Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series) Page 3

  One of the women behind her spoke up briskly in English: “You will learn.” She smiled at Maggie and then added, “If you stay.”

  Maggie nodded to the woman―an elderly, rake-thin Frenchwoman with high cheekbones and an imperious tilt to her chin. Her harsh appearance seemed in conflict with her friendly manner, Maggie thought. The smile, though short, seemed genuine.

  “I hope so, Madame,” Maggie said.

  Indignant at being one-upped by her English-speaking countrywoman, Madame Renoir refused Maggie’s money.

  “Bienvenue,” she said. “You are understanding? Welcome to St-Buvard.”

  Maggie was surprised. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  Behind the sturdy proprietress, Maggie caught a glimpse of a teenage girl with a sullen face. The baker’s daughter, she wondered? The girl, fair-haired and delicately pretty, manned her broom behind the counter as if she were being paid by the square inch swept.

  The thin French woman beckoned Maggie aside, much to the annoyance of Madame Renoir who was forced to wait on the next customer. Her sharp little eyes gathered in Maggie’s sweat pants and Nikes but no disapproval showed on her face.

  “I am Madame Dulcie,” she said. “The charcuterie, yes?” She pointed toward the window.

  “Oh, you run the butcher shop?” Maggie clutched her bag of breakfast and wondered if Laurent had been shanghaied at the café where he was supposed to be ordering two large coffees to go.

  “Monsieur Dulcie et moi,” the woman said, still obviously inspecting Maggie’s attire. “You are liking St-Buvard?”

  Maggie nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. Very much. We love it. We’re staying on a vineyard nearby.”

  “You are picking the fields, yes?”

  “Picking the fields?”

  “The grapes, Madame.” Madame Dulcie spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. “You are picking the grapes? It is time, is it not?”

  “I...I really don’t know,” Maggie said. “I don’t think we’re picking it ourselves, no.”

  “It is harvest time in St-Buvard, Madame.”

  “Well, I’m sure...if that’s what people do...” Maggie smiled nervously at the gathering customers in the store, hoping that none of them understood English. “...we’ll do something similar. In fact,” she brightened as she edged toward the door. “I believe my husband…” It was getting easier and easier to call him that “…will probably take the advice of Monsieur Alexandre on this matter.”

  “Jean-Luc?” Madame Dulcie frowned. “Where did you say you were staying?”

  At this point, Madame Renoir spoke sharply to Madame Dulcie. Madame Dulcie responded just as sharply. Maggie picked out a few “stupide’s” and one “idiot” and decided the two ladies were in disagreement about something. She was afraid that “something” was her.

  “Well, I really must be heading off,” Maggie said, smiling too broadly at the entire store.

  Madame Dulcie quickly turned back to Maggie.

  “Madame Renoir believes, stupidly, that you are guests of Monsieur Alexandre’s. Is this true?”

  Maggie looked at Madame Renoir who looked, it seemed to her, hopefully back at her.

  “Well, no,” she said. “We...my husband, that is, inherited some property...”

  “You are not visiting?” Madame Dulcie thumped her purchases down on the counter and turned to translate Maggie’s words to the assembled crowd of women.

  “Well, yes, we are visiting,” Maggie said. “We are here temporarily. Visiting. Absolutely.”

  “Where are you staying, Madame?” Madame Dulcie folded her arms across her chest and looked at Maggie with tolerance and kindness.

  “Well, we live at Domaine St-Buvard,” Maggie said, now thoroughly irritated with Laurent that she had to go through this alone. “So I guess we’ll harvest the grapes like they’ve always...you know...I mean, whatever’s planted...we’ll pick it.”

  Maggie turned to Madame Renoir who stood staring at her with her mouth open.

  “It’s red grapes, right?” Maggie said. “I don’t think we have any white grapes.”

  When Maggie turned back to Madame Dulcie and the crowd of women, the store was empty.

  Gathering her bag of croissants, Maggie hurried out the door, and to the car parked down the street. Laurent lounged inside reading Le Provençal. She tossed the croissants onto his lap and climbed in the car.

