Murder à la Carte (28 page)

“Grace, you don’t know this guy, Roger. He’s a crook.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I mean, he and Laurent used to be in business together, you know?” Maggie said, waving the unbuttered roll in the air.

“Before you saved him.”

“Oh, stop it, okay?” Maggie tossed the roll back into the bread basket. “I didn’t save anybody. Laurent just decided to make a career switch.”

“After he met you.”

“Look, Grace, I’m telling you that Laurent was a felon, don’t you understand that? A thief, a swindler, a goniff―”

“And you’re afraid this Roger person is going to get him started back up again. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Maggie looked at her friend with exasperation. “Which part are you having trouble with?” she asked.

Grace laughed. “Well, for starters,” she said, “Why? Why would Laurent fall back into old habits?”

Without answering, Maggie picked up her fork and idly tapped the side of her omelette plate.

“And, then,” Grace went on. “How’s he going to do it? He’s going to start running scams out of Domaine St-Buvard or back in Atlanta with you underfoot scowling and throwing hissy fits all the time? And, of course, there’s always the matter of Laurent’s IQ, which I have reason to believe is rather high. Too high, darling, to jeopardize his life with you for an old life.”

“An old seductive life,” Maggie muttered, pushing a wedge of the cheese omelette around her plate leaving a golden trail of butter.

“Yes, well. Aren’t they all?” she said, tossing a piece of bread to the dog. “Look,” she said, turning to face Maggie, “you guys are going to Paris this weekend, aren’t you? Why not take the time to have a romantic―”

“Laurent’s not coming,” Maggie said.

Grace frowned. “How come?”

“Well, he said he needs to stay here and protect his precious vines―although those weren’t his exact words.”

“Protect his vines? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, yes, it sort of does, I have to admit.” Maggie took a sip of her
rosé
and sighed. “There’s been some vandalism at our place. Somebody’s destroyed a bunch of Laurent’s vines.”

“You’re serious?”

“
Bien sûr,
“ Maggie said, taking another sip. “
Serieux.”

“Who would do that?” Grace looked concerned. She stared out across the village fountain to the dingy gray façades of St-Buvard’s few shop fronts.

“Well, Laurent has some ideas, but the point is he can’t come this weekend. I’m going alone. My parents are expecting me Friday evening.”

“You’re taking the train?”

Maggie nodded. “I’ll get some last minute Christmas shopping done. I still haven’t gotten anything for Laurent.” She sighed heavily. “It’s awful to be this bummed-out about a trip to Paris, you know?” she said.

Grace laughed. “That’s what living in the South of France will do to you,” she said. “Talk about being spoiled. ‘Gawd, I gotta take a trip to Paris? Yuck.’” She lit up her first cigarette of the afternoon and inhaled the smoke hungrily. The two women were quiet for a moment.

“Life has sort of sucked lately, hasn’t it?” Maggie said as she pushed around a small forkful of egg and cheese and mint.

“
Un peu.”
Grace said. “I can’t believe Christmas is a week away. I’ve done nothing.”

“Me neither.”

“You and Laurent are coming over Christmas Eve, aren’t you?”

“But, of course, as the French say. You don’t have a wine cellar, do you?” Maggie asked, a cheerless smile on her lips.

“That’s not funny.” Grace frowned and stubbed out her cigarette. “Let me ask you,” she said. “Have you seen Babette lately?”

“I saw her in the bonkers stage of getting the news about her father,” Maggie replied. “She wept in my arms for awhile and I think I helped.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m joking.”

“Well, I saw her this morning. She’s looking better. She was even sort of nice to me,” Grace said, reaching for her
Badoît
and lime.

“Great,” Maggie shivered against an unexpected breeze. “It doesn’t take much to make some people human―a death, the incarceration of one’s parent...”

“Oh, come on, Maggie. I’m not saying she’s sweetness and light, but she’s got a hard life mapped out for her here―especially being an unmarried mother. And what is she? Nineteen?”

Maggie looked away.

“She’s a teenager, Maggie. They’re
supposed
to be unbearable. I’m not saying send her your old clothes or anything. But do cut her some slack, if you can.”

Maggie picked up another roll and looked back at Grace, whose blonde hair shone in the dull afternoon light.

