Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) (9 page)

The waiting room
at the
Commissariat d’Aix en Provence
was
sterile and uncomfortable. Maggie had an image of a French home décor designer
sitting down with the Aix chief of police to get the goal for the room.

“Well, of course, we do not want certain kinds of people to
become comfortable here, yes?”

“Exactement! They are the family and friends of France’s
lowest criminal element.”

“I can make the seats so hard they will not want to stay a
minute longer than necessary.”

“Do it!”

“I can paint the walls the exact color of the vomit they
slept in the night before in order to ensure they will prefer not to remain.”

“Excellent!”

Maggie squirmed uncomfortably
in the hard seat and glanced at the digital clock over the locked door that led
to the warren of detectives’ offices. Or they might just have opted for the
cheapest possible alternative to a waiting area and this is where they landed,
she thought reasonably. Although she did have to admit, she shared the waiting
room with some pretty nasty looking characters—and given the intensity
with which they stared at her, most of them had never seen a pregnant woman
before.

“Maggie?” She
looked up to see Roger standing in an open door, beckoning her toward him. She
pulled herself to her feet and tried very hard not to
lumber
over to him. Perhaps because of the stares of the riff-raff
in the waiting room, Roger dispensed with the cheek kissing this time and just
led her back to his large, windowless office.

Maggie had been
in Roger’s office in Arles several times when the two of them had worked
together. He’d clearly had a promotion in more ways than just his title. While
still lacking a view—
such a shame
in a town like Aix!
—the office was well furnished and obviously
reflected his new, higher rank. He gestured to a chair across from his desk and
Maggie gratefully eased into it.
Crap
.
Now even her feet were starting to ache.

“You are well,
Maggie?” Roger asked, not looking at her, not smiling.

“Yes, thanks,
Roger,” she said brightly. “And you?”

“Fine,
merci
. What is it I can help you with
today?”

“Well, first let
me thank you again for allowing me to come and see you. I know how busy you are,
and now I see how important you are, too.” She waved a hand at his office.

He looked at her
from beneath his eyebrows, registering her light sarcasm. She thought for a
moment he was fighting a smile, but if so he won the fight.

“Your purpose
today?”
 

“I have some
questions about Julia Patrick’s case.”

“I have released
all pertinent information to the media.”

“That’s funny. I
didn’t read anything about the case in the paper.”

He looked at her
blankly.

“Oh,” she said.
“I see. Good one, Roger. Nothing pertinent to report.”

“Is that all?”

“Nope.” Maggie
pulled out a piece of paper
—
one side was clearly a grocery list of
some kind. She squinted at the other side. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “The crime
scene was compromised.”

“That is not a
question.”

“Okay, Roger, I’ll
rephrase. How can you use evidence found at a crime scene that has been
tampered with?”

“How do you know evidence
was affected?”

“How do you know
it wasn’t?”

He shrugged.

“Someone’s life is
on the line here, Roger,” Maggie said, fighting to keep her composure.
Why is he acting like such a dick?

He took a breath
and seemed to come to an answer on some internal struggle he had been having.
“The poisonous mushrooms found in Madame Patrick’s car will not be admissible
as evidence,” he said finally.

“Thank God!”

He looked at her
quickly. “Just because a jury won’t know about them doesn’t mean that everyone
else—the prosecution, the police, the victim’s family, eventually the
media—won’t know. Their existence is very damning
and
pertinent to building our case against the suspect.”

“Okay. Whatever
all that means. Question two: what was Annette Tatois doing the night in
question? My understanding is she hated him.”

“That is none of
your affair. Besides, Madame Tatois has a firm alibi for the time of his death.”

“Well, that’s the
other thing. How can that be? Unlike shooting or stabbing, my understanding is
that when you poison someone, you don’t have to actually
be
there when the victim has his last seizure, you know? I would
have thought it would be more important to nail down Annette
and
Michelle’s whereabouts for about twelve
hours
before
he died.”

“It seems our
Medical Examiner disagrees with you.”

“Then your
Medical Examiner is an idiot.”

“Of course. As is
anyone who disagrees with you,
n’est-ce
pas?
Are we done?”

“Roger, you are
taking the easy way out here.” She forced herself not to say,
again
. “You have no confession and
everything you do have is circumstantial. That’s not enough to convict.”

“
Au contraire
, Maggie,” Roger said
heatedly, his calm façade falling off him with each word. “Circumstances
dictate fact and they always have. What do you Americans say? Where there is
smoke, you will find the fire? Madame Patrick is covered in smoke.”

“Fine,” Maggie
said, trying to hide her frustration with him. “It looks like I am going to be
forced to do your job since you won’t. I intend to talk with Madame and Mademoiselle
Tatois, and anyone else who wanted Jacques dead.”

Roger clenched
his fists against the table. “You will not talk with them!”

“Oh, yes, I
will,” Maggie said. “You can’t stop me. It is a free country. Which, by the
way,
you’re welcome
.”

Roger stood up, fists
on the desk, and leaned toward her. “I will speak with your husband. Perhaps he
can control you.”

Maggie didn’t
like the sound of that, but she stood up to face him nonetheless.

“Screw you,” she
said, putting her face close to his. Suddenly, she was aware of his cologne,
how close his lips were to her own, the electricity snapping between them, and
she emitted a small gasp at the realization. He must have felt it too, because his
hand came up to her face, slowly, gently. And she did nothing to stop it.

But before he
could touch her, she heard the whoosh of the door opening behind her. Flushing,
Maggie took a step backward and stumbled over her chair. She caught herself and
stood, knees shaking, wondering what had just happened.

