The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Read online

  "Do you have any ideas about our future together?" Maggie was surprised as the words came out of her mouth. She had not expected them. She had not suspected they were hiding in her head.

  Laurent finished chewing and removed his napkin from his shirt collar. He placed it down on the coffee table and scanned their finished repast.

  "I am hoping we would get married someday," he said, finally. His eyes locked hers. "This is surprising you."

  It occurred to Maggie that Laurent, who always seemed to know what to say, when to get excited, when to let something pass, was a little uncomfortable.

  "You think I am wanting my American green card from this?"

  She looked at him with surprise.

  "Don't be ridiculous," she said.

  "Perhaps I will get the job as the French chef at Burger King?"

  "Why are you saying this? What did--?""

  "Mais non! Maggie must do it all her own way, yes? Must go to her gym and work at her job and eat with her ex-boyfriends because she is always so independent? Living with her French lover is one more impressive item on her dossier but not to be taken too seriously!"

  Very vaguely aware that his English seemed to have improved somewhat, Maggie was too angry to do anything but sputter: "What are you talking about? Are you talking about Brownie? You never said it bothered---"

  Laurent made a grunt of disgust.

  "I am not jealous of your little Brownie," he said. "Always you are misunderstanding me. I am talking about Maggie. About Maggie not changing, about Maggie not making room for Laurent in her life." He waved away her attempts to speak with an impatient hand. "Do not tell me you cleaned out a drawer for me, I am not talking about bureau drawers! I am talking about your life!"

  Maggie wrapped her arms around herself and stared stonily at him.

  "I see," she said, stiffly. "I had no idea you--"

  "Bien sûr!" he exploded. "This is the probleme! You have no idea, pas de tout! You think you can go on and being the single girl, n'est-ce pas? Ach! You are so Americaine..."

  "Well, excuse me for being so American, I'll try in future to be a little more Libyan...or would my being a tad more French be good?" She began picking up dishes. "That's what this is really all about, isn't it? Maggie being some simple-minded French girl who'll spend hours plucking her eyebrows and starving herself bony while whipping up heavy creamed sauces for her big Frenchman..."

  "You could not possibly be French," Laurent said with disdain.

  "I hate you."

  "D'accord," Laurent said. "As you Americans say, I can live with that."

  "Great," Maggie said, whirling around and stomping toward the bedroom. "Why don't you live with cleaning up this mess in the kitchen while you're at it?"

  "That would be different than usual?" he called after her. The door slammed between them.

  Later, as Laurent lay snoring against her, Maggie watched the moon through her window as it tore loose from behind the diaphanous shreds of spooky cloud. She touched his sleeping face next to her. The fight had been stupid but necessary. When he had finally tapped on the bedroom door and entered the room, she could see from the frown on his face that his making this first move was as far as he was going to go with the reconciliation. Relieved to have at least been offered an olive branch--if somewhat withered and hesitant--Maggie had reached out to him.

  She looked at the alarm clock on her night stand; it was a little after two a.m. This wasn't the first night Laurent had fallen asleep peacefully and quickly after three or four cups of strong Brazilian coffee, while Maggie fidgeted and tossed after her one meager and milky café au lait.

  She eased away from the sleeping form of her lover and got out of bed. Making sure not to wake him (though she didn't think anything short of another charge up the Bastille could), she gathered up a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  She set up her small portable typewriter on the dining room table, poured herself a glass of milk and rummaged in the cabinets until she found a few Oreo cookies. Rationalizing that she needed the sugar to go with the milk which she needed to make her sleepy, she set up her snack by her typewriter then pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt over her filmy silk chemise.

  "What is it?" Laurent's sleepy voice came to her from the bedroom.

  Maggie walked to the bedroom door. "Nothing, go back to sleep," she whispered, then turned and settled down at the typewriter to work on her notes from her conference with Detective Burton.

  Several minutes later, Laurent appeared in the doorway, dressed, his hair mussed and full about his face, his eyes squinting against the light in the dining room.

  "Oh, Laurent, go back to bed," she said. "I didn't want to wake you."

