The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 3

  She edged closer to the window and watched the colored, striped awnings and tents of the city's marketplace spin by. Her eye caught a crazy-quilt of color: tulips, asparagus, strawberries, bananas, hanging sausages, live chickens caught by their feet and twisting at the ends of long ropes and all of it flying by in a hectic haze.

  "Can we stop for breakfast?" she asked breathlessly. "Est-ce que nous arreton pour le petite dejeuner?"

  "Why you are speaking la Française, Mademoiselle? Laurent's English is very bad, non?"

  "Je parle votre langue even worse and you know it." She turned to catch him looking at her curiously, a smile hidden behind his lips. "Breakfast, oui or non?"

  "Ah, mais oui!" He turned the car abruptly into what looked like a brick wall but turned out to be a sort of bricked-up alcove serving as a parking lot. Laurent was out and helping her with her door by the time she had untangled her legs from the straps of her purse where it had been sitting on the floor of the car.

  She could still see the gaily colored tents of the early morning market and knew they were on the outskirts of Cannes. Laurent led her to a small café and ordered two coffees for them. They settled themselves at a rickety outdoor table with a view of the street and, surprisingly enough, the Chateau des Abbes de Lerins. Laurent pointed it out to her.

  "You see des Isle de Lerins? La?" He pointed to the islands off the gulf and then turned and pointed to the hill overlooking the water where the castle sat, tall and ominous. "Et la chateau? Castle, yes?" He lit a cigarette, shaking an unfiltered one from his Mediterranean-blue packet of Gaulouises, offering it first to her. She shook her head.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see their waiter leave the café and cross the street to a facing boulangerie where he purchased one croissant from the baker. She watched him return to the café, place the roll on a small dish and then bring it to their table with their coffees. She noticed that Laurent seemed to be enjoying the morning and whatever part of the air he wasn't polluting with his cigarette.

  Smiling hugely, he took in a full breath while surveying the view they had of the Gulf of Napoule.

  "Are you taking me someplace special?" Maggie took a sip of her coffee.

  "Ah, mais oui. Is this not very special?" He waved his cigarette in the direction of the Gulf.

  "I mean, where we go from here. You know, The Plan."

  "Ah, yes, the plan."

  Do the French say "Ahhh" before every sentence they utter? Maggie wondered. As if even a comment must be savored like a piece of tender lamb all smothered in rosemary. Everything was a smacking together of the lips, a taste, a rolling around in one's mouth. She didn't know whether she found it contrived or charming.

  "I am to take you to a place. And then Roger will come with the little girl."

  "Why not to the Gray d'Albion Hotel?" she asked reasonably.

  "It would not be, eh...how you...? Appropriate."

  "No, I guess I can see that. A friend's house, is that where we're going then?"

  "Yes, a house of a friend. You will see, soon. It is not far. Meanwhile, you will see something more of the Cote d'Azure, non? You will allow Laurent to show you?"

  "More sightseeing?"

  "Not sightseeing this time. No tourists today." He paused to take a last drag on his cigarette before grinding it out in the ashtray. "Roger will not come with the little girl for a long time. Ce soir, peut être. A long time. Your coffee is good?" He smiled at her and she felt a definite thrill filter through her, although whether from excitement or a tiny needle of fear, she wasn't sure.

  "So, we're basically waiting for Roger, as usual. Is that it?"

  "Oui, mademoiselle. We are waiting again aujourdhui." Laurent finished his coffee and stared out at the Gulf, its startling blueness twinkling in the sunlight. His eyes looked suddenly hooded and careful.

  It occurred to Maggie that he might have had other things he'd prefer to have done than shepherding her around the south of France for the last four days.

  "Call me Maggie, please," she said quietly.

  He turned to look at her and smiled.

  "Merci," he said.

  4

  Maggie stood with her back to the room interior and faced the little garden. A jumble of flowers and weeds, it looked as if it had been untended for years, yet was more beautiful for its neglect. Geraniums exploded in uncontrollable bushes of rich reds and oranges to border all sides of the waist-high stone walls which enveloped the tiny plot. Roses grew wild everywhere in snaking vines along the ground and up a rotted wooden trellis that reached towards the French doors and the patio where Maggie now stood. Over the garden wall, she could see the Mediterranean Sea, just a patch of it but enough to fill her with delight. The air was fragrant with the scent of lemons and roses.

