The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 4

  "And did Gerard follow you?"

  "Follow me? Dear girl, of course he tried to follow me. I was nipping his nipper, so to speak, wasn't I? But we dodged into some bushes that were along the way and, well, there you are."

  "Where are we? You jumped into some bushes and he gave up?"

  "Maggeee..."

  Maggie looked at Laurent who smiled at her admonishingly and touched his finger to his lips. "Let Roger tell it."

  She nodded and looked back at Roger.

  "Well, he gave it a mighty search, did our Gerard, all the time cursing frightful things! The mouth on him, I say, we captured her back just in the nick, say what? A few more months of that sort of language and we'd have a right little Femme Nikita on our hands!"

  Maggie glanced at the shivering girl-child and could hardly imagine a less likely possibility. Elise's baby, her own niece, flesh of her flesh.

  "Does she speak English?" she asked suddenly.

  "Ahh, no, as it happens, she does not. However, I shouldn't think that'd take but a tick to remedy. You know how fast youngsters pick things up. She'll be rattling out American slang before you know it. Cowabunga-duding with the best of 'em. Wouldn't you say so, Laurent?"

  Laurent didn't answer but looked at the child.

  "Has she eaten?" Maggie smiled at the girl.

  "Yes, nabbed her right after tea-time, I did. As for myself, thanks for asking, I am a bit peckish. Wouldn't have a stray pickle sammie hanging about would you?"

  Laurent seemed to snap himself out of a daze.

  "There is some chicken left," he said.

  "Does she respond to her name?" Maggie asked, kneeling beside the girl and laying a gentle hand on one bony shoulder. It twitched violently beneath her touch.

  "Why don't you call her and see?"

  Maggie spoke softly, gently to the child.

  "Nicole? Bonjour, Nicole."

  The child lifted her head and looked at Maggie. The eyes were blank.

  "She knows her name."

  "It would appear so."

  Laurent reappeared with the remains of their picnic lunch and offered it to Roger who quickly fell upon it. Maggie cut a small piece of Edam and wedged it into a shred of bread. She presented it to Nicole who simply stared at her. Maggie put the food morsel into the child's small hand then touched the girl’s forehead with the back of her hand. Again, Maggie’s touch was light and again, the child flinched in response to it. Maggie had an impulse to gather the child up into her arms and hold her tightly, as if by doing so she could make it all right again. For both of them.

  Her niece. Her own sister's daughter. She could see no strong resemblance to Elise or anyone in the Newberry family, but then she never could see likenesses in people. The child’s hair was dark, unlike Elise’s. Her eyes were wide and dark and fringed with thick lashes. Her full bottom lip quivered slightly. Maggie tried to imagine Nicole as a part of their family, with a place at the Thanksgiving Day table, her own stocking at the hearth, and knowing her new grandfather's jokes and feeble puns as well as the rest of them do now. Was it possible that this little collection of bones and tremors would someday be a laughing, happy, integral part of the Newberry clan in Atlanta? Maggie knelt down and carefully pulled the child into her lap. She lay her cheek against the little girl’s hair and closed her eyes. Nicole did not resist her.

  2

  "You did well, me bucko, quite well. I'm impressed."

  "It is not like that, Roger."

  "Well, whatever it's like, old boy, I'm, nonetheless, impressed. Although, I must say, to get paid on top of your, shall we say, pleasure of the moment? seems a bit much under the circumstances, don't you think?"

  "I think I am a lucky man, Roger. Give me my half of the money."

  "Yes, yes, well, I suppose it's just one of the perks of the job. Next time, you go out and get muck up your pant legs and I'll stay back to comfort the dove, eh what?"

  "Whatever you say, Roger. Where did you find the little girl?"

  "Right where I said I'd find her. You know the place. Does it matter?"

  Laurent shrugged and counted his French francs.

  "Don't trust me, Laurent?"

  "Anyone can make the miscalculation, Roger. Do not be offended." He looked at his friend and smiled. "And I think we have miscalculated how long this business would take place."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I think I need to go to America to finish our business."

