Murder à la Carte
Authors: Susan Kiernan-Lewis
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Cozy, #Culinary, #Women Sleuths, #Teen & Young Adult
Murder à la Carte
When her boyfriend inherits an ancient vineyard in France, Maggie Newberry quits her job in Atlanta to accompany him for a year abroad. They settle in the tiny village of St-Buvard, but murder has gone long before them and follows close behind.
Murder à la Carte
brings Atlanta copywriter and southern belle Maggie Newberry to the brink of
two
connected murders—both committed in her home—and both poised to threaten everything she holds dear.
Murder à la Carte
is a delicious escape into the sights, sounds, tastes and smells of Provence—all tucked nicely within the framework of a tightly woven mystery that will keep you guessing until the very last page.
MURDER À LA CARTE
Susan Kiernan-Lewis
My dear, above all please know that I forgive you everything and I hope that you will forgive me also. I believe that this is the best way for both of us. I have no regrets. Never forget that I will love you forever, little one.
Forever and forever,
P.
December 1946
The long, undulating dirt road dissected the vineyard landscape of ruined, black branches. The field’s vines, stripped of their rich load―picked and bottled months ago― now hung in withered, dark wisps.
At the end of the road, two rows of pear trees and silver olive trees stood as close as sentinels, the gnarled limbs intertwining as they flanked the pebble drive that led to the house. It rose from a gentle swell of lawn at the end of the drive. A
mas
, proud and ancient. The windows, mullioned and seeming to tremble in the dying sunlight, gave the house a forlorn, fragile presence. A lone stone lion roared mutely from the slate terrace, one ear chipped, its teeth no longer sharp.
At the statue’s base, the dying woman clasped a small scrap of paper, the words already clotted into an indecipherable blur by the trickle of blood. The steps, made of porous rock brought down from the mountains a thousand years earlier, soaked up the scarlet stain.
The killer looked down at the woman briefly before turning to step over the man’s now-still body. And then, to the two small children huddled in terror by their parents’ Citroen.
The murderer shot them each once in the head, checking afterward to be sure they were dead, and that there would be no further suffering.
Chapter One
July 1996
Laurent spread out the large, unwieldy map on the tabletop. Pushing aside the bottles of
Badoît
, he gripped the borders of the tattered
carte
in his large fists as if he intended to steer the thing across the outdoor bistro table and into Aix-en-Provence’s bustling Cours Mirabeau.
“
Ainsi
,” he said, clucking his tongue in a manner Maggie found mildly irritating. “Here is St-Buvard, see?” He jabbed a finger at the map.
She gave a sigh. “I see it, Laurent. I saw it back in Atlanta, I saw it on the airplane, in the taxi cab, on the map you have pinned up over the sink in our hotel room...” Her long, dark, hair spilled past her shoulders and draped around her like a sleek ebony cape, accenting her creamy, pale skin.
He looked up in confusion. “I do not have any map pinned up―” he began in heavily-accented English, a puzzled look on his face.
“I’m making a point, darling.” Maggie flapped out a stiff cotton napkin and spread it across her knees. She was glad she had decided to wear slacks tonight. She’d had little idea what the weather would be like in the south of France in October. As it turned out, it was cold.
“The point being,” she continued, “yes, I see St-Buvard. Very nice red dot, surrounded by lots of inferior little gray dots. Very impressive.”
The outdoor café they chose for their first night in Aix-en-Provence was a modest bistro, slapped together with whitewashed walls and rickety tables and an assortment of wicker chairs, whose paint was peeling in various stages. Nonetheless, the food was wonderful.
“I see you are being
drôle
again,
n’est-ce pas?”
Laurent picked up his fork and pushed his food toward the rim of his plate. His brown hair was long and intruded into his face. He enacted a familiar gesture by sweeping away his thick fringe from his dark-brown, nearly pupil-less eyes with an impatient hand. Maggie thought him extraordinarily handsome
Even in early October, the air was fragrant with the scent of lavender and olive trees. The garden scents mingled on the night air with the aromas from the many culinary concoctions being produced in a half a dozen restaurants and bistros along the boulevard. It was a sensation, Maggie felt, one could experience nowhere else in the world― certainly not in Atlanta where she was from.
Maggie picked up a knuckle of bread and dipped it into the sauce of her rabbit stew. She wasn’t sure why she was cross with Laurent tonight. Possibly it was the residual effects of their long flight. Maybe it was due to the kamikaze taxi driver who had taken them from the airport in Marseille to Aix-en-Provence and had Maggie saying mental good-byes to her loved ones.
