Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) (3 page)

Six terrible
months.

Six wonderful
months.

She could see he
was smiling now. It was that same old smile. The one that used to affect her
so. The one that made her tummy flip-flop in anticipation of the moment he
would take her into his arms and drill her with that all-possessing focus of
his. The one that assured her she was the only one. No one else. Until, of
course, there was.

Julia turned away
from the sight of Jacques standing there and reminded herself that it wasn’t
just the slap, the lies and the other girl.
A
girl!
No more than seventeen. How could she complete with that? Smooth
skin, clear eyes, and eager heart. The child wore a midriff-baring top as
easily and unselfconsciously as Julia did her flannel granny nightie.

No, it wasn’t the
lies and the infidelity. It was the undeniable, unassailable and relentlessly
unavoidable evidence that Julia would never be young again—no matter how
young she felt on the inside.

A man who took that away from you
, she thought as she dropped her apron
onto the couch and ran a hand through her short curly hair,
well, he should die a slow and horrid death
.

Chapter Three

Sometimes Maggie swore
she could smell the
Mistral
, that
icy-cold wind
that comes down the Rhône River Valley from the Alps to jolt the sun lovers of
Provence back to their senses. As she sat with her laptop on the terrace of the
beautiful stone
mas
she shared with
Laurent, she found herself pulling her cotton cardigan tighter around her. Petit
Four, her little hybrid poodle mix, was curled up next to her on the cushion of
the bench where she sat. From here she could just see the form of her
husband—always the tallest figure in any grouping—walking the
perimeter of his vineyard with the men he had hired to bring in this year’s
harvest. She loved to watch Laurent, especially when he was unaware of her. At
more than six foot four, she often thought his natural grace of movement belied
his size. She watched him now as he moved easily between the carefully trussed
vines, pointing out this one or that to his audience.

Maggie put a hand on her stomach and directed her attention back to her
laptop screen. In the time it took to bury one uncle—hers, this time, not
his—and make a baby, she and Laurent had somehow managed to pull off the
impossible. They—particularly one malcontented American expatriate—
had taken their marriage firmly by the horns and turned it all around. Her
resentment of Laurent’s focus on his vineyard evaporated when she realized how
important his happiness, however it was derived, was to her. Then she realized
how important
she
was to
his
happiness. That, and a two-book deal
for a mystery series that came out of left field, had enabled Maggie to put
Laurent’s passion about his grapes into perspective—and to kick start her
own passion.

Her editor had sent a series of changes on the first draft of her book. And
while at first she almost had to sit down and put her head between her knees to
keep from passing out, with time and the sturdy good sense from her
straight-thinking husband, she soon accepted that strong revision was par for
the course for most writers—even experienced ones. That, and soothing and
encouraging phone conversations from both her agent and editor, soon had her
breathing normally again. Even so, her editor had seen the need for a lot of
changes to Maggie’s first draft of a murder mystery set in Paris during Paris
Fashion Week.

A
lot
of changes.

Maggie scrolled down the manuscript on her computer and found herself
nodding more often than frowning at what the editor had pointed out. She knew
her editor was just making sure the book was the best it could be. After all,
it was Maggie’s name on the jacket cover. She’d told Laurent, “Before I got
this email from my editor, I thought I could write.” As usual, Laurent was not
in an indulgent mood and she had received a Gallic snort in response that could
only be interpreted as
knock it off and
get to work
. She smiled at the memory.

A motion glimpsed out of the corner of her eye made her look up in the
direction of Laurent again and she was surprised to see him striding
purposefully back toward the terrace where she sat. It was nowhere near lunchtime,
and she was sure he meant to spend the morning in the vineyards. Before Laurent
was halfway back to the house, Petit Four jumped down from the bench barking
and ran to the double French doors that led back to the house.

Between Laurent and the dog, it was pretty clear someone was either at the
front door or was rappelling down the walls into the upper bedrooms. Maggie got
up and went into the house.
Now how had
Laurent known someone was here
, she wondered. She had gotten used to his knack
for hearing and seeing things that only bats and some carefully attuned dogs
could hear, but she still marveled at the ability. As she reached the heavy
front door to the
mas
, Maggie was
already out of breath. Her pregnancy left her wilted and tired these days from
the simplest exertions.

 
She pulled open the door and was stunned
to find her best friend Grace Van Sant standing on Maggie’s ancient slate
threshold, a Louis Vuitton bag at her feet, a pair of Prada sunglasses on her
nose, and her two-year-old towhead on her hip.

“Surprise,
darling,” Grace said, her voice trembling just a little. “We’re here.”

“I am surprised,
is all, Grace,” Maggie said after all the hugs and luggage had been dealt with,
Grace comfortably scooted into the main lounge, a glass of Côte de Rhone in her
hand, a small plate of crudités on the coffee table before her. “Delighted, but
surprised. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? And where are Taylor and
Windsor? Can you stay?”

From the minute
her dearest of all friends had crossed into her home, bringing with her the
ever-present whiff of Chanel No. 19 and a sense that her namesake, Grace Kelly,
was trans channeling, Maggie knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just that
Grace was here from Indianapolis without any advance notice at all. It wasn’t
the fact she had come alone, except for baby Zou-zou. It wasn’t even the fact
her excuses for the absence of her husband and other child were so vague. It
was Grace, herself.

Grace Van Sant
was rich and always had been. That kind of money for that length of time formed
a person. It shaped the way they looked at the world, gave them a languor they
could transfer to just about any situation they found themselves in.

Grace and Windsor
had been living in Provence for three years before Laurent and Maggie arrived.
Unlike Maggie, Grace had handled the language, the village, the food and the
clothes as if she had been born to them. Everything was easy for Grace, Maggie
had long believed. And she lived and moved like her name—smoothly,
elegant, perfectly.

