Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) (25 page)

Jean-Luc was a
farmer. His father had been a farmer. His brother, ah, well. Jean-Luc looked at
the chubby baby in the crook of his arm, her fat little legs wrapped around his
skinny hip as if it were she who orchestrated her perch and not he. Someday he
would tell her about his brother. It was a fine story. A sad story, to be sure,
but majestic in its sadness.

Young people
today weren’t interested in the war, at least not
that
war. They cared little about who fought, or who died, so that
they might enjoy their iPods and video games. Zou-zou began to fuss and he
bounced her on his hip to distract her. Someday, she would want to hear about
Grandpapa’s
brother, the war hero.
Someday, she would ask to hear the whole story again and again.

“
Mon lait
, Papa,” she said to him. “
Zou-zou a faim
!”

“I know you are,
cherub,” Jean-Luc said holding her in one arm and her empty bottle in his free
hand. “You will let Papa fix it for you, eh?
Oui
?”

“
Now
, Papa!
Zou-zou a faim now
!”

Jean-Luc loved
that she was always hungry. He and Laurent had laughed about that. It meant
that you could always make her happy just by feeding her. He set her on the
floor and she instantly plopped down onto her bottom.

Nearly seventy
years old and never blessed, until his precious Danielle, with a wife or
children, no one was more astounded than Jean-Luc at the pull this little one
had on his heart. When she looked at him with those saucer-big blue eyes, he
was powerless to deny her anything. He chuckled, remembering his conversation
with Danielle earlier that morning.

“Children won’t
thank you for giving them everything they want, Jean-Luc,” she had admonished.
“Children need boundaries, not endless chocolate
bon-bons
.”

“Oh, yes, my
dearest, like you do with her?”

He loved to tease
her and they had laughed well at that. Zou-zou was their first, their only,
grandbaby. And while it was true, she was not blood related to them, she was
theirs, nonetheless.

His thoughts were
interrupted by a piercing shriek from the floor.

“
Ma petite
,” he exclaimed. “Papa is doing
it as quickly as he can!”

But the baby
wasn’t having it. He watched in horror as she flung herself down face first and
battered the gleaming hardwoods with her tiny fists and heels in a fury of
impatience. “Zou-zou hungry nooooooooowwwwww!” she howled.

Jean-Luc twisted
off the lid to her bottle and grabbed the fresh bottle of milk from the
counter—he hadn’t even had time to store it in the fridge this morning
when she began demanding his attentions. He ripped off the silver foil and
poised it over the mouth of her bottle, spilling it down the sides in his
hurry.

“Coming,
ma petite
,” he soothed, but he was
drowned out by her urgent screams. His fingers trembled as he recapped her
bottle, then turned to scoop her up into his arms, already enjoying the look on
her face of anticipation of her desire fulfilled.

“You see, little
one?” he said, handing her the bottle. “That didn’t take long now, eh? Your
Papa will always give his
cher
grand b
é
b
é
what she wants.”

“So where does
this put us?” Grace asked. “You can’t work on the case until after the baby is
born and Julia is being moved, where did you say? A hundred miles away?”

Maggie sighed
heavily. “Something like that. It feels like the end. Let me ask you: did you
get the impression that Annette and Florrie were together?”

“You mean at the
bar when she spilled the beans about her inheritance? Kind of.”

“Think about it.
She was carrying flowers and Florrie was all spruced up. Michelle said he was
wearing a new shirt.”

“Is that relevant?”

“I don’t know.
Why would Annette and Florrie get together? Maybe they were together all
along?”

“You mean when
she was married to Jacques?”

Maggie shook her
head. “Again, I don’t know how that’s significant.”

“Have you heard
any more from Michelle?”

Maggie shook her
head. “What a whack-job.”

“Did you tell
Roger about the attack?”

“No, because that
would involve Laurent knowing and so far he still doesn’t.”

“How is that
possible?”

“Well, there was
just so much going on that he never asked, but, knowing Laurent, he probably knows
all about it.”

 
“Should you come clean in that case?”

“My policy is
pretty much to tip-toe past the doghouse and let sleeping dogs have their
afternoon naps.”

“Probably wise.”

“Oh!” Maggie said
looking at her cellphone. “
Speaking
of the little devil…”

“Laurent is
anything
but little, darling.”

“He just texted
me! Oh, listen to this, Grace. He says to meet him at Florrie’s bar. He’s got
some great news about the case. Finally! I knew he’d be able to get more out of
Roger than I ever could.”

“That’s
wonderful! Unless you’re sure he’s not having you go to Florrie’s to confront
you about the whole baseball bat incident.”

“Not his style. Don’t
you see? Because I’ve agreed to stop the investigation, he’s stepping up. Plus,
now that things have eased up on the grape harvest and production for the year,
he’s got more time.” Maggie noticed the battery level on her phone was low and
so she turned it off and slipped it in her purse. “I’m just surprised to get a
text from him. I didn’t even know he knew how to do that.”

“Well, he’ll definitely
need to know how once the little tyke comes along so he can communicate with
him. I swear the only connection I’ve had with Taylor in two years has been by
way of a phone screen.”