She looked at Laurent as he examined his map which was perched nonchalantly to the right of his bread plate. She watched the serious nod of his head, his heavy brows plaited together in concentration. He was big and looming and gentle. In many ways, his past was a mystery to her. After two years, he was still the most intriguing man she had ever known.
It had been two years since they had met and fallen in love. They were living in her apartment when the letter announcing Laurent’s inheritance had arrived three months earlier. She and Laurent had already decided to spend a year abroad; the inheritance simply provided the means. Laurent’s bachelor uncle had left him some land near Aix-en-Provence outside the small Provençal village of St-Buvard. The property was described briefly in the letter as covering nearly twenty hectares, most of it planted with grapes.
They’d quickly wrapped up their lives in America. Laurent had begun a one-man self-education program on grapes and wine-growing in the Provençal region. All the intense study had worried Maggie as she had no desire to become a permanent expatriate. But Laurent insisted it was just so he would know the operation well enough to get a good price for it when it came time to sell. They would live in the area and try to work the vineyard―if it was even workable―or at least keep it from falling into ruin, and then sell the property when their year was up.
There were good-byes to friends, to her mother and father. Maggie had taken a year’s leave of absence from her job at the advertising agency where she worked as a copywriter, with the understanding that there might well be no position to return to when her year abroad was up. She thought it worth the risk. In fact, she thought it might even push her into doing something else for a living when she returned. Time to start thinking about the environment, not how many truckers you can sell multi-directional flashing back-up lights to.
And so she found herself in France. She was going to hammer away at her wobbly language skills, and enjoy a romantic adventure in one of the most romantic areas of the world.
She looked at Laurent, now hunched over his map. They’d been through so much together. And although his passionate French nature could have him in thralls of ecstasy about a just-picked melon or a sauce that refused to curdle, she was still surprised at the high voltage between them. She felt a sudden surge in her love for him.
“How’s your lamb?” she asked.
“It’s good to be back,” he said flatly.
That means he’s had to put up with bad American food these last couple of years.
“My rabbit’s a little tough,” she said sweetly.
“I do not believe it.” He looked up and his eyes smiled at her although his lips did not. “It is a long trip for us both,” he continued, pouring her a large glass of red wine. “And we have many things to—”
He was interrupted by a scream from a table on the other side of the restaurant. A group of four sat at the table, although one of the party―a young, scowling girl―now sat sprawled between two of the chairs. A man at the table, blond and unevenly shaven, jumped up, knocking his chair back against the hard stone with an ear-splitting clatter. He grinned roguishly as he grabbed the girl’s hands and jerked her abruptly, but not unkindly, to her feet, then made a charade of dusting her off with his hands. The other couple at the table laughed and looked self-consciously around the restaurant.
The retrieved girl pushed the blond young man away and slumped down, pouting, into her seat. She crossed her arms and looked away. Her friends burst into laughter. Angrily, she snatched up a cigarette and lit it
.
“Tais-toi!”
she said crossly to them. Then, noting Maggie staring, she stuck out her tongue at her.
“Did you see that?” Maggie said indignantly to Laurent, who had returned to his map. “Oh, look, just study your map, will you?” Maggie pushed her dish away.
Laurent looked up at her questioningly.
“St-Buvard,” she continued, now beginning to enjoy the pique she had earlier been trying to stifle. “You said yourself, it’s French for ‘Saint Blotter,’ for crying out loud. What kind of a name is ‘Blotter’ for a town? And who would
canonize
a stupid blotter―?”
“Excuse me.” A voice spoke to her from behind.
Maggie started, knocking over the tumbler of
Badoît
with her elbow. Laurent pulled his map away as if acid had just been released onto the tablecloth.
“Oh, no! Now I’ve made it even worse,” the young man said in an American accent, as he began to mop up the mess with his napkin. Maggie could hear his table of rowdies across the room cresting new plateaus of mirth.
“My little group of brigands over there...” he gestured back toward his table. “...we felt we were intruding on your quiet dinner, you see. And then!” He slapped a hand against a slim thigh covered in expensive cotton and shook his head. Maggie had the mild impression that this was rehearsed, performed many times in the past.
“And then,” he said, “I heard you speak and I said to myself, ‘an American!’ I have to speak to them.”
“
Bonsoir,”
Laurent said gruffly. “I am not American.”
The young man threw back his head and laughed. “No shit!”
Laurent, unsure of how to respond, simply smiled.
“I guess I was really talking about
votre femme
here. She’s the one I heard.” He turned to Maggie. “You are American,
n’est-ce pas?
Look, mind if I join you?” He scooted up another chair next to Maggie and seated himself. A little taken aback by his forwardness, Maggie, nonetheless, found herself charmed by him.