Murder à la Carte (32 page)

Grace’s presentation of herself as shallow and facile didn’t jibe with the portrait of the woman Maggie had come to know.

“And Windsor?” Maggie asked. “He wanted to come?”

“It was really Windsor’s idea,” Grace said. “Perhaps I will try one of those fried things.” Maggie handed the plate of fritters to her. “I mean, if any of us has any real romance in their souls, it’d be Win. When he sold the rights to his software, he suggested our living abroad.” She took a bite of the fritter. “I think the Hemingway allure had something to do with it, you know? Expatriates abroad, blah blah blah. This is quite good, Maggie.” She helped herself to another fritter. “And of course all those books had just come out by that Brit who moved here...what’s his name?”

“I don’t know, the English guy who lives over in the Luberon?”

“Yes, him. Windsor was very impressed.”

“Seems sort of an odd reason to pick up and move...” Maggie said, retrieving one of the fritters. Had the Van Sants actually immigrated on impulse to a country where they didn’t speak the language? It seemed unbelievable to Maggie that someone would make important decisions like that.

“People,” Grace said, smiling up at the hovering waiter― one large dish in each of his hands. “Aren’t we the strangest amalgamation of motives and misspent dreams?”

2

Laurent replaced the phone receiver gently and then walked to the front door of the
mas
. He pulled on his jacket, shoved a knit cap low on his head to cover his ears, and left the house. He whistled for the dog, Otto, who came bounding up to meet him at the door. The remaining dog seemed much less playful after the death of its mate. That suited Laurent.

Grace had picked Maggie up that morning in her Mercedes so the Renault was parked in the drive. He debated taking it but decided against it. The walk would be good for him, he thought, and perhaps even serve to temper his confrontation with Jean-Luc. He liked the old man, felt sorry for him at times, and had appreciated his help and advice in the beginning. It was for these reasons he’d put off the visit, the conversation, that he knew had to take place.

He tugged at his knit cap in an attempt to warm up his ears, and then shoved his ungloved hands deep into his pockets. Otto trotted at his side, looking up at him occasionally as if expecting an order to be delivered. Jean-Luc had given him the dogs, Laurent reminded himself. At first, it had been impossible for him to believe that Jean-Luc could be involved in killing one of them just to make a point. Laurent glanced at Otto. He knew now that he’d underestimated how desperate the man had been.

Drastically underestimated.

3

Maggie regarded what was left of her lunch. She really hadn’t thought she’d ordered baby squid stuffed with pine nuts. In fact, she was reasonably sure she’d ordered the sea bass with fennel. But, in any case, squid with nuts was what was presented to her with much flourish and pride. And squid was what she’d eaten.

“It was surprisingly good,” she said to Grace.

“Aren’t you ashamed of making such a fuss now?”

“Really? Do you think they knew I was disappointed?”

“Maybe not.” Grace lit up a
Gitane
and took a quick drag from it. Maggie watched the smoke being snatched into Grace’s mouth, and again she found herself wondering what kind of advice Grace’s doctor was giving her. “Maybe the chef always bursts into tears after bringing the food to the table.”

“He did not burst into tears.”

“The French equivalent. They knew you were surprised. Anyway, I’m glad it wasn’t too traumatic for you.”

“I really need to study my French more. Laurent says I’ll do it when I get tired of making an ass of myself.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I don’t know why I’m not trying harder with it.”

“It would give you something to do...” Grace’s eyes were again arrested by something outside the window and Maggie had the idea that the something was a long way off from this restaurant.

“I’ve already decided on something to do,” Maggie said, as the waiter poured coffees for the both of them. “I’m going to write a book on the Fitzpatrick family massacre.”

Grace looked away from the window and exhaled a gust of blue smoke. “Seriously?” she asked.

“Yeah, my mother gave me the idea this last weekend.”

“It’s a good story,” Grace admitted. “Write it as fiction or as nonfiction?”

Maggie shook her head. “I’m not really sure,” she said. “First, I’m going to find out everything about it that I can and then I’ll decided how to handle the material.”

Grace rested her elbows on the table while she smoked. “It sounds like fun,” she said. “Can I help?”