  "I am not sleeping good when you are gone," he said, holding a huge hand up to contain a yawn.

  "I'm sorry." She hoped he wasn't going to try to make them something to eat.

  "I will go for cigarettes," he said, nodding to himself and tapping his tee-shirt pocket as if to show that they were not where they should be.

  "Tonight?" She stopped flipping through her notes. "Jesus, Laurent, it's past two in the morning."

  He shrugged, now more fully awake, and tucked his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.

  "There's an Amoco station open on the corner, down Peachtree," she said, turning back to her typewriter.

  "I will be back," he said, kissing her quickly before disappearing out the door. Maggie tried to sense if there was any vestiges left over from their fight. She could feel none from him. No hangover, no recriminations.

  It was a cool night, unusual for late August. Maggie got up to open the dining room window that looked out over the back parking lot and adjacent woods. Aside from the reputational splendor of living at the Parthenon, Maggie had been drawn to this apartment building because it felt like a little bit of country in the heart of the city. It, and a few residential houses in the neighborhood, shared a fair-sized tract of woods. The stand of trees were thick and forbidding, protected by some stubborn dowager who'd owned the property for generations and refused to sell to developers. Peachtree Creek flowed through the elfin forest and Maggie had seen raccoons and foxes in it. Once, after she moved to her apartment, she had indulged in a nature hike in the woods. Although, it was true, she had felt for a few moments like she were somewhere on the Appalachian Trail, she'd also twisted an ankle and hadn't found time to revisit the woods in over four years.

  Tonight, the moon cast an eerie incandescence over the wooded patch. Blackened tree limbs were elongated by shadows and stretched out in all directions like skinny witches' arms beckoning wickedly toward her. She shivered and enjoyed the comfort of her little lighted nook in the darkness.

  She flipped open the notebook she'd begun keeping on her investigation, then tucked a clean piece of paper in the electric typewriter. She typed out the date and entered the information she had been given about the man who had turned himself in tonight. She munched on a cookie and stared at the notes in her notebook.

  Suddenly, she heard a noise from outside her window. She took a breath and held it. Her blood pounded in her ears and she craned her neck to look out the window towards the woods. The wind seemed to have risen. She could hear it moaning in the trees. And then the sound again. Like a dog in pain. Maggie stood up and went to the window. She heard it again.

  Why is a man never here when something happens? While she was debating whether or not to wait for Laurent to return before she did something, Maggie heard the cry again.

  Quickly, she pulled on her sneakers and stuck her keys and a small flashlight from the kitchen drawer in the pocket of her jeans. She closed the apartment door behind her and the hall lights, triggered by her movement, blinked on. Maggie ran down the hall and pulled open the heavy outside door at the end of the corridor.

  She slipped outside into the night. The moon, although not quite full, kept her path lighted. She didn't need to use her flashlight. Running quietly in h
er sneakers, Maggie hurried to the opening of the woods in front of her dining room window. She glanced up and was surprised to see her dining room illuminated clearly and distinctly from outside.

  "Here, boy," she called gently. "Where are you, puppy?" She was sure the sound was being made by a dog.

  She listened for more sounds. She hesitated to go into the woods. In fact, now she wished she'd picked up her can of mace as well as the flashlight.

  "Here, puppy," she said, finding herself afraid to speak loudly. Suddenly, she heard the dog whimper directly ahead of her. Clicking on her flashlight, she moved through the trees and into the opening of the woods toward the sound. As the darkness engulfed her, she had to resist the impulse to return to the comforting glare of the street lamps of the parking lot. Her eyes followed the flashlight beam, her ears straining to hear in spite of the thundering of her heart in her head.

  Then she saw it. It was tied to a small sapling. A six-foot ravine separated her from the puppy. Her emotions see-sawed between relief at having found the animal and trepidation that human hands had put him there. At the bottom of the ravine was a representative trickle of Peachtree Creek. It would go on to a bolder showing a few miles down the way, but here it trailed away to just a moving, damp creek bed.

