Murder in the Latin Quarter (32 page)

He laughed quietly. “So American,” he murmured.

Maggie got out of bed and went to him, putting her arm around his waist and pulling him to face her.

“Talk to me,” she said.

He looked away again. “How could she have loved something so evil?”

Maggie took a long breath.
The inner lives of our parents, our grandparents. Do we ever truly know them?

“There must have been another part of him that she saw,” she said.

He looked at her with incredulity in his eyes. “Knowing what he'd done? How is it possible?”

“Turns out he may not have been all that evil.”

“He was hung at Nuremberg! How could he not have been anything less than a monster?”

“When I was on the train coming back from Camille's village, I had some time on my hands so I decided to dig a little deeper into Helmut Bauer's story.”

“
Pourquoi
?”

“Because every time I researched the Nuremberg trials online I saw that it was only concerned with top level Nazis and Gestapo—which Bauer definitely wasn't. Plus I couldn't find Bauer's name listed as one of the ones executed. There were only twelve. I finally realized I was only going on what that idiot André had told me.”

“So he
wasn't
tried at Nuremberg?”

“No, he was—along with hundreds of others—
and
he was convicted
and
he died so I can see how André got it wrong. But Bauer was sentenced to two years at hard labor.”

“How do you know all this?” Laurent stepped away from the window and lit a cigarette, its end glowing harshly red in the dim light. “You reached out to your German friend again?”

“I sent him one little email and promised him it was the absolute last time I'd bother him but I really needed to know.”

“You mean you really
wanted
to know.”

Maggie ignored the comment. “Dieter told me that after Bauer finished his two years a lower German court wanting to de-Nazify the country tried him and a bunch of other low-level Nazi party members again. This time he got life. And he committed suicide.”

“So much for double jeopardy.”

“I guess in those days a lot of the rules didn't apply.”

They stood quietly for a moment, the timeless never ceasing activity of cars and taxis still coasting silently below them on the Quai St-Michel. The illuminated façade of Notre-Dame loomed in the distance.

“That helps a little,” Laurent admitted. He tore his gaze from the night scene outside the window and looked at Maggie. “I mismanaged this,” he said. “Badly.”

“Oh, Laurent. What could you have done?”

“Ever since I was a boy, all I ever felt from my grandmother was shame,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “And all along it wasn't
me
she was ashamed of. It was herself.”

Maggie led him back to bed and they sat together, his arms wrapped around her.

“My grandfather was a national war hero,” he said. “Did he
know
his wife had carried on with the enemy?” He ran a hand through his hair. “The decorated Resistance hero married to a
collabo
? Delphine and my grandmother must have spent their entire lives guarding this secret.”

“Are you sorry you know?”

He hesitated.

“Remember, Laurent, your grandmother committed no crime. She just fell in love with the wrong man at the wrong time.”

Laurent's face relaxed as he realized what Maggie was saying.

“Delphine
was the one who committed murder,” he said.

“Yes, to save her sister. And she was punished a whole life long for it.”

Maggie thought of Delphine's final words
. It is just
.

Dying by an act of betrayal herself, Delphine finally paid for her crime in full.

Maggie took Laurent's large hands in hers.

“Look at me, Laurent,” she said urgently. “Those two children sleeping in the next bedroom have an amazing legacy. Nothing can take away the honor and bravery of who your grandfather was.
And your grandmother was the head of every possible charity in Paris. She did so much good! I will tell both Mila and Jemmy that she was an amazing woman they should be proud to be related to. She was French, so she was passionate. I wouldn't hold that against her and you of all people shouldn't either.”

Laurent smiled and drew her in for a kiss. When she pulled back, she could see the lines around his eyes had relaxed.

“As far as Delphine goes,” Maggie said, “I'll do whatever I can to keep her name alive for our kids. Delphine didn't think she deserved it, but she was worth loving. One action—no matter how terrible—doesn't take that away. Not with family.”

As they slipped back under the covers, Maggie could tell Laurent was still thinking, still processing everything that had happened.

“Do you think the painting is real?” he murmured.

He had watched Maggie carefully wrap the canvas to bring it with them to the apartment.

“Oh, it's real,” Maggie said, yawning.

“Any idea where the damn thing came from?”

Maggie turned in bed and put her hand on his arm.

“I've thought about it a lot and my best guess is that your grandmother somehow got it from Helmut Bauer and kept it hidden until she became ill at which point she gave it to Delphine.”

“Why the hell did my grandmother hang onto it?”

“She could hardly return it after the war in between all the parades being given in honor of her husband, the Resistance hero.”

“And after my grandfather died?”

“Delphine told me that the things in that closet were your birthright. I think she was trying to protect you and Gerard. So when she gave me the key to the room, in a way she was saying she trusted me to protect her secret after she died.”

“We're giving it back.”

“Yes, of course. Anonymously. But nobody ever needs to know it was in your family attic for the last seventy years. And trust me, as soon as it's in a museum somewhere, I cannot wait to take Jemmy and Mila there to see it. I feel like it's ours in a way.”

