The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 20

  Maggie picked up the ice pack and held it to the back of her head. Laurent had found her lying crumpled at the bottom of the ravine, a large, swelling knot on the back of her head, the wounded terrier cowering at her side. Laurent had insisted they spend the rest of their early morning hours in the emergency room at Piedmont Hospital to confirm that Maggie would not lose her memory or begin reciting chants in Urdu at some point in the future. She was released with the assurance that, although nasty and painful, her wound was a relatively mild concussion. It felt anything but mild now as she sat in her living room--her head banging like a rusty kettle drum being attacked by a shovel--and remembered her terror in the dark last night.

  Laurent entered the room, his eyes clouded with concern. He held a steaming mug of tea and a small flask of amber-colored liqueur. Wordlessly, he placed the tea in front of her and handed her the brandy.

  "Never had spirits before noon," she said, wincing as she drank the brandy. It hurt to tip her head back and the fluid burned in her throat.

  "You have called Gerry?" he asked, sitting down opposite her.

  She nodded carefully and deposited the ice bag in a bowl on the coffee table.

  "He doesn't expect me in."

  "Bon. And the police?"

  "Laurent, what do you want me to tell you?" She winced in pain again and lowered her voice. "I gave Detective Burton another call. He hasn't called me back."

  "C'est incredible!"

  "Well, I'm not really surprised. On the other hand, cops swarming all over the place isn't going to get me any closer to figuring this thing out. It'll just ensure that my neighbors permanently refuse to talk to me. And I've got a few more questions to ask them now."

  "And the note?" Laurent gestured to the folded piece of paper on the coffee table in front of them. When they had returned from the hospital, they had found it jammed in the slot of Maggie's mailbox.

  Maggie picked up the note and reread it. The handwriting was a tight, almost European style with elongated, loopy "l’s” and "t's".

  “Stay away. Stop doing what you are doing. I'm watching you. If you don't back off, I will kill you.”

  She dropped the note back onto the coffee table.

  "Well, maybe the police can get something off it." She sighed and eased back into the couch pillows. "Besides our fingerprints, I mean. But we still don't need a whole S.W.A.T. team of cops here to check one lousy note for prints."

  Laurent shrugged.

  "Drink your tea, please, cherie," he said wearily.

  She felt a sudden urge to tell him not to worry. That she'd stop asking questions and stop trying to find out what happened to Elise. She knew their lives would settle down if she did. And surely her love for Laurent was big enough that she could give him that much? She watched him with guilt and caring and said nothing.

  The phone rang. Maggie pulled back onto the couch. She wasn't in the mood for phone conversations.

  Laurent picked it up and spoke into the receiver:

  "Allo?" His face softened and he smiled slightly. "Une moment," he said, covering the receiver. "It is Brownie. I can tell him you--"

  Maggie shook her head and held out her hand for the receiver.

  "Hey, Brownie," she said.

  Laurent took the empty brandy glass into the kitchen.

  After she hung up the phone she padded barefooted to the bedroom door. She wore a faded pair of navy sweat pants and a light cotton sweatshirt. Laurent was peering into the refrigerator, his back to her, rigid and expectant.

  "He wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow," she said.

  "Ahh, yes?" Laurent turned his head slightly over his shoulder.

  "You don't mind, do you?"

  "I don't mind, cherie. We French are secure!" He smiled and turned to face her. She moved forward and slipped easily into his arms.

  "Good thing," she said. "Makes up for my wobbly American ways."

  He tilted her chin up with his fingers and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

  "Perhaps a little food would help?"

  "No food," she said firmly, kissing him back. "Oh! What happened to the little dog? The one that was with me last night?"

  "Oh, it is a bad dog. He is the reason you are walking into the woods in the middle of the night."

  "He's not a bad dog. Laurent, what did you do with him? I thought you liked him."

  "I am teasing you." He wiped his hands on a dish towel draped over his shoulder and she moved back to the kitchen doorjamb to watch him. "He is with the animale docteur. Yes? Monsieur Danford has taken him there."

  "Oh, Laurent, do you trust that guy? He'll probably chop him up for a stew to cook on his hot plate or something down there."

