Murder à la Carte (47 page)

“Anyway...” Laurent said impatiently.

“Thirdly,” Maggie continued, “and probably most significantly, Connor had impregnated Madame Renoir’s little pet, the hardly wholesome Babette, reminding her of other, unfortunate times in her own life. That night, Thanksgiving, Connor was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Madame Renoir was in one of her unfortunate, rare states of madness, she saw her opportunity...and boom. She went for it.”

Grace shook her head sadly.  “She killed Connor.”

“She did.” Maggie looked at Grace. “She’s a strong woman, Grace. Maybe you noticed that?”

Grace continued to shake her head in disbelief. “She killed Connor and then went back to business as usual, serving up buns and tweaking children’s rosy cheeks. Didn’t she babysit your niece, Nicole, the very next day?”

“And why, exactly, did she kill the Fitzpatricks?” Windsor asked. “That’s never been clear to me.”

“They were leaving France to return to England. She wanted to stop them, stop him.”

“She certainly succeeded in doing that.”

“She was pregnant and obsessed with the man, Fitzpatrick. He was rejecting her―obviously in favor of his wife. I guess, in her tormented little mind she saw the children as products of the Fitzpatricks’ love.”

“That’s logical,” Grace said.

“And besides, the little mites were witnesses. Face it, if she’d spared them, she’d be just getting out of prison about now.”

“If she didn’t get the guillotine,” Laurent added.

“That’s more likely, back then,” Windsor agreed.

“I don’t imagine she’ll serve time now.” Maggie replaced her mug on a coaster on the coffee table and dabbed at her lipstick with a cocktail napkin.

“You’re kidding!”

“She’s sick, Windsor,” Maggie insisted. “She’s not some serial killer or hit man. She’s twisted.”

“I don’t know.” Windsor glanced at his wife. “She sounds pretty evil to me.”

“Poor Madame Renoir. Poor Marie-France,” Grace murmured.

“And the note that was found on the body?” Windsor said. “You know, the one that said, I forgive you but this is the way it’s got to be blah blah blah, signed Patrick? How do you explain that?”

“Easy. It
was
from Patrick, that’s true, but it wasn’t meant for Madame Fitzpatrick. It wasn’t signed Patrick, if you remember, it was signed P.”

“P for Patrick,” Windsor said, frowning.

“Or
Papa
,” Grace said slowly, the truth dawning.

“That’s right. Grace and I got the transcript for the note at the library. It looked like it was indicting Patrick, but it could be read another way. For example, if Patrick had found out about his daughter’s affair and subsequent pregnancy? He might be compelled to write a note to Marie-France saying he forgave her for everything. There was a line in there about this being the best road or way for them both to take and that he had no regrets. He was probably going to insist she have the baby, and that they’d raise it as a sort of little brother or sister to Madame Renoir. I don’t know. I’m just guessing there.”

“She had the note with her the night she visited the Fitzpatricks and dropped it at the scene,” Windsor suggested.

“Voila.”

“And all this time, everyone thought the note was to the Fitzpatrick woman because she was found clutching it,” he said.

“
C’est logique,”
Laurent said.

“And Madame Renoir attacking me? What’s logical about that?” Grace frowned and twisted painfully to get comfortable against Windsor’s arm.

“You caught her at a bad time,” Maggie said.

“No kidding.”

“She got it into her head that you were Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

“Lucky me. Is there a resemblance?”

“Well, you were both foreign, English speaking, blonde, beautiful, married. I don’t know,” Maggie said, turning to look at Windsor. “Did Madame Renoir ever come on to you, Windsor? That would explain a lot.”

“We only slept together the one time,” he said with mock seriousness.

“I imagine it was just bad timing, Grace,” Maggie said. “Plus, you were pregnant and starting to show. We don’t know what kind of snakes and toads were crawling around in the old girl’s brain on account of that. Probably went a little haywire every time she was invited to a baby shower.”

They were all quiet for a moment.

“She made the best
beignets à la crème
,” Grace said.