  "Finish our...? Oh, I see. Well, that's up to you, of course." Roger stood up and dropped a few coins onto the table. He reached down and finished off his Campari and soda. "But I'd be careful, old man. They do things quite differently in America. Take it from me." He clapped the big Frenchman on the shoulder. "Quite bloody differently."

  3

  Maggie scanned the crowd at Hartsfield International Airport for her parents. Big John and diminutive, auburn-haired Elspeth, the Southern beauty queen, the Newberry matriarch.

  She glanced down at her charge who huddled by her side. Nicole looked even less like a blood relation this morning, Maggie thought. She was so dark--more like Maggie--while the rest of the Newberrys were fair--but unlike Maggie or her family, Nicole's features were blunt and full. Her eyes were round as an owl's and dark, like unfathomable, bottomless pools. Her face was oval and her chestnut brown hair cascaded to her shoulders in an unruly curtain. She was a pretty child, Maggie decided. Perhaps even beautiful.

  The child had spoken not a word the whole trip. She'd given no indication that she needed to go to the lavatory, wanted water, was hungry, was fatigued, or even fearful. Nothing. She had sat in her seat, her new, airport-bought outfit making her look like a refugee from Disneyland, and stared out the window of the airplane. Maggie had spoken to her in French and then English. No response.

  Maggie thought she saw a glimpse of her mother's beautiful hair, tucked-- but not quite hidden away--under a long blue silk scarf and she began to usher Nicole in that direction. She saw her father standing next to her mother and she waved. They looked fretful as their eyes searched the crowd for her. She watched them, her waving hand faltering a bit. In a flash, she realized that they were not really looking for Nicole. She could see the look in their eyes. In a strange, inexplicable way, they thought they would see Elise. Maggie’s hand dropped to her side and she felt sick with the intensity of her parents' grief and longing. She looked down at Nicole, who stood motionless beside her, her little face set against the crowd, against Maggie. They would not find their Elise here, Maggie thought sadly.

  "Maggie! Darling! John, she's over here." Maggie looked up quickly and smiled at them. She propelled the child forward and Nicole walked robot-like into the arms of her maternal grandparents.

  "Darling, you're here!" Maggie felt her Mother's hug, and the light, familiar scent of Chanel No. 5.

  "Yes, yes, we're here," Maggie said as she watched her mother bend over to greet Nicole. Elspeth touched the child without hesitation, ignoring Nicole's unfriendly response of jerking her head away to stare down the long airport corridor. Elspeth smiled at the child with true joy and hugged her to her. Maggie could see Nicole stiffen but she did not totally resist the hug.

  "Long flight, darling?" Maggie's father leaned over and quickly gave her a squeeze.

  "Not too bad," Maggie said. "Well, here she is. She doesn't speak any English. Nicole? Ceci ton grandmere et grandpere, comprends-toi? Maggie straightened up and shook her head. She’s been through a lot."

  "Of course she has." If Elspeth Newberry was less than impressed with her brand-new and only granddaughter, she did not show it.

  The child stood quietly among them. Her eyes, framed by her thick eyelashes, seemed pushed into her wan, elfin face like bits of charcoal in dough. Her shoulder-length brown hair was limp and dirty.

  "It's just going to take a little time," Elspeth Newberry said as she knelt beside the child, the silken hem of her designer dress dusting the airport tile. "And we've got lots of that, d
on't we, ma petite?" She touched the girl's face with her hand and looked into those dark, expressionless eyes. "Yes, we've got plenty of time to get to know each another."

  Maggie's father shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  "Brought Brownie with us," he said. "He's out by the car."

  "Brownie?" Maggie looked at her mother.

  "He didn't want to come in, dear." Maggie's mother stood up again and shifted her purse to her shoulder. "He thought it should just be the family when we all met."

  Maggie was glad Brownie had come. Her childhood boyfriend, Brownie tended to be the great stabilizer of upsetting or too-exciting family events.

  "Where's your luggage, darling?" John Newberry touched her on the shoulder and looked around as if someone would be delivering the valises to them where they stood.

  "They're at baggage claim. That's great that Brownie's here. Did he call you?"

  Elspeth took Nicole's small hand in her own and began to lead the child away.