  "I am telling him I will be very disappointed if the little dog is not getting well. He is taking him to the docteur. Pas de danger!"

  "Okay, but check on him, okay? Did you see how cut up he was? His little feet? God, it was awful." Maggie wandered over to the dining room table. Her typewriter was still sitting there, her notes still stacked beside it.

  The outdoor buzzer sounded. Maggie looked questioningly at Laurent, who shrugged. She depressed the button. "Yes?" she said into the intercom.

  "Miss Newberry? Detectives Burton and Kazmaroff. We'd like to come in if we could."

  3

  Gerry hung up the phone and tapped the base of it with a mechanical pencil. Mugged! In her own parking lot. Wait until Darla heard about this. She'll be calling Qantas Airlines herself.

  He stood up and raked up the venetian blinds on his window with a jerk on the dangling cord. The full blaze of the morning sun shot through the window. Mean temperature in Auckland in summer is 78 degrees with less than ten percent humidity. He turned away from the sight of cars and trucks moving at a slug's pace down the street below. Situated on an isthmus, the views of harbor and beach are enjoyable from every vantage point of the city.

  Gerry leaned over his desk and engaged the public address system, clearing his throat loudly at the same time. "Attention, all hands," he said into the speaker. "This is your captain speaking. There'll be a short meeting in the conference room in ten minutes. That is all." He felt a rush of adrenaline push through his veins. He'd been waiting for this, the point of no return. The crossed-over line.

  He straightened his tie and patted down the pockets on his double breasted suit. He knew what he would say, no further preparation was necessary. It was annoying that Maggie wasn't here but he'd describe it all to her later.

  He jumped at the knock on his door. It pushed open and Patti's blonde head popped through.

  Gerry coughed. "Er...yes, Patti?"

  "I can't make the meeting, Gerry." She entered the room, her clothing making its entrance first. A loud complaint of a hair bow was knotted in her hair, something ruffly and pink. Wasn't there an age limit on women wearing bows in their hair, Gerry wondered? The rest of her outfit was reminiscent of the psychedelic sixties. Dramatic swirls of red and yellow were captured in a glimmering polyester pleated skirt with matching overblouse. As usual, Gerry thought, she looks like she's trying to offend before she even opens her mouth.

  "Can't make it?" He knew he sounded formal. It was just the right tone. After his announcement at this morning's meeting, he'd have very little to worry about from this place. Or from Patti.

  "I've got a job interview, if you must know," she said, her mouth pressed together in a punishing line, her hands folded across her colorful chest.

  He nearly smiled. She was so obviously baiting him. A perverse part of him--the part of him that was almost free--felt the impulse to drop to both knees and scream, "God, no, Patti! You can't leave! Please, won't you change your mind?" And all for the twisted pleasure of seeing the look on her face. As it was, he bit back the smile and merely shrugged.

  "Okay. You don't need to be there."

  "I've decided to leave the company, Gerry," she said, taking a step forward.

  "So have I, as a matter of fact," he said.

  Her
mouth fell open and, for the first time, he could see small blemishes around the bottom part of her face. Her surprise was real and unchecked.

  "What?" she sputtered.

  "I'm leaving. That's what the announcement is. To say I've decided to leave."

  "Because of me?"

  The suggestion was so absurd that Gerry nearly laughed in her face. Instead, he paused as if considering it and then shook his head.

  "No, Patti," he said. "I am not leaving because of you. I am leaving..." He turned and waved a hand at the scene outside his window. "...because of everything." He liked the sound of that. Maybe he'd use it in his speech to the others. "I wish you luck, though. I don't think you've been happy here and it's probably a good idea you’re looking elsewhere."

  It was true. The freedom he felt by cutting his ties--even by breaking the news to just one person--was profound. He felt energized, yet relaxed, capable of talking honestly about anything. Maybe Janis Joplin was right: freedom's just another name for nothing left to lose.

  He felt great.

  "I see," she said. She stood facing him in her ridiculous dress, her arms pressed in a Joan-of-Arc fold across her chest, her eyes burning with some indecipherable passion. "Well, that's it, then," she said.

  "I wish you luck, Patti.” He felt more in control than he ever had before. He watched her shoulders sag beneath her dress, her head sink into her shoulders. A sad smile crept onto her face.