  Maggie made her way down the steep side of the slippery slope. She grabbed at branches and rocks as she slid her way to the bottom of the muddy creek bed. The puppy squirmed against its bonds and watched her approach with large, frightened eyes.

  "It's okay, puppy," she said, trying to keep herself calm as much as the dog. "I'm coming." Her light flashed spasmodically along the leaf-choked side of the ravine. She took a couple of steps up the other side, her fingers reaching for the little dog and his rope. She pulled at the hemp twine but it held fast. The puppy whimpered again.

  Maggie knelt down on one knee near the puppy and pulled out her house keys.

  "It's all right, little guy," she said as she used the teeth of the key to saw away at the twine. She touched the animal gently and it whined. She drew back her hand and stopped sawing. The dog was covered with blood. There were cuts along its head and haunches and Maggie could see that it was missing toenails on each paw. Maggie gave the weakened piece of twine a sharp jerk and pulled it free of the tree. Quickly, she picked up the animal, ignoring its cry, and tucked it snugly against her. It was then that she heard the other noise.

  Her eyes went in the direction of the light from her dining room. It was only about forty yards away. She had heard a movement in the woods above her, a movement of something heavy treading on leaves and sticks. A blundering sound of someone stalking her.

  Fighting the urge to panic, Maggie clutched the dog and moved steadily up the steep side of the ravine. The dog trembled against her chest. Her mouth was dry and she could feel the beginnings of terror start to unravel her mind. Who was out here? She reached for a hanging root and hoisted herself a few feet higher up the ravine. She neared the top, her hands trembling and clumsy with the cold, her heart fluttering in her throat.

  She sensed her assailant behind her before she heard him, before she felt the heavy hands on her neck. When he attacked, she was vaguely aware that she dropped the puppy, heard it cry as if from a long distance. She was even mildly aware that Laurent would be home by now and that she had left her typewriter on. She smelled a light fragrance, like violets or lily of the valley. And then a blinding pain crept up from the back of her head and the dark, damp ravine bottom of Peachtree Creek rushed up to slam into her face.

  Part III

  Eliminating the Impossible

  Chapter 15

  1

  Dave Kazmaroff pressed his fingers into the soft, yielding flesh above his hip bone. All that tennis for nothing. All those early morning jogs, a waste. He lifted the glutinous, overly-sweet pastry to his lips. It wasn't even good pastry, he thought as he bit into it. A cop's lifestyle and a tendency to pack on pounds obviously didn't match up. He stared at the chorus line of Styrofoam coffee cups lined up in front of him on the metal conference table. A thin cardboard box holding a last few doughnuts and pastries sat crumpled and used amongst the cups. He shoved the whole raspberry pastry into his mouth and licked the flakes of sugar off his fingers. It tasted dry and stale. He eyed the doughnuts in the box, then leaned back in the metal folding chair. Where was Burton? How long does a shower take? He reached over and delicately extricated one more plump doughnut from the box. His eyes moved to the large simple-faced clock that hung over the only door to the room. Six a.m. They'd been here all night talking to one Douglas A. Donnell, confessed psychopath and overall despicable human being.

  Kazmaroff finished off the doughnut. Sprinkles escaped down his shirtfront. The bastard had recounted the murder easily, and with a degree of pleasure as though he was looking to them for applause or approval or, at the very least, some sort of reluctant respect. Amazing.

  Donnell had rattled off details that only the cops, the coroner, the murderer and the general newspaper-reading public could have known. When asked why he'd killed her, he had merely shrugged and smiled. Were they supposed to think this low-life was mysterious or something? Dave wondered, finishing off the last of the doughnut. The man had spilled it all, without apparent reservation, and without apparent truth. He worked as a bank teller at a Fulton County Bank branch in Buckhead, where he had been a teller for nearly twelve years. Preliminary questioning of his fellow workers had revealed the usual: he was thoughtful, considerate, a little stand-offish, but generally well-liked. He had no girlfriend and had never been married. He had a cat, and no friends or acquaintances outside of work. Most of his co-workers expressed surprise at that.