Epilogue

Like a blanket of purple velvet, the surrounding fields of lavender engulfed the senses, subtly, delicately, exquisitely. Spring in Provence was intoxicating. The pastures were alive with tiny kid goats and rambunctious lambs in their fuzzy sleeper pajamas, kicking up their sharp, miniature hooves in glee. The air was redolent with new-mown hay and fresh-cut lavender. Poppies dotted the landscape like bright drops of blood.

It was Maggie’s wedding day.

In the five months since the Christmas Day fire, Laurent’s fields had been hand planted with vinestocks from the neighboring vineyards―mostly Jean-Luc’s and Eduard Marceau’s. Eduard had pled “not guilty,” was convicted and sentenced to five years in prison. Later, in a move that surprised nearly everyone, Danielle had sold the lion’s share of the Marceau fields to Jean-Luc, keeping only the house and the surrounding rose gardens for herself. The question of where she would go and where she would live when Eduard emerged from prison was still unanswered in most people’s minds.

Elspeth and John Newberry arrived with their granddaughter Nicole, who was to share duties with Taylor Van Sant as flower girl. Grace was eight months along, and Windsor appeared proud and happy. In a secret moment, Grace revealed to Maggie that Windsor had decided he could ignore the question of the patrimony of the awaited child. He had been profoundly affected by the thought of losing Grace and had quickly reshuffled his priorities. 

Madame Dulcie had rallied the rest of the village women to periodically visit Maggie at Domaine St-Buvard in an effort to make her feel welcome and at home in St-Buvard. The butcher’s wife made it clear she held Maggie completely responsible for clearing Patrick Alexandre’s good name. Her gratitude was, if gruff, seemingly boundless in the form of free lamb cutlets and ground beef.

Paulette and Bernard had become, if not regular visitors to their home, then less infrequent ones. And Maggie found herself appreciating the quiet, strong farmer’s wife and marveling in the couple’s obvious affection for one another. Bernard, although never again mentioning his thanks for her efforts in clearing his name, was kind and patient with Maggie’s tortured French, and quite talkative. Maggie was surprised and ashamed that she had viewed him before as an oafish, thick peasant. He was no scholar, granted, but he was good company and could make her laugh. Babette married the biker, announced her pregnancy, and moved to Nîmes. Paulette seemed sorry to see her go. Maggie thought she could even understand why.

The
boulangerie
was crudely boarded up with plywood, upon which was painted the word “
Ferme
.”
Closed
. Even after nearly six months it was painful for Maggie to look at the little shop. Marie-France Alexandre Renoir was placed in a mental hospital in the north, too far away for Maggie to indulge in any impulsive whims. In any event, Renoir’s doctors had asked that Maggie not write or try to contact the woman. They had classified Madame Renoir as a paranoid schizophrenic and asked that she not be reminded of her past life in any way. Maggie thought it a strange way to deal with mental illness. Madame Renoir had been a big part of her introduction to St-Buvard, to France itself. Every time she pulled Petit-Four onto her lap, Maggie thought of where the dear pet had come from.

Today, she stood in the cold stone side room in the little church at St-Buvard, her friends and family waiting on the church pews polished shiny from years of penitent villagers’ bottoms. She wore a simple white dress, her dark hair off her neck in an elegant French twist, with tiny lavender and gardenia blossoms pinned in the upsweep of hair. She held a small bouquet of village flowers in her hands: violets, lavender, and pale pink rosebuds. All from her own garden.

Maggie turned and walked to the window of the little room and looked out. The purple hills that seemed to stretch all the way to Lyons filled the horizon and, even from this distance, Maggie could smell their lovely, light scent.

Immediately outside her window she could see the little church graveyard, its granite tombstones, ornate crosses and weatherworn angels stuck into the ground at haphazard angles. From where she stood she could just see Patrick Alexandre’s grave as well as the tip of his granddaughter Louise’s. She wondered if old Patrick was resting easier these days. But since the fear of exposing his cherished only daughter, Marie France, was the reason he died in the first place, Maggie hardly thought he’d thank her.

“You are not thinking of jumping?”

Maggie started at the voice and then turned to smile at Laurent. He wore a simple gray suit, a white rose bud in his lapel, his dark hair trimmed to just below his ears. He was gorgeous.

Wordlessly, she moved toward him. He held her arms in his two hands and looked into her face.

