Little Death by the Sea (15 page)

Laurent waved away the question as if it were
a droning fly about his head.

“
Pfut
! Your parents’ address is on the
cheque
, is it not? A house so big as this is not
façile
...so easy... to hide? And Laurent knows where to find
his
cherie
. Come, I think I am meeting
la mere
?”

“Margaret? Is everything all right,
darling?”

Maggie turned to see her mother standing in
the French doors, Nicole positioned at her side like a miniature
sentinel.

“Mother!” Maggie dropped her hands from
Laurent’s arms and turned to face her mother. “This is a good
friend of mine. I...we met in France. He helped us get Nicole
back...he was one of the two....Laurent Dernier, this is my mother,
Elspeth Newberry. Mom, this is Laurent.”

Elspeth Newberry stepped forward onto the
flagstone pathway and offered Laurent a cool white hand. He shook
it briefly in his sunburnt hand and murmured: “
Enchantez
,
Madame. I am in love with your daughter.”

Maggie blushed and touched Laurent lightly on
the sleeve as her mother retracted her hand.

“I see,” she said evenly, her eyes darting to
Maggie, her smile wavering but still intact.

“You have not been talking about me, Maggee?”
Laurent wagged a finger at her and smiled again at Elspeth. “I am
not a very good, what is it? Writing of letters?”

“Anyway,” Maggie said lightly, wanting, for
some reason, to break up the moment. “Let’s go inside, shall we?
Mother?”

“I am so sorry about your daughter,
Madame
Newberry.
Je me regret, Madame.”

Elspeth’s eyes filled quickly .

“
Merci
, Laurent,” she said, turning
away to lead the way back into the house.

Laurent looked at Maggie:
ça va
? She
nodded and touched his arm again.
Ça va,
she thought. And
then some.

2

Laurent pushed away the fennel salad, his
dish smeared with olive oil and a last crust of bread. Madame
Newberry had seen to it that the big Frenchman would not be
homesick or hungry his first night at Brymsley. She had had her
cook prepare a rabbit smothered in rosemary, followed by mini-crock
pots of honey and saffron cremes.

Their unexpected guest had been placed
between Maggie and Nicole at the dinner table with Elspeth and John
Newberry facing the three of them. Nicole’s mousy brown hair was
gathered back in a French braid. Gold velvet ribbons interlaced the
plaiting, and she wore a simple chocolate-brown shift. The little
white Peter Pan collar displayed her small head like a cabbage on a
platter. Maggie could see flecks of gravy on the linen napkin that
had been tucked into the child’s collar and found herself marveling
that Nicole was as neat as she was. For someone in the throes of
autism, she thought curiously, she’s remarkably tidy.

Maggie wondered, too, what Laurent thought of
Nicole. The child sat at the dinner table between them, quiet and
seemingly unseeing, her only movements the slow, uncaring ones that
carried her spoon from her plate to her mouth. She could be eating
dog food, Maggie thought, so little did she seem to care about what
she did.

After dinner, the rest of the family had
retired to another part of the house, to read or watch TV.
Laurent’s meeting with Maggie’s father had been a little more
successful than the one with her mother. John Newberry was jolly
and kind, if a little wounded, in general, and had welcomed Laurent
wholeheartedly into his home. Maggie wondered, with surprise, if he
and her father might even become friends someday?

Having finished her own meal, Maggie had been
happy to sit with Laurent and watch him while he sopped up the last
flecks of the savory sauce. He looked around for the bottle of
Clos des Papes
and noticed that they’d finished it during
dinner. He shrugged and removed his napkin.

“Becka will bring in coffee in a bit,” Maggie
said, as she leaned back into her chair. She had almost gotten her
fill of looking at him and reassuring herself that he had, indeed,
not forgotten her. Now that he was here, it didn’t occur to her
that she might not be emotionally ready for him. He intended to
move in with her the day after tomorrow when the cops had finished
dusting and scraping her flat for evidence. (How was she ever going
to eat omelets and nachos or watch inane sit-coms in the same room
a murderer had stood threatening her sister?)

