talk to--"

  "D'accord. Then I will be with you. He is a criminale, Maggie!" Laurent looked quite disturbed. He stopped eating for a moment.

  "Okay, fine. We'll do that together. Anyway, I think what I'm coming down to is that I believe in my heart of hearts that Gerard killed Elise and now I need to make the police see that too. That means building a case against him. If Elise was such good friends with this Madame Zouk character, then Zouk should know Gerard, don't you think? I think that's where I start."

  A sick look began to come over Laurent.

  "I do not want you talking with Dubois," he said flatly.

  "Laurent--"

  "I do not want you talking with Dubois! Je ne le permettrai pas! I forbid it! He is a character dangereux! If he is killing Elise, then he can hurt you aussi!"

  "Then, what if I just talk to Zouk?"

  Laurent eyed her carefully.

  "You will go all the way to Paris and not talk with Gerard Dubois?"

  "If you absolutely insist."

  "I do. J'insiste, Maggee. He is a bad man. Très mauvais."

  "Okay, I won't approach him. I'll gather my information in Paris and build my case without talking with him. Okay, Laurent."

  He seemed to relax a little.

  "In any event, I'll start with Madame Zouk. Maybe she can help me prove that Gerard
had a motive to kill Elise. If I can do that, and then bring Alfie in to place Gerard here at the time of the murder, I might just have a case."

  The phone rang.

  "I hate phone calls at night," she said, pulling away from their circle of food and candles. "I'm always afraid of bad news."

  She picked up the receiver gingerly.

  "Hello? Oh, hey, how are you?" She glanced over at Laurent and his eyebrows shot up. Qui?

  "You're kidding." Maggie sat down abruptly on the arm of the couch. "When?" Her hand went to her mouth and she gnawed a cuticle. There was a long pause, then: "Okay, yeah, I will. Thanks a lot for calling. No, I know you will and I appreciate it. Thanks, Detective. Okay, bye." She hung up the phone.

  "Well?" he asked.

  Maggie turned slowly and walked back to their coffee table picnic.

  "It was Detective Burton," she said as she lowered herself back into her seat at the table. "He says they've got Elise’s killer."

  "Zut! Mon Dieu!" Laurent squeezed Maggie's knee. "That is wonderful, is it not? Maggie?"

  "Huh?" She looked up at him, her mind a confusing tangle of thoughts and feelings.

  "They caught him?" he pressed.

  "No, he walked in and gave himself up. This afternoon."

  "Who is it? Maggeee," he asked impatiently pouring her another glass of the heady red wine. "Who is it?"

  She shook the cobwebs and the spiders out of her mind. "It's nobody we know. Just some guy. Some faceless whacko out there who's done it before. Nobody we know."

  "Detective Burton, he was happy?"

  Maggie looked at Laurent and wondered what had made him think of such a thing.

  "Naturally."

  Laurent resumed his meal.

  Maggie frowned at the phone. Bull-shit, she thought. No way the guy they got is connected to Elise. I don’t believe it.

  "Laurent?" she asked, suddenly.

  "Mmmm--mm?" He looked up and smiled. A question mark hovered in his eyes.