Murder à la Carte (43 page)

Grace hesitated and then moved, resignedly, back to the counter for the cake. “Well, all right,” she said weakly. “Thank you, Madame Renoir.”

Madame Renoir turned to cut the length of ribbon behind her for the parcel, but instead picked up the rolling pin from the shelf and brought it out in a straight-armed wide arc, sending measuring beakers and glass canisters of chocolate sprinkles and candied cherries crashing to the floor. She struck Grace squarely on the side of her beautiful, blonde head and watched as the foreigner crumpled with an anguished moan to the bakery shop floor.

5

Laurent’s vineyard was divided into quadrants by two tractor roads that carved rutted tire tracks out of the dirt. One road stretched a kilometer from the side of their farmhouse across the width of the vineyard to the wall that separated Laurent’s land from Eduard Marceau’s. The other ancient road scored the vineyard down its center. The flames writhed and squirmed between the rows of grapevines but hesitated at the tractor road which ran east to west, reluctant to jump it even at the urging of the strong wind.

Jean-Luc knew it would not be long before the blaze sprinted this easy barrier and ignited the remainder of Laurent’s dry vineyard. He stood on the gravel path beside the house and watched as the northwest quadrant of the field burned. This quadrant was a screen of lampblack smoke. The density of the pitch fog hid the picture of what his mind already knew: the quadrant was lost. There was nothing he could do to save this, the largest quadrant of Laurent’s field. He focused his attention instead on the section closest to the house. This southeastern area of the vineyard was bordered by the village road and contained by the ancient stonewall that ran along the length of the entire vineyard. It was, as yet, untouched, but the wind was pushing the flames closer and closer. The southwestern quadrant, like the southeastern one, was only threatened at this point.

Suddenly, Laurent was at Jean-Luc’s side, out of breath, his hair wild, his eyes dark and unreadable. 

“Maggie is not in the house,” he said.

The men from Le Canard had parked in Laurent’s gravel drive and pulled their trucks and ancient cars up on the lawn that separated the house and garden from the vineyards. Now they were carrying shovels and axes over their shoulders. Their faces were grim, their eyes riveted on the arc of fire in Laurent’s fields.

Jean-Luc wrenched the gate open that led to the vineyard. Everywhere, the vines were ablaze, the fire drawing hungrily at its tinderbox of fuel. Flakes of ash drifted to the ground around them like pieces of dark confetti.

Quickly, Jean-Luc barked orders to the village men.

“There!” He pointed, indicating the tractor road straight ahead of them and at the heart of the field. “We’ll begin digging the trench there.” He grabbed a shovel and moved into the vineyard. The men followed him, their heads bowed in determination.

Windsor, who had hung back, now grabbed Laurent by the arm. He licked his dry, peeling lips. His cashmere coat was flecked with soot.

“Do you think Maggie’s okay?” he asked, looking back at the house.

Laurent began to follow Jean-Luc and the men, forcing Windsor to hurry beside him.

“She must be in the village or with Grace,” Laurent said. “
Tiens,
Windsor, go look for her, yes? See that she is safe, okay?” Laurent gripped Windsor’s shoulder and then disappeared into the dark cloud of smoke that was slowly spreading across the entire vineyard.

Running across the ground, Laurent reached Jean-Luc where he stood in the tractor tracks.

“How long until the fire brigade can get here?” Laurent shouted over the crackling roar of the fire.

Jean-Luc shook his head. “St-Etienne is more than twenty
kilometrès
away,” he said.

Laurent nodded solemnly, knowing what the answer must mean to him and his future in Provence. He turned away and viciously wedged a chunk of earth from the trench with his spade. He worked alongside fifteen men from the village throwing the dirt across the road onto the smoldering lines of fire. Sparks and shooting embers burned their eyelashes, their hair, their brisk, dark mustaches. The heat pressed against their faces and bodies. And all around them, the smoke muffled the sound of their work like a billowing black shroud, covering them with grime, cloaking them from each other in a charred, dusky veil.