“You’re right,” Maggie said, finishing her glass of
rosé
. 

“Good. See? Now you don’t have to go to church on Sunday. You’ve already done your good deed for the week.”

“Yeah, like we both line up to go to church on Sunday.”

“I go to church, I’ll have you know.”

“You do?” Maggie nearly dropped the roll she had been in the process of mopping up her omelette with.

“Sure. We go to
l’église
in Aix.”

“Catholic?”

“What else?”

Maggie shook her head. “It’s just weird that I didn’t know this about you, is all. You all three go?”

Grace laughed at Maggie’s reaction and leaned back into her chair. “Norman Rockwell
à la belle France
,” she said. “The days that Taylor doesn’t try to climb into the priest’s pulpit or fling her hymnal into the choir can really be quite nice. Restful even. I like going.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“No dear, I’m Buddhist but this was the closest thing in Provence. Of course, I’m Catholic, you twit!”

“I’m just so surprised, is all,” Maggie said, finding herself liking the idea of Grace and Windsor going to church every Sunday for Taylor’s sake. She took a bite of her omelette. “I’m really not a goat cheese person,” she said, making a face at her plate.

Grace sighed. “I can’t eat a thing these days.” She said, cutting another small wedge of omelette for Petit-Four. Her fingers were delicate, beautiful and trembling, Maggie noticed.

“Because of Connor’s death?” Maggie asked.

Grace, smiling at the grateful little dog at her feet under the table, shook her head. She glanced up at the leafless latticework of sycamore branches that provided little protection from the threatening clouds overhead.

“No,” she said, flicking a piece of mint from her expensive knit jumper. “I think it’s mostly because I’m pregnant.”

Maggie immediately reached across the table and grabbed Grace’s hand. “Grace, that’s wonderful!” she said brightly, wondering why Grace didn’t act like it was wonderful.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Grace said. “Windsor and I are very happy.”

5

Petit-Four’s normally floppy ears perked into some semblance of alertness, its small but sturdy body rigid as it listened to sounds coming from the little wood. Maggie stopped walking and watched the dog, enjoying its explorations, its animated pouncing onto unsuspecting leaves and twigs. Maggie had never thought of herself as a “dog person” before Petit-Four. And she’d always had dogs growing up, lots of them. Big golden furry dogs. Friendly and dumb. But this little dog―still only a puppy―was different from the heavy, lumbering retrievers and setters of her childhood. Smart, loving, and adorable, Petit-Four was like a teddy bear come to life, squeezable and cuddly, sweet-smelling and consoling. Maggie could see why some people thought of their dogs as their best friends.

The lunch with Grace had been less than satisfying, she decided as she tossed a small twig over Petit-Four’s head. Grace’s off-hand announcement of her pregnancy― something she’d earlier given Maggie every reason to believe was the single most important thing in her life―combined with her maddening, if proper, admonishment for Maggie to think kinder of Babette (
Grace
, who had a tongue that could razor a hedge at fifty yards)―had served to seriously unsettle Maggie. And how is it she had never known about Grace’s religiosity? How had they managed a fairly close friendship for the last three months without that fact showing itself? All in all, lunch had left Maggie feeling disconcerted and troubled.

She was glad she’d decided to walk to town for the lunch. Gladder still that she’d refused Grace’s offer of a ride home. She wanted the walk, needed the time to think. And not just about Grace. Her contact with Laurent since last night’s argument had been tense and brief. This morning, she had held her accusations, allowing him to forgo the inevitable defensive replies, but the feeling between them had still been as cold and hard as a frosted windowpane primed to shatter.

She watched Petit-Four scamper ahead of her, the dog’s velvet paws silent as it ran across the dirt and stony road. The mid-December day was cold and blustery.

Christmas in a week? Impossible. Where were the lights? The tinsel? Santa Claus?

Laurent hadn’t even bothered to hack down a fir tree for their living room yet and she’d nagged him about it for a week now.

And Roger Bentley was probably already at Domaine St-Buvard, reminiscing with Laurent.
She could picture Laurent in the kitchen, his old
compadre
perched on a stool, drinking Laurent’s wine, talking the old talk.