  "C'est magnifique, n'est-ce pas?"

  Laurent stood to her left, a glass of white wine in each hand, his eyes squinting against the sunlight, his voice light and familiar to her.

  "It's beautiful." She turned and held her hand out for one of the wine glasses. "You know the people who live here?"

  "Maggee, no one lives here!" He gestured at the ruin of the place: the garden a tangle of weeds and garbled, wayward shrubbery, the panes broken out of the French doors. There was a small wooden table in the one-room cottage with two shaky benches propped up against it.

  "But, I don't get it. A view of the sea, and we're not that far from Antibes, right? I mean, it didn't seem like we are. This property must cost a fortune, to just let it rot like this? It's unbelievable." She walked out onto the patio with her wine. He followed.

  "It is not a good house." Laurent shook his head and looked around the room. Paint had peeled off in strips to lay in crinkled husks on the floor.

  "I don't care if it's the local crack-house, Laurent, the location is everything. I mean, they could tear this place down and build a nice little house on the site, don't you see? I mean, look at that view!"

  "Incredible, non?" Laurent smiled proudly, as if he'd had something to do with the view.

  "It really is, and nobody lives here. I wonder if it's for sale?"

  "I do not think so."

  "No, I wouldn't 'sink zo' either," she said playfully, mimicking his accent. "It's beautiful. The whole area is. I'd never been to the Riviera before. At least now I know what all the fuss is about. Mind you, the major fuss has to be the prices. I mean, one BLT at the Hotel Splendid cost over thirty bucks! A bottle of Perrier there cost almost ten dollars." Maggie felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if Laurent's silence and the quiet beauty of the cottage were working together to unsettle her. "When did you say Roger would be coming with Nicole?" She turned to face him, her back to the panoramic blue view.

  "It might be a little while."

  "What is a little while? Hours?"

  "Oui, Maggee, hours, yes."

  "I see. And we're to stay here?"

  "This is where Roger--"

  "I know, is bringing Nicole. But, I mean, there's nothing here for us to do. Couldn't we have waited in Monte Carlo? Or Antibes? I mean, three hours of hanging out here and I'll be loopy, you know what I mean?"

  Laurent smiled.

  "We will not be bored during our wait, I promise you that. You have enjoyed seeing the Cote d'Azure, oui?"

  "Yeah, it was great."

  "Et maintenant, you will see a part of France that is not for la touriste, eh? Come, bring your wine." He turned and scooped up a small backpack and moved out into the garden. Maggie followed him.

  "Laurent?"

  "Oui?" He took out a small tablecloth and spread it carefully, ceremoniously, across the weeds, the buttercups and the violets.

  "Est-ce que vous aviez connu ma soeur?"

  He looked up briefly at Maggie as he began to unpack the small canvas bag of picnic supplies.

  "Non, Maggee, I met your sister but only once and too briefly. I am sorry." He took out a large jar of mushrooms swimming in olive oil, two long baguettes, fresh pears, strawberries, a
small wheel each of Gouda and Edam cheeses, and a roasted chicken pricked with toothpicks of baby onions.

  "You're doing all this to help out Roger?"

  "He is a friend." He looked up at her again and smiled. "Une ami de coeur." A friend of the heart.

  "He's told you about Elise?"

  "He said she was a girl who had trouble. A lot of trouble."

  "That's true." Maggie dropped down quietly onto the tablecloth next to Laurent. She picked up a pear. It felt fat and juicy in her hand. "When did you buy all this stuff? I never saw you do it."

  "Ahhh, the French, we are clever, non?"

  "And Roger never really knew her either." She put her hand on Laurent's sleeve and he seemed to freeze under her touch. "But you've heard stuff. You heard about her, didn't you, Laurent?"

  He sighed and finished emptying his knapsack: napkins, forks, another bottle of wine.

  "What you hear in a town like Cannes is..." He shrugged.