“Roger?”

The sound of the
woman’s voice—and by the form of address clearly not an
underling—made Maggie snap her head to the door, where the figure of a
beautiful young woman stood gaping at them. She was svelte, blonde and younger
than Maggie by at least ten years. She entered the office and shut the door
behind her. Maggie was impressed with her confidence. She knew she wouldn’t
have had as much at her age. She wasn’t sure she had as much now.

“Have I
interrupted something?” she asked coolly, appraising Maggie’s bulky form with
unfriendly eyes.

It’s true,
Maggie thought with amazement.
Even late
stage pregnancy is not considered a deal breaker in matters of the French heart
.

“I was just
leaving,” Maggie said, refusing to look at Roger.
What had just happened
? “I can find my own way out.” She hesitated
in front of the woman, who blocked her exit, before she stepped out of the way
and allowed Maggie to slip out the door. As Maggie hurried down the hall and
across the disease-pocked waiting room, she thought she could hear raised
voices behind her.

Michelle couldn’t
believe the
gall
of that woman. From
where she sat in the outdoor café of the Rue de la Masse, she could easily see
her as she pranced about in her provocatively bare running shorts and bra top.
Did she think she was in Houston?
She
was clearly American.
Why did Aix have so
many? Why weren’t they in Paris? Or Nice?
She was probably a student here.
Michelle literally felt her stomach turn when she saw the woman lean against a
tall tree and pull her leg up behind her to stretch out her muscle.

“Did I keep you
waiting, babe?” He came up behind her and kissed her on the cheek before she
even knew he was there. Michelle struggled to regain the good mood she’d had before
she’d seen the American whore.
Maman said
they were all whores. Even worse than the English.

He seated himself
across from her blocking her view of the runner and she had to force herself
not to twist in her seat to continue watching. Instead, she smiled at him
knowing the smile would eventually reach her eyes if she kept at it.
Although he probably wouldn’t know the
difference.
She sat a little straighter in her chair, knowing the effect of
her increased bosom would distract him from her wooden smile, if that was
necessary.

“
Oui
,” she said. “Don’t you always? It is
a little game you play,
non
?”

“No, it is not,”
he said, frowning in a clearly inauthentic way, his bottom lip protruding to
form his idea of a pout.
Was he authentic
about anything
? In a flash, an image developed in her mind of him on top of
her, panting and sweating.
Yes, there
were times
.

“You know how
difficult it is for me to get away.”

“So you insist.”

“I can’t just
leave in the middle of the day, you know. You French may be used to taking
three hour lunches, but I can tell you that wouldn’t fly with my company.” He
looked around the café until he caught the eye of the waiter.

“Well?” she
asked, peeking over his shoulder to see that the Lycra-clad American student
had gone. “Can you stay for lunch?”

“Of course,” he
said easily. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“Have the police
talked with you yet?”

His handsome face
lost a shade of its luster. “Why in the world would they talk to me?” he asked,
his voice guarded, eyes wary.

“You knew him.”

“Many people knew
him.”

“You threatened
him.”

“And you know
why
.” She saw his good mood was gone,
replaced by a nervousness and agitation that had him plucking at the menu and
tapping his ring—his
wedding
ring—against the ceramic ashtray on the table.

“The police don’t
really consider justifications, David,” Michelle said, “when they look at their
suspects.”

“I thought you
told me they had someone in custody.”

“They do.”
Michelle shrugged and reached for her glass of rosé.

“Well, then why
would they talk to me?”

“You’re right,”
she said, shrugging. “No reason.”

“I hope you
weren’t expecting me to be all sorry and full of consolation attempts, were
you? Because you always said you hated him.”

“I never said
that.”

“Well, maybe you
just behaved that way, but the fact certainly remains. Christ, Michelle, why
are we talking about him? Didn’t he cause enough damage while he was alive?”

Michelle reached
across the table and touched his hand. “You’re right. Let’s forget him. And
let’s forget this.” She gathered up her purse and cellphone. “Throw some money
down. My apartment is just around the corner.”

From the stifling
interior of her parked car, Maggie watched the two leave the café. Except for
the brief hand touch they didn’t look like lovers, but while menus had been
delivered to them, they left the café without ordering. She fanned herself in
the driver’s seat and had to admit
that
sounded like the behavior of lovers.

But what did that mean? So Michelle has a boyfriend. So
what?
She waited until
they were out of sight before she opened her car door to allow a breeze in. Her
thighs were rubbing uncomfortably together, and while the late September
weather wasn’t exactly hot, neither was it cool and crisp. She felt wilted and
clammy. A quick glance into the rear view mirror showed her face was an
unattractive blotchy red.

Roger ought to see me now
.
Or his girlfriend.
She would definitely not be feeling jealous.

So Roger has a girlfriend.
Not sure why it surprised her, Maggie focused instead on
the more salient fact, which was that she disliked the idea.
Was I just hoping he’d pine for me forever?
What kind of a torch was he carrying that allowed a girlfriend on the side?
Knowing she was being ridiculous, Maggie tried to banish thoughts of Roger and
his gorgeous girlfriend from her mind. She left the car, locked it, and began
to walk in the direction Michelle had gone. With this section of
Cours Mirabeau
being one wide, long
pedestrian walkway, she felt fairly sure she’d be able to keep Michelle in view
without being spotted herself. Assuming the two were heading for a little
afternoon
tête-à-tête
, Maggie didn’t
bother hurrying. She pulled out her cellphone and glanced at the time. It
wasn’t even three o’clock. She had plenty of time to wait out Michelle’s tryst,
talk to her, and get back to St-Buvard before dinner.