The relief of having him with her again, the
affirmation that she had not misjudged him or her own feelings had,
for the moment, obliterated the thought that perhaps she wasn’t
quite prepared to have him move in with her.

“I like your
maman
and
papa
very much. They are good people.”

“I know.”

“They love that little girl, too. Such a sad
little girl. Tch-zut!” Laurent sucked his teeth and shook his
head.

“I’m not sure she’s really Elise’s.”

“Not Elise’s?” A thin veil seemed to come
down between them. Laurent looked tired, guarded. “That is
impossible! Of course she is your sister’s daughter. Roger has
taken her from—“

“I know, I know, Laurent... I
just...sometimes I think...oh, never mind. I’m bats. It’s just so
hard to think that I’m really and truly related to her. She’s
so...she’s nothing like any of us, you know?”

“You must give her time, Maggee. You are so
impatient about everything, I think.” He smiled wearily at her.

“Why did you come, Laurent?” Maggie leaned
across the starched white tablecloth towards him. He pulled out a
blue packet of
Gitanes
and lighted one up with a box of
matches. He held the smoking match between his fingers and looked
at her inquiringly. Distractedly, she got up and walked to the
large walnut hutch in the dining room and began rummaging around
for an ashtray. “I mean, nobody’s happier about it than I am, but
do you have business in town or what?”

Becka, a middle-aged black woman with shiny,
dark skin nearly the color of the hutch, entered the room carrying
a silver tray with a silver coffee pot and creamer. The sugar bowl
was a delicate light blue china with matching cups and saucers.

“Hey, Becka.” Maggie pulled a crystal ashtray
from one of the drawers of the hutch and returned to the table.

“Your Mother and Father havin’ their coffee
in the livin’ room,” Becka said as she unloaded her tray.

“You are the chef,
Madame
?” Laurent
stood up from his chair.

“Don’t be standin’ up, now. I cooked it if
that’s what you mean.” Becka hid a smile.

Laurent kissed the tips of his fingers with a
loud smacking noise.

“
C’est magnifique
! It was better than
anything in Paris or the Cote D’azure,
absolutement
.
Merci beaucoup, Madame
.”

Grinning outright, Becka hugged the tray to
her breast and backed out of the room.

“Well, I’m glad you liked it. G’night Miss
Maggie.”

“Goodnight, Becka. You outdid yourself. It
was delish plus.”

The cook exited the dining room with a loud
swish of the swinging door.

“
Marveillieux
, that woman, she—“

“Yes, yes, wait’ll you taste her grits and
eggs. Listen, Laurent,” Maggie thumped down the Waterford ashtray
in front of him. “...I mean, as you were saying? About being here
on business?”

“But I am not here on any business.” Laurent
looked at her with surprise. “Except you,
ma petite
. I am
here to be with you. You are my business.”

Maggie felt a flush of pleasure creep up her
throat to her face. She scraped some breadcrumbs from the table
with her hand and emptied them into Laurent’s ashtray.

“You know,” she said. “I never did get
straight what it is you do for a living. I mean, can you afford to
just take off time like this?”

Laurent poured her coffee and then his own
before answering. He held up the china creamer and she shook her
head.

“I have been working for the government,
comprends
?” He poured a hefty dollop of cream into his
coffee. (Hadn’t these people ever heard of cholesterol?)
“
Maintenant
, I am
en vacances, oui
? On vacation? For
many weeks.”

“And then you’ll go back to France?”

Laurent looked at Maggie and then touched her
chin gently with his thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Okay? I am here
today.”

Great. One of those live for the moment
types, Maggie thought as she pulled away from him and sipped her
coffee.

“You have been through very much. To have a
sister die...” He shook his head and clucked his tongue.

“I intend to find out who killed Elise.”
Maggie was surprised to hear the words coming from her mouth. Up
until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to her that she would do
anything but wait to hear from the police.

“
Comment
?” Laurent set his coffee cup
down in its saucer and held her gaze. “The police will find
out—“

“No. They won’t. They don’t care.”

“Maggee...it is their job. They will find out
qui
—“

“Laurent, you don’t understand! The cops are
chasing psycho nut cases right and left in this town. There’s one
in particular who’s been killing people near and around my own
neighborhood...”