6

Maggie peered through the bakery door window, tried the doorknob again, and then tapped harder this time. Her knuckles were already stinging and brittle from the cold. She had to pull her gloves off so as not to muffle her knocking. She could see nothing inside the shop. It didn’t seem to be dark in a closed-up way, she thought, just momentarily unoccupied. Madame Renoir’s living quarters were above the shop, but the baker had a sitting room in the back where she spent much of her time when she wasn’t working.

Maggie turned and looked out onto the street. She hoped Laurent was still at Le Canard, although, from where she stood on the other side of the village square with its massive, dormant fountain and mandatory war statue, she couldn’t see the small café. She did notice Grace Van Sant’s silver-blue Mercedes parked out front of the Dulcie’s
charcuterie
and wondered, idly, if the Dulcies were open for business on Christmas Day.

Suddenly, Maggie heard a noise from within the bakery. She turned back and saw the friendly, familiar rotund form of Madame Renoir slowly approaching the door. Maggie found herself remembering that Madame Renoir had been her first friend in St-Buvard. Now, she watched as Madame Renoir, her plump, red face a blur through the foggy glass pane, went through the motions of dusting off the flour from her large, heavy hands and reached for the doorknob to let Maggie in.

Windsor felt for his gloves in the deep pockets of his coat. He paused in front of Le Canard, debating whether or not to have a drink. He had driven to Dernier’s place with Jean-Luc and so had been rudely surprised to discover that he would have to walk the mile and a half back to the village through the cold to retrieve his own car. Looking up at the shuttered windows lining the deserted street, he decided it was preposterous to think that Maggie was anywhere in the village. She was probably at his own home right this minute visiting with Grace, having a hot-buttered rum. In his haste and panic, Laurent had probably overlooked the note she’d left him telling him as much.

Satisfied with this scenario and feeling due from his brisk walk, Windsor entered the café, ordered a tall Scotch and soda, and settled himself at one of the tables closest to the large window facing the village square. He wanted to be able to keep an eye on his car. One just never knew, he decided, what with people setting fires to other people’s vineyards and people being killed at Thanksgiving Day dinners. He took a large swallow of his whiskey. 

Thirty minutes later, Windsor paid for his drink and left the café. He walked directly to his car, his thoughts full of worry and concern for Laurent and the vineyards, as well as some uneasiness about Maggie. He wished now that he’d availed himself of the café telephone and called home to see if she were really there. He was gratified, at any rate, to hear his car, unaffected by the dropping temperatures, roar to life when he turned the key. He drove a slow, unseeing circle around the square, where he passed his wife’s parked Mercedes, camouflaged by two other cars parked alongside.

Windsor turned the heater on full blast and pressed his aching shoulders into the back of the car seat. He thought briefly of the fire raging at Domaine St-Buvard
. Poor bastards. Maggie will be beside herself when I tell her what happened.
Pulling out onto the narrow village road, he calculated it would take him about twenty minutes to wind his way home in this weather. Which meant he could be in his bath in thirty.

Jean-Luc had seen fires before, had fought them, as a barefaced youth and throughout his adult years. Provence was dry, the
mistral
blew hard, and these things happened from time to time. But none of the fires before had carried the same crush of guilt and responsibility as the creeping destruction of this one. He watched the northeastern quadrant of the vineyard smoke and burn like fossil fuel. They’d not been able to save the vines there, only to stop the blaze’s drive toward the stone perimeter wall that surrounded the
mas.

Laurent and the men labored to make the tractor road that ran east to west deeper and wider. Jean-Luc watched Laurent, a man he considered his friend.
I am as responsible for this disaster
, he thought,
as if I had lit the first fragile vinestock with my pipe lighter
.

The fire had edged into the southwest quadrant now, jumping the tractor road feeding hungrily on the dry vinestocks. The smoke smelled gingery and acrid, and there now seemed to be more of it than fire. Jean-Luc turned his head to scan the northern quadrants that were burning and which separated Laurent’s land from Marceau’s. His eyes probed the fuming darkness, and he blinked repeatedly to ease the stinging in them. Through the throbbing, sour blackness, he strained to pick out the form he knew must be there, watching. The smoke and the devouring fire made a sucking sound that rasped in Jean-Luc’s ears. He felt the hairs on the back of his hand prickle and he knew they would be singed off completely if he stood still for very long.