Which was why it
was so disconcerting to see her now. The hand that held her sherry glass shook.
She licked her lips repeatedly. She patted her hair as if not sure it was just
right. And Grace was
always
just
right. She constantly pulled out her cellphone to check the time.
Or was it to see who hadn’t called?

No, there was
something definitely wrong and Maggie had a sinking feeling, a sinking,
hard-to-believe feeling, she knew what it was.

“I told you I’d
come for the birth,” Grace said, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her Dolce
& Gabbana slacks.

“That’s not for a
month or more,” Maggie pointed out to her. “And I thought you’d let me know
when and where so Laurent could come to the train station and pick you up.”

“Yes, well, now
I’ve saved him the bother.”

“Is everything
alright, Grace?”

“What? Don’t be
silly, darling! I come back to France for the first time in nearly two years
and you think something’s wrong? I’m not sure how to take that.”

Maggie frowned,
unconvinced, but Laurent entered the salon holding Zou-zou and deposited the
baby into Maggie’s arms.

“Lunch is ready
soon, yes?” he said to them.

“Oh, that sounds
divine, Laurent,” Grace said, reaching out to take his hand as he moved to go
back to the kitchen. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here.”

Laurent gave her
arm an absentminded pat. “
Bien sûr
,”
he said over his shoulder.
Of course.

Lunch was its
usual Laurent-spectacular. It was mid September, but many days were already too
cool for eating out-of-doors, and Laurent deemed this was one of them. He had
Maggie set the long, oaken farm table he had inherited with the house while
Grace put the baby down for her nap. When she returned, he handed her a glass
of wine and motioned for her to take her seat at the table.

“One of yours?”
she asked, sniffing the bouquet.

“
Non
,” he said. “Much better. Well.” He
stopped and glanced at Maggie for a moment. “Perhaps not
much
better.”

“Laurent’s stuff
is really good,” Maggie said. “His last harvest was so, so good. Flinty and dry
but a little sweet.”

Grace took a
healthy sip and sank down into her dining chair. “You’re getting pretty good,
yourself,” she said to Maggie. “Learning the lingo after all this time?”

Laurent grunted
and returned to the kitchen, but Maggie knew he was pleased with the interest
she had taken in the vineyard and the effort she had made to learn what he did.

“Well, you know
what they say,” Maggie said seating herself. “
Petit
à
petit
…”

“
L’oiseau fait son nid
.”
Little
by little, the bird builds its nest
. Grace nodded. “You guys look like you
really figured it all out in the end.”

“Don’t jinx us,
Grace. But, yeah. We’re finally happy. What with the book and everything.” She
waved at her very large abdomen pressing into the side of the table.

“Yes, you
definitely have your distractions. I can see. What about socially? Are you two
just stay-at-homes or do you go out?”

“There are a few
discos in Aix if you need some excitement,” Maggie said dryly. “Or were you
asking if I’d replaced you yet in the best friend department?”

“Can’t slip much
past you. I haven’t found anyone in Indianapolis yet. It’s a hard town to break
into. I’ve put in my applications for best friend but so far nothing. I
understand you and Danielle have gotten close?”

Danielle Alexandre
was Maggie and Laurent’s elderly neighbor. While it was true that after Grace
left Maggie reached out to Danielle more than she had before, Grace knew well
enough it could never be like what
they
had.

“I’m really too
busy for palling around much lately,” Maggie said. “It’s a good thing you left,
Grace. I would’ve had to dump you.”

“Charming,
dearest. And good to know.”

Laurent entered
with a large tureen of
bouillabaisse
and
set it in front of the women.

“It’s not fish,
is it?” Maggie asked, peeking under the china lid of the tureen.

“Of course it is
fish,” Laurent replied, nonplused. “It is
bouillabaisse
.”

“You can’t eat
shellfish?” Grace asked, reaching for her napkin.

“She can eat
anything,” Laurent said firmly, giving Maggie a raise of his eyebrow. “It is
just her little joke.” He placed a large basket of garlic rounds on the table
with a bowl of
rouille
.

“Oh, I have
missed this,” Grace said, and Maggie could swear her eyes watered when she
spoke.

“Just fish soup,
Grace,” she said. “No biggie. Right, Laurent?”

But Laurent was
off to the kitchen to fetch something else necessary to make the lunch perfect.

“Well, it’s a
biggie to
me
,” Grace said, spreading
the
rouille
on a toast round. “I
can’t remember the last time I had French food, let alone with friends.”

“Windsor working
a lot?”

“You could say
that. And Taylor is a full-time job. She’s worse now than ever. Plus, she hates
me.”

“I’m sure that’s
not true, Grace.”

Laurent returned
with a large ladle and spooned the steaming and fragrant stew into three large
stoneware bowls. As soon as they were served, Maggie’s cellphone rang.

“It could be my
editor,” she said, looking at Laurent.

“You can call her
back,” he said.

Maggie picked up
her phone and looked at the screen. “It’s Julia,” she said and accepted the
call before Laurent could speak. “Hey, Julia. What’s up?”

Laurent sighed
heavily and flapped a linen napkin across his lap.

Grace nudged him
with her foot under the table. “Who’s Julia?”

“
Une amie
,” he said. “They met last year.
They have become close.” He frowned and looked at Maggie, who was off the
phone. “
Qu’est-ce qui’il y a?”
he
asked.

Maggie looked at
him as if startled out of a daze.

“Maggie?” Grace
said. “Is everything alright?”

“That was Julia.”
She shook her head. “You’re not going to believe this.” She looked from Grace
to Laurent. “Jacques is dead.”