  Wearily, Dave picked up his notepad. Burton wasn't going to like this new bit very much. He wasn't sure what he felt about it himself. His glance fell on a jelly doughnut that had served all night as the sticky landing strip for two flies. His lips twitched slightly. What was taking him so long?

  Suddenly, the door swung open and Burton was there. He strode into the room, his thinning hair plastered against his head from the recent shower, looking revived, even cheerful. Kazmaroff felt a perverse pleasure in being the one to change all that.

  "The Newberry woman was attacked last night," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "Her boyfriend called the downstairs desk about three a.m."

  Burton stopped and stared at him.

  Dave felt an irrational impulse to laugh. Man, I must be tired, he thought.

  "What?" Burton backed two steps away from him as if Kazmaroff and the news could somehow be avoided.

  "Attacked, you know, as in assaulted and done ugly things to."

  "But, we..." Burton trailed off, his eyes bouncing around the interrogation room.

  Kazmaroff knew what he was thinking. He'd gone through the same mental maneuvers himself. Yeah, but we caught the son of a bitch.

  "Come on, man, let's go talk to her." Kazmaroff led the way past their offices, down to the receiving desk and through the hall that led to the underground parking garage. He stopped briefly to pick up their messages at the front desk. The new shift was just coming on duty.

  "Gotta handful for ya, Kaz," the scrawny-looking sergeant at the front desk said as he handed over a small stack of messages. "Jack, your wife called. She didn’t sound happy."

  Burton looked up slowly. He felt like he had entered a fog. Just moments before, life had seemed so tidy and ordered. Locked up, buttoned up, nailed down.

  "Jack?"

  Burton nodded at the sergeant. He knew he must look drunk or half-asleep.

  "Rough night, huh?"

  Kazmaroff answered for him, taking charge, leading the way, sorting through their messages as if Burton' were of concern to him too.

  "Long one," Kazmaroff said, sifting through the white note slips. "We've been at it since...when was it, Jack? Yesterday afternoon, I guess."

  Burton looked at Kazmaroff briefly.

  I hate your slimy guts, you Russian bastard.
/>   "You guys better get going." The scrawny little sergeant turned towards his typewriter and began to insert a processing form.

  "Come on, Jack," Kazmaroff said turning away. "You can read these in the car."

  Holding his temper in a frail grasp, Burton followed down the hall after his partner.

  He'd already spent a good part of the preceding night having his joy at a walk-in confession marred by the thought that he had been mere moments from destroying his career by arresting a retarded delivery boy for the crimes. Throughout the night, as he questioned Donnell, he couldn't help but imagine what would have happened if he had brought Alfie in--and then Donnell had given himself up. He'd have been the laughing stock of the entire department. Hell, entire department nothing--this kind of news wouldn't have stayed put. He'd have been a joke throughout the entire southeast. His reputation and his career would have been in shambles. He'd have been taken off the case, probably off the damn force. And the worst of it...the worst of it was when he imagined the look on Dave Kazmaroff's face. Burton shuddered to think how close he had come to doing time in a federal prison. Because he would've killed the bastard. He would've pulled out his regulation-issue Colt-45 and emptied every round into the bastard's teal blue Polo shirt.

  2

  Maggie hung up the phone in the living room and, even in the pressing heat of the late morning, rewrapped the wool afghan rug tighter around her. She sat back down on the couch and nestled into the pillows, her eyes open but unseeing.

  Perhaps, on some subconscious level, she had believed that Burton' suspect in custody really had killed Elise. What other explanation could there be for the fact that she had felt surprisingly little concern about entering the woods last night? She had somehow felt that since the bad guy was locked up, there was nothing to fear in the night anymore. And she had nearly died last night. Would have died too, if it hadn't been for Laurent.

  He had returned to the apartment and found her gone. A quick search of the apartment and the parking lot had revealed that she had not taken her car. Laurent had begun a search of the apartment building grounds. He had begun a very noisy search of the apartment building grounds. In the process, he'd awakened Mr. Danford, the night watchman, as well as a good number of residents at the Parthenon, and had, it seemed, succeeded in scaring off Maggie's assailant.