  "Yes, he did. Brownie's such a dear."

  "Yeah, Brownie's okay." Maggie suddenly realized that she could use some of Brownie's effortless humor about now. She couldn't believe the trip was over. Ten days? Had that been all? Did jet lag make it seem longer? Her heart twisted slightly at the memory of Laurent standing at the Nice Airport departure lounge, his big hands shoved in his pockets, his feet planted solidly in a I-won't-be-budged stance. Why hadn't it occurred to her that good-bye was the next step in their relationship? Why had it taken her by surprise the fact that he would, of course, stay and she would go? She shook her head and smiled at her dad who was walking behind Elspeth and Nicole and watching them closely. He's trying to find something of Elise in her, she thought.

  * * * * *

  "You'll come to see me in Atlanta?"

  "Of course."

  "And we'll write in the meantime?"

  "I am not very good at writing in English."

  "I could write you."

  "I have no...how you say? address of permanence with which to give you."

  "Oh."

  "But I will love you from here. If you do not hear from me very soon, you will remember, n'est-ce pas? Remember Laurent loves you."

  "Je t'aime, aussi, Laurent," she had said, stunning herself by the sudden knowledge of the truth of it. And, as she had felt with Elise, she knew in her heart that she would see him again.

  "You'll call me, right? And you've got my number in Atlanta. Laurent, this is so hard."

  "Just remember, cherie. Remember that Laurent does not forget you."

  * * * * *

  Maggie put her hand into her father's. He squeezed it.

  "You did a fine job, darling."

  "Thanks, Dad. It was a pretty amazing experience."

  "Did you hear anything about your sister?" His voice dipped to prevent Elspeth from hearing.

  "I...well, really, no, Dad. I mean, people knew her and all..."

  "Ahhh."

  "The French can be impossible," Maggie said with no real heat or conviction.

  Her dad squeezed her hand again and then released it. He rearranged his grip on the piece of luggage they'd collected from baggage claim.

  Maggie scanned the parking lot for Brownie. The sky was bright and welcoming in the late afternoon. She began to feel weary from the trip.

  "What do you think of her?" Her father appeared also to be searching the horizon for Brownie although surely he knew what direction to look in if he'd parked the car, Maggie thought.

  "Well," she said slowly. "She’s been through quite a lot. I don't know how Gerard treated her and he's had her for about four months now. If he's as big a shit..er, jerk, as I think he is, that's plenty of time to put someone through some real changes. Especially to someone who's this vulnerable."

  "Do you think she's your sister's daughter?"

  Maggie opened her mouth to speak and then shut it again. She looked at her father who continued to look as if he hadn't the slightest clue as to where Brownie and the car might be.

  Maggie searched his face and then stole a look at the pair who walked ahead of them. Her mother was still chattering to the girl--mostly in French, but occasionally in English--while Nicole hobbled reluctantly beside her.

  "Ah, well, I'm sure she is," he said in answer to his own question. "Doesn't look very much like Elise but then, I'm not sure you'd have been taken for my daughter immediately." His eyes sparkled, but Maggie read the soft doubt behind them. The four trudged through the airport parking lot, the heat of the Southern sun beginning to push Maggie down further into her steps. She watched the little rigid back move ahead of her next to her mother's graceful one.

  4

  Maggie straightened the pillow on the bed in her parents' guest room, then allowed herself to fall into it. It felt wonderful and yielding to sink into the soft bed, her long day behind her. Is there a more satisfying feeling than falling asleep in the bosom of your family home, surrounded by the special things of your childhood, she wondered? She enjoyed this room in her parents' house even more than her own cozy little apartment on Peachtree Road. It was decorated lovingly with memorabilia from Maggie's girlhood. A wooden framed portrait of Maggie, age eight, on her pony, Snark, hung on the wall amid many such family snapshots and framed postcards from past holidays. A gilded mirror hung over an antique maple dresser.

  The room was done in yellow and white eyelet and smelled of rose potpourri. Maggie loved to sleep in this room, even though it had not been hers as a child. Her own room, downstairs, had been made over into a music room with an upright piano, a guitar, a banjo (her father's amusement one summer), and a harp that went largely unplayed if not unstrummed.