  "Look, Laurent, don't try to spare my feelings, okay? I know my sister did drugs and she had this baby, you know? I mean, I really don't think you can tell me stuff that is going to surprise me about Elise. So if you know anything about her..."

  Laurent turned without speaking and put his large hand on top of her slim one. His eyes were dark and kind and he looked into her face. "You would not be shocked," he said, "mais non, and in my country, to have the bèbè with no father is...not so terrible" he shrugged.

  " I want to know about my sister, Laurent. Please, tell me what you've heard."

  "I have heard nothing very bad. That perhaps she smoked marijuana and she was toujours a part of the folie á deux, you comprends? She always was choosing the wrong man, comprends-toi?"

  "You're not telling me what you know." Maggie moved her hand from his and picked up the jar of mushrooms. She examined them carefully, watching them bob and float in their oily mire. "But I imagine you're right about the men she chose. She was an artist. Did you know that? She painted? She came to Paris six years ago." Maggie put down the mushrooms and stared out to the Mediterranean.

  "You were close with her, yes?" Laurent tore a piece of bread off and offered it to her. She took it absently.

  "Oh, a long time ago, when we were kids, really. When we got older, she began to dress odd and hang around with weirdoes and stuff and she wasn't interested in college or anything." She looked at Laurent and suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss those full lips. She turned away. "Not at all like me. I always knew what I wanted to do. And I liked college and I liked outfits that, you know, matched. We weren't anything alike. She scared me a little and that's funny because that just now occurred to me. And if you knew her, you'd think I was crazy because she was totally unintimidating. Sweet and maybe a little goofy, but not a ditz, or anything. And I think she had real talent. Anyway, she came over here to go to school. And our folks thought it would be good for her. I don't know why they thought that. Maybe she was just this major embarrassment to them back home and it was easier if she did her goofy mayhem from a few thousand miles. That's an awful thing to say." She looked at Laurent and found him watching her intently. "I loved her."

  "Bien sûr."

  "And I can't believe, I still can't believe that she wanted the kind of life she wanted."

  "It was not a life that you would have chosen."

  "Are you kidding? Smoking and shooting dope?"

  Laurent made no response.

  "And having babies out of wedlock? Maybe y'all do that sort of thing over here and it's no big deal, but it's a definite faux pas where I come from."

  "Perhaps that is why your sister came to France, non? It is, for her, a world that understands her better than your world."

  "I guess that was my main problem with her. I just couldn't believe that she could live the childhood we both lived--going to the beach and the mountains, with our own ponies and private schools and stuff, and she could say, after all that, she could say 'naaahhh, it's not for me.'"

  Laurent poured her a glass of wine and began to open the cheese.

  "She just dropped off the face of the world. At first, she wrote a little, but soon she stopped going to classes and then she stopped writing or calling. " Maggie looked at Laurent and erupted with a sudden burst of anger.

  "Did you know she'd been pregnant, had the child -- Nicole was over a year old -- Elise was still calling us from time to time...and she never mentioned that she'd had a baby? Never mentioned she'd gotten pregnant and was now a mother? Can you believe that?"

  "Your mother and father, they were very angry?"

  "No, no, they were worried. But, I don't know why more wasn't done." Maggie pushed her thick, dark hair from her eyes. "God, I hate myself for thinking they were afraid they might have found her if they'd gone looking for her and maybe she'd want to come home and be the crazy artist in their neighborhood and around their country club and stuff." She looked into Laurent's eyes, her own misting slightly. "Why am I thinking that? My parents adored Elise. Trust me, they did."

  "But they did not look for her?"

  "Well, yes, sort of. I don't really know. It was about three years ago and I was all caught up in my job and stuff, I mean, I knew it was all going on but I was super busy at the office. I'm in advertising."

  "Ahhh, I see." He nodded and smiled politely and Maggie found herself feeling stupid again.

  "It's a really great job," she said. "I write the words, you see, for the ads. You know? Television commercials and stuff?"

  Laurent nodded while he unscrewed a jar of fragrant tapènade and rummaged in the basket for a knife with which to spread the olive mixture.