  "Thanks, Gerry," she said in a voice softer and more sincere than he'd ever heard from her. She held out her hand to him. "I hope you find what you're looking for," she said.

  "Just a little peace," he said. "And I will."

  She moved toward the door. "Take care of yourself."

  "You too," he said happily, buoyed with his factory-fresh, hither-to-untried ability to handle any situation. He smiled at her until she closed the door behind her. Then he turned for one last look out the window, patted down his suit pockets again, and went out to tell the rest of the world.

  4

  "Well, it's sort of complicated," Kazmaroff said, shaking his head at Laurent's proffered coffee pot. He turned to face Maggie. "We've got a confession, and a believable one at that--"

  "Why did this Donnell-guy kill Elise?" Maggie asked. She sat on the couch, next to Laurent, a chipped mug of tea in her hands. Opposite them, in mismatched tub chairs, sat Kazmaroff, in his cool chinos and Vuarnet sunglasses, and Burton, precision-pressed and held together like a rubber band around a bundle of nerves.

  "He just did," Burton said, a tinge of harshness to his voice as if to belie all doubt and argument from any corner. He wiped his hands on the knees of his Sansabelt slacks and examined his nails. They were yellow and chewed.

  Maggie saw Kazmaroff give Burton an annoyed look and she wondered who to believe. Did Kazmaroff not think they had Elise’s killer in custody? She didn't feel she could ask him with Burton present.

  Burton rubbed his hands together and made a squeaking popping sound with them.

  "Miss Newberry," he said. "Even a psycho thinks he's got a reason to kill, you know? I mean, it may be a nuts reason, but it makes sense to him."

  "I think what Miss Newberry wants to know, Jack, is, does this mean that the guy who killed her sister--did he do it because he had a specific reason against her sister?"

  "I understood the question, Dave." Maggie was surprised to hear the bite in the detective's voice. It had always been clear that their partnership was not heaven-sent but the relationship had obviously deteriorated with the investigation. "If you're suggesting this guy had to have a reason to kill your sister, I would have to say ‘probably not’. There was no reason." he flipped open his notebook and looked at a page of notes.

  Maggie felt tired all of a sudden. She wanted to go take a nap. For the rest of the week. She felt a chilling nimbus of loneliness envelope her as the detectives subtly retracted any help or support.

  "So, what do you think?" Laurent's voice boomed out impatiently, causing Maggie to look at him with surprise.

  "Er, what do you mean?" Dave asked uncertainly.

  "Maggie’s sister is killed and two months later Maggie is attacked and it means nothing?"

  "It's quite possible..." Burton reached for his notebook again.

  "Pfut!" Laurent rolled his eyes. "And it is the coincidence? Eh?"

  Burton shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes still on his notebook. "It doesn't necessarily mean anything--"

  "Why doesn't it mean anything?" Maggie asked, beginning to show her impatience.

  "Look," Dave Kazmaroff leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He gave her a look that suggested he would now tell her some inside dope. Maggie began to see why his partner couldn't stand him.

  "There’s a lot of crime in this city,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “Coincidence that your sister would be murdered one month and you mugged the next? Maybe, but absolutely believable. What’s less believable is that they’re connected in some way. If that’s what you’re saying?” He addressed this last comment to Laurent and ran a hand through his hair.

  Now it was Burton's turn to look irritated with Kazmaroff. He stood up and carefully picked up the note on the coffee table that Maggie had shown them earlier. He dropped it into a little zip-lock plastic bag and sealed it firmly with his thumb and forefinger.

  "We don't know exactly what's going on at the moment, Miss Newberry. We think we got our killer--I know we got him--but we haven't had time to make some of the other pieces fit."

  Yeah, like my sister, Maggie thought.

  "I'll take this downtown and see what the lab guys can make of it. Dave and I'll have a look-see at the woods on our way out and we'll give you a call later on. Might not be today."

  She nodded and wagged a hand to indicate she didn't much expect it would be.