“Okay, you need
to turn around at the next exit. Drop me off at Florrie’s and then just head on
home to relieve Jean-Luc. I’ll get a ride back with Laurent.”

“Sounds like a
plan.”

“I’m dying to
know what he found out.”

Chapter
Twenty-One

 
Grace watched through her rear view
mirror as Maggie went into the bar. It hadn’t seemed to bother Maggie that
Laurent’s car was not yet in the parking lot—or that
no
car was. She was just excited about the prospect of Laurent
finally joining her in her investigation, whereas mere minutes before the text
she only wanted to get home so she could get in the tub. Grace left her as
animated as she could remember seeing her since before they’d gotten the news of
Julia’s confession.

It was hard to
imagine the kind of person Julia must be to elicit this kind of loyalty and
fierce determination in Maggie. Grace admitted that a certain dark side of her
personality wasn’t at all disturbed by Julia being taken so forcibly from the
playing field. She wasn’t proud of that thought and she wouldn’t dilute the
ugliness of it by reminding herself that she, too, was going through a life
crisis.
Just not one that involved doing
serious prison time.

No, she wished
this Julia person well. She hoped she would soon be released, and while not
looking forward to actually meeting her, she did feel sure she would be able to
convincingly fake her happiness for Maggie’s sake.

Well, that sounded selfish,
she thought as she readjusted the rear
view mirror and accelerated to merge with the flow of traffic on the Route
d’Avignon. There still weren’t many cars on the road—most self-respecting
French men were already firmly ensconced at their big midday meal. When she
needed to be alert was when they all decided to weave their way home, several
bottles of good Cote du Rhone under their belts.

She glanced at
the screen of her cellphone to see if she could get the GPS to work. She knew
exactly where she was and how long it would take to get to
Domaine St-Buvard
—fifteen minutes at this speed—but she
was wondering if there might possibly be a shortcut through a nearby village.
She noticed she had no signal, no reception and she cursed these little
backwater villages that wouldn’t put a cell tower in.

That was one of
the things that Windsor liked best about living in France, she realized. And
how bizarre was that, when he made his living—his fortune as it turned
out—on the whole electronic software business. It occurred to her that unlike
most of his contemporaries, Windsor still wore a wristwatch. She had an image
of him checking it—usually to stall for time when he was trying to get
his thoughts together. It was so much a part of him, her image of him, that she
was shocked to realize she hadn’t really noticed before.

You don’t really know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

Would they still be
separating if they’d stayed in France? Would there have been some little
short-skirted French cognate to Miss Leeza? Was it all Grace’s fault or had
there been a problem before they moved home? Before Zou-zou was born.

Before Zou-zou was conceived.

She pulled off onto
the exit to the village of St-Buvard and the car hiccoughed harshly and seemed
to momentarily miss a gear shift. As she drove onto the lonely two-lane road with
towering plane trees on both sides that led into the village, she thought of
Connor again. Of how he had made her laugh, how he made her feel—as if
there were no rules or at least nobody to care if there were. Suddenly, the road
in front of her seemed to vibrate in her vision as she realized with astonishment
that it wasn’t the fact that Windsor had insisted, in the end, about finding
out who Zou-zou’s father really was. That wasn’t it at all.

It was because by
doing so he’d put to death—forever and ever amen—any remnant hope
she had of thinking there was still a piece of Connor left to her.

The car gave a
violent lurch and Grace found herself punched against the strains of her
seatbelt.
What the hell?
She twisted
the wheel to pull the slowing car onto the verge, praying there was no
self-locking mechanism when power was lost. It hadn’t even occurred to her to
look at the petrol gauge. Laurent was meticulous about making sure the car was
filled. But now, as she sat on the side of the road in the disabled car, she
could see the petrol needle on the gauge sitting on empty. When she rolled down
the window to get some air before she thought about her next step—which
she was pretty sure was going to be
literally
—she
smelled the gas.

*
              
*
                     
*

On Danielle’s
tenth trip to the window in an hour, she made up her mind to lie. It wasn’t
something that came easily to her—especially to
plan
to do it—but she was resolved nonetheless.

The sun was
dropping and she could see the rain clouds bunching up over the tree line. She
had a windshield wiper on her car that didn’t work properly and now it appeared
she would drive home in the rain. A stab of shame erupted in her chest.
Lily
would not have to deal with any
such inconveniences, she thought.

Ever again.

“They’re here,”
Danielle said brightly. “They’re here, Lily. I see them. They’re just parking.
I told you they would come.” She hesitated at the window then scolded herself
for delaying.
If I am not here to give
comfort, then why am I here?

She went back to
Lily’s bedside. The room was almost larger than her and Jean-Luc’s entire
house. She could see that it had once been lush with stylish furnishings, but
it was shabby now, as if the inhabitant couldn’t be bothered to keep it all up,
or keep it clean. It had taken her by surprise, the fact that Lily lived with
the worn carpets and the broken furniture, the clutter and the dust and the
dirt.
Where was her immense wealth
?
Was she like a character from a George Eliot
novel? Rich, but so miserly that she lived as meanly as the poorest of her
tenants?
Danielle took herself in hand and shook the thoughts from her
mind. Lily Tatois—for all they shared a first love—was never
someone she knew well, or was now ever likely to. How she lived and why she
lived that way would remain a mystery to her now.