“You look magnificent, Maggie,” he said.

“I am happy, darling.” She smiled at him and then cocked her head. “Did you think I might change my mind?”

He leaned over and kissed her again. “I have come to thank you for my early wedding gift.”

Maggie looked at him with a look of mild confusion. Then her eyes strayed to the door and the noise of the gathering congregation outside. She smiled back at him.

“So Roger made it,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if he’d gotten my message.”

Laurent took her into his arms and she felt her residue nervousness fade from her as completely as watercolors in a rainstorm. As he held her, Laurent whispered into her ear: “You never asked me about the fortune the old gypsy woman told you. The one on the little tape recorder?”

Maggie smiled into his shoulder and smelled his mixed scent of lemons and musky maleness.

“I forgot all about it,” she whispered. “What did she say?”

She felt Laurent shrug.

“Only that you would marry a good man and bear him many sons.”

Maggie laughed. “Yeah, grape-picking sons, right? You’re making this up,” she said.

“Better study your French and find out, eh?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Susan Kiernan-Lewis lives in Atlanta and writes about horses, France, mysteries and romance. If you enjoyed
Murder à la Carte
, you might want to check out the other books in the series:
Murder on the Côte d’Azur
and
Murder in Provence
. Like many authors, Susan depends on the reviews and word of mouth referrals of her readers. Please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com or Goodreads.com.

Follow Susan’s website at
susankiernanlewis.com
and feel free to contact her at
[email protected]
.

EXCERPT FROM
MURDER IN PROVENCE

Chapter One

      The failing evening light wove through the gaps in the wicker-backed chairs like golden strands of hemp. There was a faint fragrance of garlic and lemons in the air as the lower streets’ many bistros prepared to satisfy their patrons with special renditions of
paella
  or
cassoulet
and
soupes des poissons.
The warm, caressing light and the delicious scents should have combined to make Catherine’s walk more enjoyable as she negotiated the rough cobblestone road to the stretch of unembellished, middle-class apartment buildings where her aunt lived. She held her breath in order to hear the soft tinkle of wine glasses and dinner plates being set down on starched tablecloths, or the sounds of people laughing, talking. The voices would carry easily on the breezes that scooted inland from the sea.

      Yet she heard nothing. The bistros and outdoor cafés, evident on this summer night only because of the wafting odors and her own knowledge that they were there, were out of sight and silent from this distance. She stared up at the tightly shuttered row of windows above her in the deserted little mews, so dark and filthy in its inhospitality. One would think the whole street deserted as a result of some recent, natural catastrophe. Why hadn't she gone the longer way round? Past the bustling restaurants and the slapping water of the moored sloops in the tiny harbor? Why did she always have to take the short-cut, the quick-fix? She'd worked late at the hospital again tonight. How stupid! Or was it greed? Were the three hours of extra pay worth the risk of being late to her aunt's special dinner?      

Catherine had reasoned that, by taking the back streets to her aunt's neighborhood, she would lose nothing.  Nor would she have to pay the exorbitant charges a taxi would demand--the bandits!--to take her there from the bus stop. No, this was certainly the smart thing to do.

      The dormant, dark windows on either side of the close alleyway stared blindly down at her. The cobblestones themselves were damp and gritty but there had been no rain recently that Catherine knew of. The alley--too small to allow even the smallest of compact cars--narrowed further. She approached the last gentle turn before the final climb up ancient stone steps to the foundering light of the plateau and the row of tidy,  bland, apartments where her aunt lived. She quickened her pace and looked back over her shoulder. There was nothing behind her except the narrowing alleyway with its movie-set back prop of shadowy buildings and the darkness that seemed to swallow up her trail like a treacherous mountain shelf that slowly crumbles into oblivion as each footstep leaves it.  Catherine hurried to stay ahead of it.

      She found herself walking lightly, as if not to disturb the rats and the street cats she could not see but knew were there. She held her breath again and listened a second time for any noise other than the sound pounding in her ears of her own heart. At what point had she become nervous? she wondered with  surprise. When had she stopped thinking of work and which doctor had said what and which patient had inspired the new anecdote she might tell at dinner, and when, instead, had she become aware of how dark it was getting and how lonely this street was?