“I’d love it.”

Grace stabbed out her cigarette and blew a last billow of smoke away from Maggie’s face. “Why not?” she said. “I could do with something to do, myself. So, what do we do? Go around asking people for their version of the story? I must have heard twenty since I came to St-Buvard.”

Maggie shook her head and poured a hefty dollop of cream in her coffee.

“What we do,” she said, “is find out the official story. Before it got handed down into the version it is now.”

“Mm-mm,” Grace said, nodding. “The official story. That sounds exciting. How exactly do we do that?”

 Maggie, pleased to be taking the lead for once, stirred her coffee and smiled at her friend.

“You’ll see,” she said enigmatically.

4

Like a stinging nettle rubbing against a bare ankle, the tension between them was palpable and painful. Maggie had been careful not to mention Roger Bentley and Laurent had been cool and polite in asking about her weekend trip.

It was all perfectly miserable.

Now, as she came in from her day with Grace Van Sant, Maggie found her lover busy building a fire in the main sitting room of the house. She stood in the foyer watching him for a moment before taking off her coat. His broad back flexed as he reached for kindling and small logs, stacking them neatly on the fireplace grate. Finally, he turned to look at her.

“Well?” he said not unpleasantly. “You are coming in?”

She held up her bulging bag of fruits and vegetables. “Just catching my breath,” she lied, as Laurent walked to her to take the groceries. He leaned over and gave her a quick, welcoming kiss. Maggie slipped out of her coat and hung it up behind her as he carried the bag to the kitchen.

“Dinner in an hour, okay?” he called to her over his shoulder.

“Great,” she said, walking into the living room. Her coat was proving woefully inadequate to these Provençal winters. She found herself cold nearly all the time, even indoors, even in bed. She rubbed her shoulders with her hands and perched on the edge of the couch, waiting for Laurent to light the fire.

Fire building was an art with Laurent. He hand-selected the kindling, running his hands over the dead olive branches and pieces of cherry wood as if preparing to reject or accept each based sheerly on texture. Maggie got the impression, after the gathering and piling and arranging of wood in the hearth was completed―each layer designed to ignite the wood quickly and prolong its burning time―that Laurent was always a little let down by the final show of leaping flames and crumbling embers. For him, the satisfaction seemed not to be in the completed fire, but in the preparation. Considering how much time the man spent chopping onions, skinning eggplant and peeling and pressing garlic bits, his laborious, careful fire planning didn’t surprise her at all.

He returned from the kitchen and lit the crumpled pages of
Nice-Matin
under the still damp kindling.

“Will it burn?” Maggie asked. The mid-afternoon rain had thoroughly doused most of Laurent’s kindling supply.

The kindling caught and snapped into fiery life.

“
Pas de problème,”
Laurent murmured.
No problem.
He settled back into the couch and Maggie snuggled under his outstretched arm and laid her head against his chest. It felt good to be physically close again and Maggie was determined not to mention anything that might drive them apart even for an hour.

“Your day with Grace was good,
hein?”
Laurent said, his eyes watching the flames crawl up the kindling to the warped cherry logs on the grate, their buckling bark peeling and disintegrating.

Maggie nodded. “I told her I’m going to research the Fitzpatrick family massacre and she wants to help.”

Laurent frowned, but said nothing.

“It could be fun,” Maggie continued. “Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do.”

Laurent disentangled himself from her and snatched up a poker as if something urgently needed taking care of. He prodded a perfectly placed piece of wood into a position less than an inch from its original position. He tapped the poker on the slate hearth to shake off any coal dust or hot sparks then stared into the fire, the poker in his hands, as if waiting for further insubordination from the fire.

“Ah, yes?” he said absently.

Annoyed, but fighting the feeling, Maggie leaned forward and peered into the fire.

“And what did you do today?” she asked, bracing herself for a monotonous report of the topography of each row of vines in the now bleak and desolate vineyard.

“I visited Jean-Luc,” Laurent said, poking another errant piece of kindling.

Quelle surprise
, she thought.

 She leaned back into the couch and watched the flames flutter and dance over the logs. The cherry smelled generously fragrant as it burned, even blotting out the usual pleasant aromas from Laurent’s kitchen.