  Good ol' Brownie, she thought sleepily. He served, as she knew he would, as the distraction they all needed. He'd hugged Maggie hard and pumped little Nicole's hand, not having the sense the rest of them had to be delicate and wary with her. In any event, he'd caused even less reaction in her than they had, proving, probably, that it didn't much matter how they behaved with the poor kid as long as they watered her and gave her food. Maggie flushed briefly at her lack of charity and turned to burrow down further into the cool cotton sheets.

  "Never been to the South of France myself," Brownie had prattled happily, a shock of his thick brown hair flipping down into his eyes as he drove them all home from the airport in her dad's Jaguar. "Wouldn't mind catching the beach scene, though." He winked at Maggie in the rear view mirror and she rolled her eyes at him, but lovingly. Brownie was always good to have around. Merry and fun, he was the perfect foil for any even slightly tense occasion. He used to be quite seriously in love with her too, she knew--perhaps he still was just a little--and maybe that was a prerequisite to being merry and fun and always handy when you're needed.

  He had taken gentle control of the mundane and boring activities no one else wanted to be bothered with: unloading suitcases, greeting servants with jollyness and feeling. Maggie realized in the midst of her gratitude to him that she felt a dull pulse of guilt too. Because she did not care for Brownie in the way he hoped that she someday might. And because, as uplifting as it was to hear his big-man's laugh and to react to his silly jokes, he only reminded her that he was not the one she loved.

  She'd known him since they were ten and thirteen years old. He'd taken her to almost all her high school prom dances, had always been present in one way or another at Christmas get-togethers and birthday parties, he'd even come along on a few family vacations. Although he was closer in age to Maggie's older brother, Ben, there was never any mistaking whose friend he was. Brownie had loved Maggie from the beginning. He took no refuge in the Newberry clan, his own family had money and loved him dearly. If he had known that his very presence would make her miss another man to the point of physical pain, he would probably have removed himself from the Newberry's home and never returned.

  Maggie turned over and caught a whiff of her mother's roses, growing in profusion right outside her window. Several had
been captured in a crystal Waterford vase on her bedside table. She loved her mother's garden. Even Elise had counted it the best thing about Brymsley. Everyone called the Newberry house "Brymsley" and no one was quite sure how the name got started. The people who had lived in the place before --almost forty years ago now--their name hadn't been named "Brymsley" either.

  Maggie watched the sheers on her window puff towards the bed and then go slack as the gentle Georgia night breeze cooled the house. It seemed to waft the lovely rose scents right into the bed with her.

  She thought back to the moment earlier that afternoon when they had all pulled into the long drive. She loved that moment the best, always savored the first sighting of the house. Maggie guessed correctly that there would be little visible effect but it was still hard to resist looking at Nicole to see her reaction to the estate. As for herself, she felt the same happiness and belonging that she always did when she came home. Not too large, certainly not by the standards of the neighborhood which showcased the biggest and the best in Atlanta homes, Brymsley was covered in a tangle of magnolias, weeping willows and oak trees that gave the mansion a feeling of intrigue, even masquerade.

  Maggie smelled the bedside roses and closed her eyes. She remembered so many late night, under-the-cover giggles with her sister in this house, teasing and conspiring together as they never did in the daytime. And as sleep began to claim her, Maggie found herself wondering if Elise's little foreign-born daughter--sleeping now in Elise's old room--had ever heard her mother laugh.

  Chapter 4

  1

  The parking ticket dispenser stuttered abruptly then stopped without the tongue-like flick proffering the needed ticket to park for the day. The machine simply burped to a halt. Gerry leaned out of his BMW and smacked the machine with his hand. It whirred and spat out several tickets at once. He grabbed one while the orange-striped arm at the entrance barricade lifted to allow his car into the garage. He glanced at the mangled ticket in his hand as he drove through. It was dated a year ago. Great, he thought. And these bloodsuckers will probably try to collect from me when I leave tonight. He smiled pleasantly at the parking garage attendant who was busy ticketing some poor unfortunate who had no doubt overstayed his welcome in one of the "visitors only" slots.