Laurent kissed her and lay back down, his back to her.

“
Faites ‘tentions, ma chèrie
. I think that's exactly the kind of thinking that got the Nazis in trouble,” he said.

M
aggie sat
on the leather bench in Terminal 2 of Charles DeGaulle Airport. She hesitated to go through security just yet since the moment she did marked the moment when she would become a single mother for two long months. It also signaled the time when she would have to listen to seven hours of nonstop self-recrimination from Grace, her traveling companion, and begin the anticipation of whatever drama was going on with Maggie's family in Atlanta.

No, Maggie was in no hurry to get to her gate.

Laurent stood holding Jemmy in one arm and Mila in the other. She knew he was relishing his time with them and that he would miss them but she also knew he would walk away from the airport with a spring in his step at the prospect of eight weeks without all the work of being the other half of a parenting tag team.

She couldn't blame him.

Grace was sitting beside Maggie and flipping through a French fashion magazine. She was dressed in her usual impeccable style. She wore figure-hugging knit slacks with a cropped silk jacket. On her feet she wore Todd driving mocs. She was the picture of unselfconscious elegance. Next to her, Zouzou sat, her hands in her lap, her little face serious and unhappy. Grace had agreed to bring Zouzou to Atlanta where Windsor and his new wife were now living and to stay as long as necessary to qualify for equal custody of her children.

And to see Taylor and apologize.

Maggie knew both Grace and Zouzou were heartbroken—Grace for her disastrous love affair with André and Zouzou for having to say goodbye to her beloved Beatrice. Maggie could only hope that they might at some point in the long flight turn to each other for comfort.

Maggie also knew that Laurent had spoken several times with Windsor and without diminishing Grace's bad behavior had reinforced to him the importance of not letting his anger distract him from the main point which was to heal the breach between Grace and her daughters.

Laurent walked over to Maggie. “It is time,” he said. “You can wait at the gate. The children will want a snack before you board.”

Maggie reached for Mila and Laurent set Jemmy on his feet. Instantly the little boy grabbed Maggie's carry on and began to roll it around the waiting area.

Laurent held Maggie's chin with his fingers and looked into her eyes. “You will return soon,
chèrie
,” he said. “Your mother needs you. Your brother needs you.”

“I know.” Maggie was no longer afraid of finding Georgia too convenient in comparison to St-Buvard. In fact she was a little amazed she'd ever been concerned about that.

Her life was with Laurent. Wherever he was.

“Before you know it you will be back in time to help with the harvest,” he said.

“We can hire more people this year, right?” Maggie asked. “Now that we're rich?”

He made a face. “We are not rich,” he said. “The vineyard has been running at a loss for the last five years.”

“Then maybe this summer isn't a good time for me to go to Atlanta.”

He grinned. “Unfortunately, I have already told Monsieur Jemmy about the monster slide at Six Flags. You cannot back out now or you will answer to him.”

Maggie raised up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “I'm not worried about going to Atlanta, darling Laurent,” she said. “Not a bit.”

He pulled her into a hug, with Mila still between them.

“Perhaps it is Atlanta that should be worried about
you
,” he said with a smile.

Then kissed her thoroughly.

I
f you're
ready to see what Maggie and Laurent get up to next, check out
Murder in the Abbey
, Book 8 of Maggie Newberry Mysteries—available for pre-order and due to release in March, 2016.

H
ere is
the beginning of
Murder in the Abbey
:

One

Maggie put down the binoculars and sighed.

“Is it her?” Danielle said as she watched Maggie anxiously from the passenger seat of Maggie's car.

“It is,” Maggie said grimly. “Madame Ali.”

Danielle took in a sharp intake a breath. “I would never have believed it!”

“You're nicer than I am, Danielle. I suspected her from the get-go.”

“What do we do now? Surely you are not thinking of confronting her?”

Maggie tore her eyes from the sight of Madame Ali standing on the corner by the village hardware store with her
tablier
pocket hiding the small mallet she'd just slipped into it.

“I'd just as soon not,” Maggie admitted. “But we need to come up with a good reason why we don't let her into the guild in that case.”

In the years since Maggie had moved to the little Provençal village of St-Buvard, she had come to know everyone fairly well. At first they tolerated her because of their affection for her husband, Laurent Dernier, a well-known area vintner, but in the last year she had made inroads on her own account by offering to advertise area artists and shops on her popular blog.

“Perhaps she will not ask to join,” Danielle ventured.

Married to Jean-Luc—one of Laurent's closest friends and Maggie and Laurent's closest neighbor--Danielle was the epitome of the refined country lady. Even now she wore a fitted tweed jacket over a silk blouse with a choker of pearls at her throat.

“She already has,” Maggie said with a sigh. “Or at least her husband has.”

“They sell strawberries, do they not?”

“They do.”

“But surely berries are too fragile to sell to America?”

