Little Death by the Sea (3 page)

“
Allo
? Roger? I am here, yes?”

The voice came from behind Maggie’s
chair.

“Laurent! Wonderful! Come, sit down, sit
down!” Roger motioned to the empty chair next to Maggie. The man
appeared to her right and, without immediately looking up, the
impression Maggie got was that it was a very big man.

“Maggie Newberry, this is Laurent Dernier.
Laurent,
Mademoiselle
Newberry. He’s going to help us, you
know, with our project. Coffee, Laurent?”

Maggie felt her irritation with Roger ignite
again. She did not turn to look at the newcomer but tapped the side
of her coffee cup gently with a silver butter knife.

“Look, Mr. Bentley...” she began.

Roger ignored her.

“Been doing a bit of a brain tease on an
engineering project in Algeria, Laurent has,” Roger bubbled.
“What’s the name of it, old chap? Rather like that Super-Collider
thing you Yanks were putting together, I think.” He turned briefly
to Maggie. “You know all about that, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for
an answer but swiveled back to face the newcomer. “Sit down and
tell us about it, Laurent,” he said. “It’s measuring or subdividing
molecules or some such thing, isn’t it? Terribly clever, our
Laurent,” he confided to Maggie.

“Roger, it was just a consulting job,”
Laurent protested, still not seating himself.

“Of course it was! Couldn’t afford the full
bill of having you pull on rubber gloves and really going to it, I
should say not.” He turned back to Maggie. “Man’s a mathematical
genius. Sorbonne, M.I.T, he’s taught everywhere...”

“The price does not change,” she said
curtly.

“I say, Maggie, who’s talking about money?
Laurent’s here to help us get the job done. The price is the same,
of course.”

“You are unhappy about me, yes? Roger, it
will not be—“

“No, no, no, Laurent. Mademoiselle Newberry
just takes her time warming up to people, don’t you, Maggie?” Roger
smiled, but Maggie detected the slightest edge beneath his
tone.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, really.” She
turned briefly to Monsieur Dernier, then turned abruptly back to
Roger. “It’s just that the nature of my business is rather
delicate...and I would hope that you’d know that the fewer people
who know about it, the better. If you say you need this man to get
my niece back...well, okay...just understand my position, if you
can...”

“I should leave, Roger. She is not
comfortable.”

“No, wait.” Maggie turned to look at him
fully for the first time. He was extraordinarily good-looking, she
noted. Broad and large, with handsome, big hands. A man’s hands,
Maggie thought irrelevantly. His face was calm, with a sweetness to
it that almost seemed to belie his size, his eyes were piercing and
dark, almost pupil-less. His light brown hair was thick and long,
past his shoulders. He was looking at her with a kindness that she
had never felt from a total stranger before. It was a look between
friends. Good friends. “I....well, you’re already here...so let’s
just go on, okay?” she said, feeling a little flustered. “Forget
it, all right? All right, Roger?”

“Sure, all right.” Roger shrugged and reached
for another roll. He winked at Laurent, making sure that Maggie
noticed.

“If you are sure,
Mademoiselle
...”

“Yes, yes. I’m just a little rattled, is all.
If you can help, well, then, thanks. I appreciate any help anyone
can give me.” Annoyed and shaken by Laurent’s effect on her, Maggie
pushed her breakfast plate aside and reached for the champagne
bottle. Instantly, Laurent leaned over and took the large flagon
from her. She smiled her thanks as he poured the champagne into her
orange juice tumbler.

“Right. Let’s map out our day, shall we?”
Roger took a swig of his coffee and dropped his napkin onto the
table. “First, I will begin with Step One of Plan A. Laurent, you
will take Mademoiselle Newberry to Section Two of Plan A at the
designated hour.”

“Hold on, Roger,” Maggie said, frowning. “Why
do I have to go someplace special? Why can’t I just hole up in my
hotel room and wait for your call?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you have jolly
little flair for adventure? It may not be a phone call, that’s
why.”

“I don’t understand—“

“Must you understand everything? You
Americans—“

“And I’m sick of the ‘you Americans are such
whine-bags’ schtick. I want to know...”

“You always want to know! Bloody hell! Can’t
you trust someone else to carry out the details without your having
to know too?”

“
Mademoiselle
! Roger!
Arretez
!
Stop, now, both of you! You are causing a big performance, no?”
Laurent leaned over and patted Maggie’s hand in a gesture that was
half consoling, half reprimand.

He wagged a finger at Roger.

“
Mon vieux
, she is upset, no? Her
sister has disappeared and she is....ahh,
triste
....very
sad. The
responsibilitie
is yours, Roger,
n’est-ce
pas
?”

Roger placed his cup down in its saucer and
leaned across the table toward Maggie.

“I’m sorry, Maggie, really,” he said. “I
quite forgot myself and the situation. You must excuse me. I know
things are very hard on you now...”

Maggie knew she must look as tired as she
felt. She nodded gratefully at Laurent and then looked into Roger’s
canny green eyes.

“Do what you have to do,” she said.

He smiled at her and then at Laurent.

“Good girl,” he said.