“
Mon Dieu!”

“That’s right. So one more weirdo to them is
just one more weirdo...”

“
Merde
! Maggee, if I had known...”

“Well, if you’d written me, I’d have told
you. This has been a particularly bad summer for crime in Atlanta.
I’m sure it’ll affect our rating nationwide...but my point is, the
guy who stabbed and strangled Elise—“

“Maggee, Maggee, I think you are too upset
right now. I think you need to forget a little bit. All this about
stabbing and—“

“I can’t forget.” Maggie’s eyes hardened.
“God, Laurent, you want to look at my mother’s face and ask me to
forget? I put that look there! If I’d have told them Elise was
back...if I’d have just picked up the damn telephone. What was I
trying to do? I should have driven Elise straight to Brymsley that
night...” Maggie clutched her starched damask napkin with her
fists. “Okay, so I didn’t. I’ll take it to my grave regretting it
but there’s no reversing it. It’s done. And now I’m trying to tell
you that it’s the police who are going to forget. And then everyone
will forget and the bastard who killed her will have gotten away
with it! And then I’ll never be able to look my mother and father
square in the eyes, or myself, or—“

“
D’accord, d’accord
, all right, then.
Je compris
.” He patted her hand as it lay on the elegant
damask tablecloth. “But first, you will work with the police, eh?
You will see what they have?”

“Yes, of course.” Maggie sighed and covered
her eyes.

“And Laurent will help, yes?” He reached over
and held her hand. “I can be very resourceful,
non
?”

Maggie looked up him and smiled.

“Thank you.”

The big Frenchman shrugged.

“Ahhh, well.” He leaned over toward her,
allowing a quick look over his shoulder first. “But I think our
first effort should be to find where we are to be sleeping tonight,
oui
?” His eyes twinkled and Maggie heard herself laugh for
the first time in two days. It had a hollow, flat sound to it.

3

He flipped the frontispiece over and stared
again at the tiny, precise handwriting.
To my darlingest Aged
Parent for Christmas 1975 from his wiley wabbit, Elise.
John
touched the cover of the leather-bound Dickens book and stared
straight ahead over his desk. He remained this way, cradling the
book in his arms, his face impassive, his eyes dry, his gaze
unwavering, for nearly an hour. Finally, he replaced the book on
his desk and stood up. He turned off the desk lamp and, not
bothering to straighten up all the way, walked with heavy,
laborious movements to the door of his study. The house was dark
and shrouded with the stillness of the coming dawn.

Such a wiley, dear spirit.

4

Maggie curled her feet up under her in the
hammock and stretched her shoulders. After a heavy picnic lunch á
la Becka that had her seriously thinking about fasting for the next
week, she and Laurent had spent the bulk of the afternoon napping
and reading in Brymsley’s large garden. She watched him trying to
get comfortable in the twin hammock that hung alongside her own. He
looked like a giant water buffalo trapped in a fisherman’s tuna
net.

“Trouble, Laurent?”

“
Non, non
,” he said wrestling with the
knotted ropes a little less frenetically as if to prove it.

“Look,” she said twisting around to face him.
“I need to think out loud about all this stuff, okay?”

“
Mais, oui
,” he said cheerfully.

They had spent the night wrapped in each
other’s arms in Maggie’s bedroom. To have been apart that first
night had been unthinkable, even at the risk of embarrassment or
disapproval from her parents in the midst of their grief. Laurent
had held her, petted her, consoled and loved her until the early
hours of the morning. They had slept little and parted discreetly
before breakfast.

“Okay, you know what my main question
is?”

He shook his head, nearly depositing himself
on the manicured lawn beneath them.

“Why Elise? And if I answer that question, I
always come up with the same answer.”

“Gerard.”

“That’s right. Gerard. He’s evil enough to
have done it and perverse enough to have a motive. After all, now
his wife and child were going to be together and, presumably,
happy. Don’t you think it fits in with his character profile that
that might drive him wild? The notion that they didn’t need him.
Were, in fact, going to be better off without him?”