  “Why didn’t you find me in the boulangerie?” she demanded. “I was trapped by women wanting to know when we’re picking our damn grapes.” Maggie reached again for the nonexistent seat belt before remembering there wasn’t one. “They wanted to know if we were going to pick them ourselves. Can you imagine? And then they all just left. The French are so weird. No offense.”

  Laurent didn’t respond but folded up his newspaper. He handed Maggie a large cup of coffee from the dashboard and started the car.

  “We are going to have to do something,” he said as he pulled out onto the main street. “The grapes are ready now, Jean-Luc says.”

  “Does Jean-Luc say how we are to get the grapes from where they are now―hundreds of zillions of teensy little grapes spread over forty hectares―into nice shiny bottles sitting in a French version of the A&P? Laurent, I am not picking the grapes.”

  “Pshtt!” Laurent rolled his eyes.

  “Is that ‘pshtt’ as in ‘of course not’, or ‘pshtt’ as in ‘you are so lazy, Maggeee?’“

  Laurent cocked his head at her and gave her a dry look but a smile tugged at his lips.

  “Eyes on the road, please,” she said, relieved that he didn’t seem to be asking her to tie a bandanna around her head and strap a basket to her back.

  “I spoke with some men in the café.” Laurent accelerated once they were out of the village. “They will spread word that Domaine St-Buvard needs pickers.”

  “Are you making friends as easily as I seem to be?”

  “The French are not like you Americans,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. The French are different.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Will these pickers be expensive?”

  “Maggie, the grapes cannot stay on the vine!”

  “That means yes.”

  He banged his hands against the steering wheel. “It must mean what it means,” he said.

  She took a sip of coffee. It was rich and sweet, too strong, as always, but it tasted just right this morning. The expense didn’t matter, she told herself. The money they got for the wine would pay off the peasants―or who ever it was that came out and picked the grapes―and there would still be enough left over for them to live on for the year. And if not, they had a little sum they’d brought with them. Plus, there was no rent to pay and, with the exception of food (which, admittedly, could run to gastronomical expenses) there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of things upon which to spend money in St-Buvard.

  As they approached their property, Maggie watched as a murder of crows flew in lazy arcs in the air over the fields and dive-bombed the grapes.

  2

  Connor MacKenzie turned over in the large feather bed and pulled the less-than-clean sheet across his thighs. He glanced at the woman asleep beside him and felt a vague sadness descend upon him. He shook his head―like one of his father’s retrievers emerging from the lake back home―to send the feeling scurrying.

  Morning had been and gone, he realized, as he climbed out of bed and pulled on his jeans. When was the last time these were washed? He looked in the chipped mirror of the hotel room and cupped a palm to his unshaven face. Whatever look he was trying to achieve, this wasn’t it, he thought with a rueful grin. But shaving probably wouldn’t make it any better.

  “Connor? Où vas tu, chéri?” The girl in bed moved, then sat up, a disheveled, lovely apparition of curly brown hair and big, pouty lips.

  “Nowhere, ma petite,” he said, still staring at his own reflection. “I have an idea for dinner tonight, though.” He turned from the mirror and pulled
on a navy blue cotton Polo shirt. “Those people we met a few nights ago in Aix?Remember? When you did your graceful splat-fall at Les Deux Garçons?”

  “We didn’t go to Les Deux that night.”

  “Well, wherever it―”

  “Le Mien.” The girl yawned dramatically and rubbed her eyes. “We ate at Le Mien. That’s where―”

  “Right, anyway,” Connor scooped up his sneakers and his car keys and stood next to the bed. “I thought we’d hook up with them again.”

  The girl was wide awake now. “Why?” she asked.

  “Why? They’re American, that’s why.” He pulled on his shoes and then stood. “And I’m homesick.”

  “C’est une connerie,” she said, not moving out of bed.

  “Such lovely language so early in the morning.” He poised at the door, his hand on the handle. “At any rate, I’m going to ask them. Maybe Grace and Windsor too. Haven’t seen them in weeks now. Do you want to come or not?”