Up until now he knew that fighting the fire had been the most important thing. Plenty of time for everything else later. Plenty of time to find Eduard. But the longer he stood there and watched the sputtering demolition of Laurent’s vineyards―once Jean-Luc’s own family vineyard―the more blame and anger he felt for every bleary puff of ash floating in the dense air that had once been part of a carefully tended vine.

Jean-Luc turned to speak to Laurent but was interrupted by the remote whine of the St-Etienne fire brigade. Laurent heard the siren too and looked up, his shovel in his hand. He looked around him. really for the first time, and regarded the scorched and still-flaming remnants of his farm. Jean-Luc could see Laurent’s hands tighten on the handle of his shovel.

“I’m sorry,” Jean-Luc said.

Laurent looked at him, his face streaked with soot, his coat pocked with burn holes and blackened by carbon. Only his blue eyes, clear and flashing, tempered the picture of gray foreboding he presented. He nodded grimly, in brief acceptance of Jean-Luc’s culpability and, to Jean-Luc’s surprise, in forgiveness of it too.

7

Madame Renoir smiled tiredly and ushered Maggie into the bakery. The familiar smells of just-baked cakes and caramelized sugar filled the small front room. The baker gestured to the display case and clucked at Maggie affectionately. She wore a dark, plain dress without her usual apron. Her fat ankles rested atop wide, splayed feet that were stuffed into a pair of shabby house slippers. Maggie thought she looked breathless. 

“Maggie has forgotten her Christmas pudding?” the plump baker asked as she moved to stand behind the display counter.

“That’s the English, Madame Renoir,” Maggie said. “Americans aren’t really into puddings much. No, I forgot bread, and thought a few tarts would be nice too. I can’t believe you’re open on Christmas Day. I see Madame Van Sant’s car is parked out front. Has she been in yet?”

Madame Renoir pulled out a tray full of lemon cream and nut cookies. “I have much still from the
réveillon
,” she said, indicating the miniature, yellow cookies. “You are familiar, yes?”

“The
réveillon
. That’s the thirteen desserts, right? That everyone eats on Christmas Eve?”

“
Exactement
. Eaten before the Mass. They symbolize Christ and his apostles. It is a Provençal tradition.”

“I see you’ve got a lot left over.”

Madame Renoir sighed heavily and placed the tray of iced cookies on the counter.

“The people of St-Buvard care little for traditions,” she said. “They will eat the cookies for the...how you say?...the little snacks, yes? Not for the purpose I am baking them. You understand?”

“I’ll take them all,” Maggie said. She dug in her purse for the correct change. “You know, Madame Renoir,” she continued. “I don’t even know your Christian name. Your first name.”

Madame Renoir scooped the cookies into a small paper box and folded the sides up around them. She picked up a heavy pair of shears and cut a long strip of twine.

“I was called Marie-France as a girl,” she said.

“That’s pretty.”

“
Merci.”
The woman looked up from her work, her eyes kind and soft. “My mother named me.”

“Your father was the town hero,” Maggie said carefully, not exactly sure of how to phrase her questions.

“
C’est ça,”
the baker replied.
That’s right
.

“So I guess you were pretty hurt by everything that happened when he had to go to prison.”

Madame Renoir tied the parcel tightly and snipped the loose ends of the twine from the knot.

“Nothing else?” she said, her eyes hooking Maggie’s with a sudden coldness.

Maggie reached for the package. “
Comme bien, Madame Renoir?”
she asked.

“
Rien,”
Madame Renoir replied. “
Joyeux Noël,
Madame
.”

“
Merci,”
Maggie said. “And
Joyeux Noël
to you too, Marie-France.” As she said the words, her eyes strayed from the baker’s face to the handbag that was laying on its side on the floor by the backroom door. Now that she saw it, Maggie was surprised she had missed it before. It was a very expensive lady’s handbag that, the last time Maggie had seen it, had the name “Grace Van Sant” handstitched inside in gold threads.

Maggie cleared her throat and tucked the cookie parcel under her arm.

“You know, Madame Renoir,” she said, forcing her voice to remain clear and pleasant. “I think I know Madame Van Sant pretty well and I can’t believe she’d leave here without taking her purse with her.”