  "Anyway, it's a great job," Maggie repeated, her eyes watching the blue horizon that was the Mediterranean as it merged with the blue southern sky. "Very fast-paced and exciting. You meet a lot of interesting people, too. Plus, it gives me a creative outlet. I think that's important."

  "Creativity is important," Laurent finally said, lighting a ciGertte and exhaling a puff of blue smoke between them.

  "It's essential," she said, looking away. "I've wanted to be an ad copywriter ever since I saw the first Volkswagen commercials...you remember the ones? 'Think Small'? Remember?" She turned to watch his reaction.

  "I don't watch much television," Laurent said.

  "It was a magazine ad."

  "Ahhh."

  They were quiet for a moment. From across the courtyard and down the vineyard-studded hills, she noticed a colorful, flapping line of laundered clothes starkly visible against the landscape of browns and muted greens. The clothesline bucked and twisted in the bright sky like the gay signal flags she'd seen on the yachts moored in the harbor at Monte Carlo.

  "And now we have no idea of where she is, if she’ll ever even contact us again or if she’s dead." Maggie brushed a dusting of pollen from her cotton dress. "Maybe my folks thought that this was a stage she was going through and she'd snap out of it, resurface some time and be normal when she finally came home. I'm sure we all thought she'd eventually come home." Laurent reached over and took her hand in his. She looked at him, her eyes full of tears. She blinked the tears down her cheeks and the burly Frenchman leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth. She felt the comforting coarseness of his rough face against her cheek. Slowly, she moved toward him, he, simply yielding and making no other move. She folded herself against his broad chest, smelling the soap and sunshine in his blue cotton pullover. A moment passed and then he lifted her chin with his fingers and looked into her wet blue eyes. He kissed her. His tongue pushed gently past her lips into her mouth and his arms tightened around her.

  Maggie was vaguely aware of the Mediterranean sun caressing her bare arms and legs, and of her cotton sundress pulled high across her thighs. She could smell the redolent mixture of olives and lemons and sun-sweetened grass and roses. And when she held Laurent and felt him kiss her, she felt nothing else about Elise or Nicole or Atlanta or her own fears of failure.

  Chapter 3


  1

  "I flung myself down the availing sewer and lay there gasping for what seemed hours but what was, in actuality, only mere moments. Having successfully eluded them, I then crept from the gaping maw of the stinking, pestilence-riddled hole and immediately saw the girl."

  Roger paused briefly and accepted another mug of coffee from Laurent's thermos.

  Maggie sat next to Laurent, a proprietary closeness between them. No awkward "should-we-have-done-that?" aftermath for them. From the warmth and exhilaration of their sweet union late that afternoon until now when they sat quietly near one another, it was clear that a very right thing had developed between them. But now her thoughts and eyes were focused on the wee, crooked comma of a child that sat draped in the cotton tablecloth that had been spread beneath the two lovers only hours earlier.

  Roger had brought her twenty minutes earlier. She was small--smaller at six years than Maggie had imagined she'd be. All the Newberry women were leggy creatures--lanky girls and tall women. All except Maggie who was the recipient of the family's good-natured teasing for her sole petiteness. Sole, it seemed, until now.

  She wanted to gather the huddled, frightened girl into her arms, to hold her and make her feel the love and care that her American family had for her, even though her initial attempts to do just that had been quickly rebuffed by the child. As soon as Maggie saw Nicole, she reached out to touch her, wanting to hug her, to connect with her. Instantly, the girl had recoiled, yet, Maggie detected no recognition of pain or fear in the girl's large, brown eyes or their flat outward gaze.

  Now, Maggie sat motionless as Roger told his story.

  "I'd ditched the blighters, right enough," Roger said, taking a noisy sip of his hot coffee, "so I just dashed up to the tyke, grabbed her up quick as you please and off we went. Well! They saw us, didn't they?"

  "They did?" Maggie's attention moved briefly from the girl to Roger. "Was Gerard with them?"

  "Eh? Gerard? Absolutely! Yes, he caught sight of me himself. 'Stop with that child!' he called out to me. I continued to run. Must've run bloody miles, in fact, I'm sure of it. Carrying the girl, there. She's a lot heavier than she looks, I must say."