  "Meanwhile, I wouldn't take any more midnight walks in the woods. Even without psychotic killers on the loose, Buckhead isn't as safe as it used to be. That drug dealer--the guy we originally held as a suspect for your sister's killing?--he still roams loose around here. You just can't afford to play Anne of Green Gables in a big city like this, Miss Newberry. Okay?"

  She nodded politely at him wondering if they could arrest her if she asked Laurent to throw them out on their shiny polyester keisters.

  "I think your attack was probably an isolated incident," he continued, as both cops moved to the door. "But we'll run down a few leads and see where it takes us." He smiled at her and she smiled back.

  When she closed the door behind them, Laurent went out onto the small stone balcony that faced Peachtree Road to light up one of his foul-smelling Gitanes. Maggie ran a comb through her hair. She looked awful, she decided, as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Her face was too pale and a tiny vein under her right eye, normally imperceptible, was now vivid against her white skin--an unmistakable sign of weariness and stress. After splashing cool water on her face, she gave her cheeks a quick rub with a rough towel to bring back some color. She still looked awful.

  Laurent appeared in the hallway. She could smell the scent of tobacco on him as it clung to his clothes and hair.

  She eased past Laurent in the hallway. She went to the dining room and opened a chest of drawers. Laurent followed her. He leaned against the dining room table, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and watched her.

  Maggie pulled out a large photo album and placed it on the table. She began flipping the pages.

  "They are trying to tell me that Elise died for no reason. She was just some random face, some incidental body that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just...bad luck." She stopped flipping the pages. She froze for a moment, then tugged out a color snapshot from the plastic pages.

  "You are leaving?" Laurent asked quietly.

  She tucked the photo in her jacket pocket and picked up her purse.

  "I'm going to ask Alfie one last question,” she said. "What are you going to do?" She noticed his Cigarette
pack was in his top shirt pocket, which usually meant that he was going out.

  "I did not know you would want to be going out so soon.."

  "Laurent," she said impatiently, "what is it? You know you don't have to ask my permission if you want to go somewhere." She moved to the front door. Laurent remained in the doorway of the kitchen.

  "I had an engagement with your father pour dejeuner--" Lunch.

  "My Dad? You're having lunch with my Dad?" Maggie stopped looking for the small tape recorder and note pad she'd stashed in the bookcase. Was Laurent looking for a father figure? She really didn't know much about his family. Was his own father still living? She touched him on the arm.

  "Look, Laurent," she said. "I'm glad you and my Dad are getting along so well." She turned away, resuming the search for her tape recorder. "I'm just surprised is all. He never spent much time with any of my friends before."

  He leaned down to kiss her.

  "You will be careful if you go out, eh?" he said, holding her chin in his hand. "Faites attention?"

  "Yes, yes. Je promis. I'll be careful. Listen, don’t tell him what happened last night, okay? He’d freak and there’s no sense in it. Oh, and tell Dad not to tell you any stuff about my teenage years or anything."

  "Pfut!" he turned to walk to the door. "We have covered all that many weeks ago." He turned to give her a last smile and left.

  Giving up on the tape recorder, Maggie tucked a pad and pencil into her purse. Next, she went into the kitchen and put together a ham and cheese sandwich using a slightly runny Camembert instead of Swiss slices since that was all the fromage Laurent had purchased. She poured herself another glass of juice and took her lunch onto the balcony overlooking busy Peachtree Road.

  It struck her as bizarre that here she was eating a ham sandwich, with Laurent off to keep a lunch engagement, and just last night she’d been knocked unconscious into a ditch. She touched the knot on the back of her head. Maggie tried to see the attack in elementary terms. Had she--as the cops seemed to think--merely interrupted a dog abuser during his moment of gleeful torture? Or had someone been watching her through her apartment window and used the dog to lure her outside? Was the attack meant for her? More importantly, was it connected to Elise's death? She drew the photograph out of her pocket and stared at it. In it, the photographer had caught Elise looking tired, unsmiling. Maggie tried to remember when it was taken. After a tennis game? But, then, Elise wasn’t dressed for that kind of sport, Maggie noted. And when she showed this picture to Alfie this afternoon at his mother’s house, how was it that Maggie now knew, beyond a doubt, that Alfie would say he’d never seen her before? Was it because there was someone else who had frightened him that day? Someone no one had a picture of?