2

The street cleaners crept the early morning
streets, wielding their large garden hoses like weapons, rinsing
away the rubbish and debris of last night’s party. Maggie watched
them from her hotel window. The early morning air was cool, the
Mediterranean sun had not yet had the chance to perform its mellow
alchemy on the coast. Maggie watched as two bedraggled partygoers
picked their way to their hotel across the rough stones of the
Rue des Etats Unis
. The woman wore a gold
lamé
gown
with a pointy, cone-cupped brassiere over the top of it. Her hair
looked like she’d gone swimming at some point in the evening. Her
make-up looked it too. Maggie watched the man with her, his bowtie
limp but still attached at the throat. He was handsome but not
young. She watched them until they disappeared around the corner.
On their way back from somebody’s yacht moored in the harbor, no
doubt, she thought. Most of Cannes’ parties happened on somebody’s
yacht moored in the harbor, or so she’d been told. Or had she read
that somewhere?

She’d been in France for almost a week now.
Each day Roger either made an appearance at her hotel to assure her
that the recovery of Nicole was imminent, or sent messages of
similar content via Laurent. Laurent was a constant in her daily
routine in Cannes. Escorting her around Cannes and Cap d’Antibes,
climbing the hills with her in Monaco which led to the Grimaldi
palace, picking up the tab at frequent café stops, and always
listening intently—sympathetically—to her protestations that the
search was taking too long.

She wasn’t sure what to think of Laurent. He
was kind and, in spite of his bad English, she could tell he was
intelligent too. Perhaps too much so. Maggie got the impression
that Laurent held many cards he wasn’t showing. Nonetheless, she
felt drawn to him and compelled to trust him. Besides, Laurent
obviously had, among his other many talents touted by Roger, a very
special way with people.

And whereas the matter of Elise was, more or
less, out of their hands—and of course, in many ways always had
been—the case of her daughter, Nicole, was not. Maggie had booked
two seats back to Atlanta for tomorrow morning. The thought of
returning to Atlanta without the little girl produced a hard knot
in the pit of her stomach. Elise’s child, lost somewhere in France,
in the custody of her brutish father.

Maggie clenched her hands. She had to find
Nicole. She had to find her and bring her home.

Downstairs, Laurent was waiting for her. He
stood next to the
Gray d’Albion
check-in counter, flipping
through a Paris Express. She hesitated a moment on the staircase
when she saw him. His was a rough handsomeness. Weathered,
been-there. She liked it and she knew she liked him. And she was
sorry about that because the timing was wrong, wrong, wrong.

She enjoyed his attentions to her even as he
frustrated her by his refusal to tell her what progress was being
made with Nicole.

It was clear that he’d begun to grow on her
in a way that was pleasant and slightly worrisome.

He looked up at her as she stood watching him
from the top of the stairs and his face brightened. Tossing the
magazine onto the counter, he bounded up the stairs to meet her,
his bulk looking immediately insubstantial and light.

“You have more bags,
oui
?” He gathered
up her pullman and carry-on bag in one movement and she thought for
a moment that he would snatch her up as well.

“No. Just those. I...that’s all.” She felt
flustered for no reason that she could pinpoint.

“
Tu avais un bonne nuit, oui
?” You had
a good night?

“Yes, thank. So, now where to?” she asked, a
little breathlessly.

“
Allons y, Mademoiselle
.” He led the
way down the stairs. “I have the automobile, this way, so.” She
kept her sights on Laurent’s back as he pushed open the revolving
door before her and led her to a waiting yellow Citroen. He opened
the trunk and roughly piled her soft luggage into the back, then
looked up at her and smiled again.

“It is not far, okay?” he said as he handed
her in, then squeezed himself into the driver’s seat. The motor
started with a jerk and the car pushed out into the early morning
Cannes traffic.

Maggie turned to watch his profile as he sped
through the streets, whirling down alleyways, only to emerge
unscathed (as did, miraculously, the pedestrians) on the other
side.

“
La voiture, il est votre?”

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes
wide.

“
Comment
?” He neatly avoided hitting a
woman walking a French poodle by driving the car onto the sidewalk
and then returning to the street.

“
La voiture, c’est voiture
.” She
tapped the dashboard of the car. “
Il est votre voiture?”

“Ahhhhh, oooohhhh!” He closed his eyes and
smiled, nodding his head vigorously. Maggie wished he would keep
his eyes on the road. “
Mais, oui, yes, c’est ma voiture. Est-ce
que tu l’aime?”

Now, that’s more like it, Maggie thought,
pleased with herself. He spoke quickly, beautifully. There was even
a glimmer in his eye now that wasn’t there during his labored
English attempts. Although, she noted that he’d used the informal
“
tu
” with her, something she knew that typically isn’t done
until you’ve known each other much better.

“
Oui
,” she said. “
C’est très
belle
.” She clutched her door handle as they revisited the
sidewalk, this time to bypass a little Renault that Laurent
obviously felt was going too slowly. “
Mais, vous...vous driv-ez
tres fou
..”

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 special?”
He waved his cigarette in the direction of the Gulf.