“I confronted him with Inge’s death,” he said, still jabbing at logs.

Maggie sat up straight and looked at him. “You’re kidding,” she said. “You think
Jean-Luc
poisoned Inge?”
Jean-Luc poison one of the dogs he gave to Laurent? One of the dogs he’d raised from a puppy? Was that possible? Were these people really that different from us?

Laurent scraped a piece of bark off a log with the side of his poker. “I do not think he did it,” he said. “But I think he knows who did.” Laurent replaced the poker in its tarnished brass holder. 

“Well, what did he say?” Maggie put a hand on Laurent’s knee and he looked at her as if surprised to find her there.

He covered her hand with his own and gave her a squeeze. “I am sorry for our fight,
chérie,”
he said.

Maggie put her arms around him and they held each other for a full minute without speaking or moving. Finally, Maggie pulled away from him and sat next to him, holding his hand.

“He admitted some bad things,” Laurent said, his voice heavy with disappointment and yet unsurprised. Maggie knew Laurent had seen too many things in his life to be surprised by the betrayal of one old farmer. “He hired Gaston to bother us.”

“To bother
me,
you mean.” Maggie felt her face flush with anger and resentment at Alexandre.
He had come to her house―countless times―eaten her sandwiches, praised her feeble French, literally stolen her boyfriend for hours and hours of tromping through wet and cold vineyards, and then he sent some slimebag degenerate with an attitude to rough her up and try to rape her.

“
Non,
chérie,“
Laurent said. “To these people, bothering
you
is the best way to bother Laurent. They know this.” He turned to look at Maggie. “Jean-Luc did not know Gaston attacked you in the cellar.”

“And you believe him?” Maggie asked bitterly.

“He is an old man,” he said. “I know what he’s capable of.”

“And Inge?” Maggie said sarcastically. “I suppose he was shocked and horrified to hear that somebody poisoned Inge?”

“He didn’t know the dog had been poisoned.”

“And you believe him.” Maggie repeated.

“Maggie, Jean-Luc will not kill his own dog,” Laurent said in mild exasperation. “After I hurt Gaston,
la belette,
he refused to do any more work for Jean-Luc―”

“I can’t believe you’re even talking to this deviant. Jean-Luc is not your friend, Laurent. Haven’t you figured that out yet? He hired someone to...”

“To plant a painted pumpkin in my fields,” Laurent said, his eyes drilling into Maggie’s. “To cut a few vines, to scare
ma femme...”

“
Scare
me?”

“Maggie,” Laurent said slowly. “I do not believe Jean-Luc wanted you hurt. I do not believe Jean-Luc wanted to kill one of my dogs...”

“Oh, no, darling, because Jean-Luc is a good and sweet person who loves animals and respects women,
n’est-ce pas?
So he couldn’t be the one―”

“Maggie, stop it―”

“Well, if not Jean-Luc, then
qui?”
Maggie pulled her arm out of Laurent’s grip. “Gaston, freelancing?”

Laurent shook his head. “Gaston has had enough. He quit after our
tête-à-tête.”

“Says Jean-Luc.” Maggie rubbed her arms and made a face at Laurent. “Well, then who? I don’t suppose Jean-Luc had any ideas?”

“He said not.”

“And you believe him.”

“Maggie,” Laurent spoke with an ire that threatened to bubble over the top of his patient reserve. “You are making me angry.”

Maggie nearly laughed out loud, whether from nervous frustration or from Laurent’s budget-basement expression of emotion. He looked like a large, unhappy kitten. The moment helped to balm her own frustration and indignation. She picked up his hand.

“It does not help to be a smartass,” he said to her, his brows knit in serious communication.

“All, right, darling,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I did
not
believe him.”

Finally.

“But he would not say who killed the dog,” he continued. “So I am just guessing.”

“You think Jean-Luc had a partner?” Maggie screwed up her face. Except for Laurent, Jean-Luc never hung out with anyone that she could remember.

“
Peut-être,”
Laurent said.

“Come on, Laurent, don’t get mysterious on me now. If not Gaston and not Jean-Luc, then who has picked up the baton, so to speak, on harassing us?”