  “I am busy.”

  “I’d like it if you came, Lydie,” he said.

  “No, thank you.” The girl turned and threw herself back into her pillow.

  Connor sighed and rubbed his head. God, his father would shit if he could see him now. In this broken-down hovel of a hotel―pinball machines and a blaring TV set into the lobby―and this saucy, stupid piece in his bed. Connor smiled to himself. But, then again, he thought, that’s probably the point, isn’t it?

  “Lydie,” he said. “Please come, chérie. It’ll be fun. I promise.” He leaned over the bed and kissed her gently on the back of the neck. She turned slowly and looked up at him. Without smiling, she snaked a slim white arm around his neck and pulled him down to her.

  “Too many people,” she said petulantly. “There are always too many people around you.”

  He kissed her and laughed.

  3

  A motley assortment of twenty solemn peasants stood grimly at her front door, shifting from foot to foot, flicking the butts of numerous Gitanes into her would-be flower beds, and rearranging their big, baggy trousers. A young hatchet-faced man glowered at the stone façade of the farmhouse as if he had a personal vendetta to settle with the structure. He smoked angrily, it seemed to Maggie, one cigarette after another. He lifted and jerked the cigarettes to and from his face in abrupt, staccato movements. His hair was blue-black and fell to his collar.

  Maggie sat on a packing crate, mindful of splinters, and watched the men through the panes of the large mullioned window of her living room. On the small terrace off the French doors that faced the fields, she listened to Laurent and Eduard Marceau speaking in thick, gurgling French. She felt a special prick of pleasure when she listened to Laurent speak French. That he could speak this magical, difficult language, when it was so much gobbledy-gook to her, increased, tenfold, his mystery quota with her. She listened to his erupting Gallic exclamations that sounded as if Marceau had just insulted his mother but she knew could mean anything from “what a good idea” to “you have asparagus on your tooth.” Funny, she thought, Laurent never made those odd, guttural noises when he spoke English.

  A half an hour later, the negotiations were completed. Both men entered the house looking pleased with themselves. Maggie tried to remember the last time she had seen Laurent so animated. She had to admit, he seemed happy here.

  “All settled?” she asked brightly as she watched Laurent pour two glasses of marc, the heady local liqueur, for himself and Marceau. He knew better than to offer her one. The stuff gave her a violent headache that all the powers of aspirin and codeine could do nothing to abate.

  “Ah, bien,” Marceau drank down his marc quickly and clapped Laurent on the shoulder. “Your husband will have his grapes ready for his contract by the end of next week. No problem at all. Pas de tout.”

  Laurent’s uncle had a contract with a large wine producing company to buy the bulk of the grapes at Domaine St-Buvard. It was for this reason that the old vigneron had never joined the local cooperative to which both the Marceaus and Jean-Luc and, indeed, most of the area’s other winemakers belonged. It was a stroke of luck for Laurent, for it meant that he now had most of his crop paid for in advance. All he had to do was deliver the grapes before they oxidized or rotted on the vine.

  “He is a canny negociateur, non?” Marceau said, smiling at Maggie.

  “The pickers will be happy?” she asked hopefully, scanning Laurent’s face for a reaction.

  Marceau shrugged and wagged his hand back and forth as if to say that, if not dancing in the streets of downtown St-Buvard, they would still accept the terms readily enough.

  “They need the money,” he explained. “October is very important to their livelihood.”

  “Did they pick your field too?” Maggie asked. She noticed that Laurent looked over at Marceau as if interested in the answer himself.

  “Bien sûr,” he said. “I have no sons, no daughters...”

  Maggie felt he was looking directly at her abdomen when he spoke. Had Madame Marceau not held up her end of the bargain by supplying him with a few live-in grape-pickers, she wondered?

  Marceau and Laurent shook hands again and then Marceau left to inform the village men of the terms of their employment. The men would begin picking the grapes immediately.

  Laurent turned to Maggie. “Where is the video camera?” he asked.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “In the upstairs bedroom, no?”