Nearly a mile outside St-Buvard and about a half mile from their house, Maggie could see the village church hidden in a copse of trees on the side of the road. She’d seen it a hundred times as she passed in the car―its ancient gray-stone front blending into the dingy blue-gray of the landscape. The crumbling steeple presided over a small graveyard enclosed by a frail wrought-iron fence.

As they came opposite the church, Petit-Four flushed a small rabbit from under a bush and raced after it into the cemetery. Maggie whistled for the dog to come back. The church and its bleak grounds looked unoccupied. There was no nearby rectory that Maggie could see and it was difficult to tell from the dilapidated condition of the church’s exterior whether the villagers still used it. In any event, it was a healthy distance from the town. Hardly convenient, Maggie thought. She whistled again for the dog and then, with resignation but good humor, followed it into the graveyard.

It was an old cemetery, she realized afer scanning the ancient headstones. Crude, crumbling markers jutted out of the cracked earth like the tips of giant Popsicle sticks pushed into the ground. Several headstones were large and elaborate, and she found herself reading the inscriptions for names she might recognize from the village. As she walked into the heart of the graveyard, she passed several smaller slabs that seemed to lead to a main headstone. This large, squat memorial in marble seemed to serve as the apex of the graveyard. Maggie approached it and saw that it, unlike many of the others, was well-tended, with fresh cut flowers arranged against it. She read the inscription, carefully carved into the stone
: l’epouse et mère bien-aimée, Mireille Alexandre, 1900-1930.

She could hear Petit-Four’s excited yapping a little closer now, and she glanced up to catch a glimpse of her rustling about at the back of the graveyard―still on the trail of her escaping prey. Maggie looked back at the large headstone. Mireille Alexandre. That would be Patrick’s wife, she thought with interest. Old Madame Renoir’s mother. It occurred to her that she didn’t know the baker’s first name. Perhaps she was named Mireille after her mother? Maggie couldn’t see it. Mireille was a name for a slim, beautiful girl. Flirtatious and elegant. Maggie stepped back away from the grave and studied its obvious position of honor. 

As she picked her way toward Petit-Four, she saw the graves of several relations of the Marceaus. There was another Alexandre, a “Marie Alexandre” who died in 1965 at the age of eighty. Jean-Luc’s mother? Her grave, also, was well-groomed and tidy. Maggie wondered why the two graves weren’t placed closer together. There was no sign of Patrick’s grave.

Maggie reached the dog and scooped her up. The dog held herself stiffly in Maggie’s arms, but other than that, did not resist being carried.

The wind had begun to pick up and Maggie felt uncomfortably cold for the first time since she’d begun her walk. No wonder, she scolded herself. Lollygagging around a boneyard with the temperature steadily falling. She hurried back through the wrought-iron gate. What with Roger due in or already there at the house, Laurent would definitely take her being late as a message on her part. She quickened her pace.

As she trudged the last steps up the hill of their steep drive to their front door, Maggie saw, by the rental tag on the black Jaguar XKE parked next to their Renault, that Roger had arrived.

She put a hand to her hair, which flew about her red face. Once inside, Petit-Four, immediately smelling the scent of a newcomer, went tearing into the living room in pursuit of him. Maggie listened for the sounds of laughter and men’s voices. The house was quiet.

She deposited her wool jacket on the hook in the foyer and, not bothering to pick up her plaid muffler as it floated to the floor, straightened the buttons of her cardigan over her short pleated skirt. Petit-Four was barking at the French doors which led to the terrace. After a perfunctory glance into the empty kitchen, Maggie joined the dog at the doors and pushed them open.

Roger Bentley knelt on the terrace, the expensive wool knit of his trousers sinking into a bad patch of wet leaves and dirt. Maggie had forgotten how good looking Roger was. His brown hair was thinner than Laurent’s, and cut considerably shorter, but it accented his straight, bony nose and framed the blue in his sharp blue eyes until Maggie thought she almost felt glad to see him.

He looked up at her immediately, a mixture of sadness and pleasure at seeing her in his face. She noticed Laurent kneeling beside him, both blue-jeaned knees fully on the wet terrace stones. He looked up at Maggie with anguish and anger in his eyes.

On the ground between them, one of Laurent’s hunting dogs lay dead.

Chapter Twelve