Reseating herself
at Lily’s bedside, she could see it wouldn’t be long now.

“Did you hear me,
Lily?” she whispered. “They’re here. They’re coming.”

“I heard you,”
Lily rasped slowly, each word an effort. “Is…is Jacques here?”

Danielle
hesitated. “Jacques is gone, Lily. But the others…”

“I loved him,”
Lily said painfully. “Best.”

“I know.”

“He didn’t
deserve it.”

“Just rest now,
Lily,” Danielle said, although she wasn’t sure why. Resting wouldn’t help anyone
at this point. Lily’s next rest would be forever.

“Tell Florrie I’m
sorry.”

“You’ll tell him
yourself. He’s downstairs right now.”

“Tell him.”

“I will, Lily.”

Not knowing
whether she should or what the old woman would prefer, Danielle took Lily’s hand
gently in hers and squeezed it lightly. When she looked into her eyes to see if
she had more to say, she could see that she had gone.

*
                          
*
                                 
*

A sudden panic
seized Grace and she disconnected her seatbelt and bolted from the car. Not
knowing exactly why the gasoline smell scared her, Grace stood staring at the
car from the middle of the road, from where she could easily see the puddle of
petrol dripping steadily out from underneath the car.

All she could
think was,
Michelle wanted to kill Maggie,
and somebody had tampered with Maggie’s car
. A vision of car
bombs—probably the result of watching way too many television police
dramas—kept her from going near the car. Unable to reason herself out of
her fear, she turned and walked away from the car—the keys still in the
ignition—to begin her long walk to
Domaine
St-Buvard
. The sun was starting to drop in the sky and the wind was starting
to rise. The village of St-Buvard was arguably closer—by at least a
mile—but that required confidence that Grace did not have that she could
get help there, or a ride.

After a few
minutes, she turned to look back at the car, now far in the distance and
looking positively malevolent hunched on the shoulder of the paved road.
Laurent and Maggie will drive this way on their way home, she thought. They’ll
see the car and wonder what in the world had happened. Should she have left a
note on the windshield?
Car ran out of
gas. Think it’s probably rigged to explode.

She turned back
in the direction of
Domaine St-Buvard,
wishing she had a collar to pull up against the chill. She knew she was almost
definitely being ridiculous and the sweater would have made a big difference.
Well, they could laugh at her all they wanted.
 
She wasn’t taking any chances these
days.

*
              
*
                     
*
                     
*

The door was
unlocked but there was obviously nobody here. Maggie sat at one of the little
café tables in Florrie’s bar and wondered if the place was empty because it
wasn’t open on Sunday? That was possible. Many of these little country places
didn’t open on Sunday, she reasoned. She found it hard to believe this place
had enough business opening on the rest of the days of the week to survive. But
then, she’d been told Florrie had money.

The initial
excitement at hearing that Laurent had news, combined with the fact that he
wanted to work with her to solve the case, had worn off. As Maggie sat in the
uncomfortable wooden chair in the deserted café, she wished he could have told
her his “wonderful” news at home, maybe while she was in the bathtub. She massaged
the small of her back and felt a shooting sciatic pain needle into her hip. She
shifted to assuage it but it hung on. Now that she thought of it, it was damn
strange for Laurent to ask to meet her here.
Had he ever asked to meet her someplace ever? Anywhere?
A sick
feeling tingled in her stomach and she tried to push the feeling away.

Maybe it was the
bar. This is where that psycho tried to kill her. Maybe this was her favorite
place to murder people. Maybe
she
had
somehow gotten a hold of Laurent’s phone.

Maggie stood up
and walked to the bar. If she couldn’t find a glass of water to help with the
burning sensation that had just erupted in her esophagus, perhaps she could
find a nice butcher knife to defend herself with since the silence and the incongruity
of the message had begun to weigh on her.

And the result
was a steadily increasing uneasiness.

Before she looked
for a glass, she dug out her cellphone. There were no recent calls and she
could see her battery was about to die. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a
glass, filled it with water and stood behind the bar, drinking and trying to
think.

It’s Michelle, isn’t it? She’s coming for me and I have
played right into her hands.

Maggie put the
glass down.
Which is so weird, because
although I definitely think she’s crazy, I hadn’t pegged her for Jacques’s
murder
. That was when it occurred to Maggie that the two did not at all
need to go hand-in-hand. She heard a muted pinging sound and glanced at her
phone to see that she had received another text message, this time from Roger.
The light on her phone began to blink quickly and she guessed she had time to
read the text, but not enough to make a phone call. It didn’t matter. Surely
the bar had a phone. She clicked on Roger’s name.
Just keeping you in the loop. Annette Tatois was murdered this
afternoon at 1500 hrs.

Maggie stared at
the words until the phone died in her hand and went black. Still staring at the
blank screen, her stomach cramping hard as she registered just how bad her
situation was, she realized with a sudden shudder that it wasn’t Michelle who
lured her to the bar.
 

It was at that
moment that she heard him walking toward her from the back room of the bar.