  “You’re going to video-tape those poor slobs picking your grapes?” Maggie gaped at him, her hands on her hips. “Like some kind of Old South plantation owner or something?”

  “Don’t be ridicule,” he said as he bounded up the marble stairs. “Old South plantation owners did not have video cameras.”

  “Please don’t do this, Laurent!” she called up the stairs to him. “This will embarrass these...these poor workmen...it will...it’s...”

  “Not to worry,” he said as he returned, walking slowly down the stairs, the video camera in hand. “They do not come from the tribe that thinks a picture will steal their souls.” He smirked at his own joke.

  “It will embarrass me,” she said.

  “Go shopping in town.”

  “I will not go shopping in town. What shopping? Why do you want to do this?”

  Laurent put the camera down and drew Maggie into his arms. “Maggie, “ he said, smoothing her dark hair over her brow. “A year from now we will be back in Atlanta, n’est-ce pas? I will be...? What? Working again for your father, I think, yes?”

  “You said you liked the work at the club. You love cooking...”

  “It is what I like to do, yes. I will return to it next year and be so happy!” He smiled broadly. “Eh? Laurent will be so happy?”

  “Yes, yes,” she moved impatiently in his arms. “And? You will be so happy... And?”

  “And I will be wanting to remember that I once owned a vineyard in France. A vineyard so big and so worthy that the people from the village had to come to harvest my grapes. Comprends-tu?”

  Maggie looked at him. She put her arms around him and hugged him. “Take the pictures. I’ll be glad you took them too, I know. The men probably won’t mind.”

  “Bon.” Laurent returned her hug and gave her a quick kiss on the mouth. “It will be interesting to watch, eh? Next winter when we are home in Georgia, again?”

  Maggie smiled and allowed herself to be released by him. She watched him join the men as they moved into the purple fields, and was surprised to realize that a part of her didn’t believe a word of what she had just heard. Already, she knew she would have to fight him every step of the way to get him back to Atlanta next year.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp jangle of the ancient rotary telephone that sat on yet another packing crate.

  “Allo?” she said into the receiver, sorry that Laurent wasn’t here to handle the caller.

  “Maggie? Is this the girl at Le Mien last Wednesday?”

  Surprised
by the English instead of the expected French, Maggie said nothing.

  “Hello, hello? Is American spoken here? Connor MacKenzie, remember? We met―”

  “Yes, yes, how are you?” Maggie realized she was pleased to hear his voice again. “How did you find us? Are you nearby?”

  “Yes, I guess so!” He laughed. “I live right outside of St-Buvard. Surprised, huh?”

  “You do?” Maggie tried to think of anything outside of St-Buvard that didn’t look like a vineyard or a sheep yard.

  “Yeah, in a little mas walking distance from town. Not that I ever walk it, though.”

  “That’s terrific.” Maggie felt her mood elevate. An American-speaking friend practically in the same village?

  “...if you and your boyfriend wanted to meet us for dinner at the café. Nothing fancy, but the food is typical of the area. You know, delicious, stupendous―all those boring things you’ve come to expect from French country cooking.”

  “I...when? Tonight did you say?”

  “If that’s cool with you. Don’t have any opera tickets you’re stuck with, do you?”

  “Yeah, right,” Maggie relaxed against the wall of the living room and watched the village men in their uniform blue combinaisons bend and move through the fields. Her eye caught Laurent at the perimeter of the field videotaping the men at work. “What do people do around here for fun, anyway?” she asked.

  “Well, there’s mostly eating,” he said and they both laughed. “Seriously, you go out and you eat a lot and drink a lot and try to weave your way home without ending up in a country ditch somewhere and...oh, yes, sex is very important out here.”

  “It is?”

  “You mean you haven’t found that out yet?”

  She laughed again.

  “I mean, what else is there to do?” he said. “You gotta hook up with someone for those cold winter nights. Wait’ll you get a load of the mistral.”

  “I’ve heard it’s awful.”

  “But since you already have someone to keep you warm at night, I guess you’ll be wanting to concentrate on food.”

  “Sounds good to me.”