“Yes, but he said he'd settle for just getting his name out locally. I tried to tell him most people around here don't read my blog.”

“What are you going to do? Maggie, you cannot confront her! It would be…”

“Danielle, I can't
not
confront her. Is it fair to the other people in the guild?”

The St-Buvard Village Guild, comprised of a select group of farmers, artists and winemakers who advertised their wares on Maggie's blog, had been created earlier last year. Tucked away between Aix and Arles with no highway linking them, St-Buvard was not conveniently located, so the online sales of the many crocks of olives and olive oil and of jams, homemade linens, tableware, pottery and even artwork of local artisans had made a small boon town of the village. The amazing fact was that Maggie had single-handedly given new life to the town just by using her writing skills to paint a picture of life in a rural village in Provence.

Because of the immediate bump in revenue that came from advertising on Maggie's popular blog, there was a long line of people wanting to be included.

Madame Ali, who along with her husband was new to the area, was one of them.

“Must you give her a reason?”

“Wouldn't you want one?”

“I cannot believe she is stealing. Are they poor?”

“Pretty hard to eat a hammer.”

“
Incroyable
.”

“The people in the Guild are my friends,” Maggie said, tapping the steering well with a finger as she thought. “It's the first time I've been able to get some level of acceptance in the village.”

“All of St-Buvard loves you,
chérie
.”

Maggie laughed. “Well, I wouldn't go that far. But I only have so much room for product placement. Why would I bump hand pressed olive oil for berries that can't ship?”

“
Sais pas
,” Danielle said with a shrug.

“Plus, the first time we met, Madame Ali told me she hated Americans and found us all rude and overweight. Hello! Is that any way to make friends?”

“Most certainly not.”

“And now she's stealing hammers from the village hardware store. Three strikes.”

“I am not knowing this three strikes.”

“It doesn't matter. Laurent says I bend over backwards to get people to like me—especially French people because they're all so prickly—no offense. But I don't feel that way toward Madame Ali.”

“What will you do?”

“The first thing I'll do is tell her husband I don't do perishables.”

“How will you explain the profiteroles you accept from Suzanne?”

“Damn. I forgot about that. Well, I'll tell him Suzanne was grandfathered in. Don't worry. I'm pretty sure I can do this without stepping on anyone's toes.”

“And
without
confronting Madame Ali?”

Maggie grinned at her friend. “Yes, Danielle, without creating World War III in St-Buvard.”

A
fter dropping
Danielle at her house, Maggie drove down the long winding drive that led to Domaine St-Buvard, the hundred year old
mas
she shared with her husband and their two children. There was never a time when Maggie drove up to the ancient home that she didn't find herself amazed at its history and its beauty. Especially now with fall breaking out all around them. A splash of scarlet leaves climbed up the whole eastern side of the house bathing it in vermillion.

Their au pair Mimi was outside on the front drive with three year old Jemmy and one year old Mila when Maggie drove up. Much to Maggie's chagrin, Mila had started walking at eight months and was now running and jumping as easily as her older brother. When the children saw Maggie's car pull into the driveway, they both began waving.

“Maman! Maman!”

Maggie parked and hopped out of the car. She dropped to one knee and spread her arms out wide.

Jemmy got to her first as always and she had a few seconds to hold him close before Mila was upon them. Then she pulled the little girl into her arms and held and rocked them both.

“Oh, I missed you so much! And I was only gone an hour!” Maggie said, laughing.

The yapping of a dog made her look over the shoulders of her children to see her scraggly terrier Petit-Four standing in the drive impatiently waiting her turn.

“All right, come on,” Maggie said and Petit-Four leapt into her arms too.

“No fair,
Maman
,” Jemmy said. “I want to jump too!”

“No, you'll break Mummy's back if you do,” Maggie said with a smile for Mimi. The au pair was a village girl and quite pretty but didn't seem to know it. It was unusual for teenagers to stay in the village after high school and Maggie and Laurent had been grateful she'd stayed. A grand niece of one of the villagers with whom Laurent did regular business, Mimi had proven a godsend in helping out with the children.

The front door of the house swung open and for a moment Maggie only saw her husband back lit with the dropping sun visible through the house on the back terrace. A big man, well over six foot four, Laurent stood only a moment on the threshold before stepping onto the drive to relieve Maggie of her welcoming committee.

“You are late,” he said.

“No, I'm not.” Maggie put the dog down and scooped up Mila again before she could totter off, smothering her with kisses. “What's for dinner?” she asked breathlessly.

Laurent did all the cooking for the family and Maggie—an indifferent cook at best—was always grateful.

“Papa is making coq au vin!” Jemmy crowed and jumped up as if to cheer the fact.

Laurent leaned in to kiss both Maggie and Mila on the cheeks before going to her car to get the groceries.

“Did Danielle get what she needed?” he asked.

Maggie had driven Danielle to Aix for a doctor's appointment and afterward they'd visited a favorite cheese shop of Danielle's.

“Did she ever. We both spent about a hundred euros at the cheese store.”

“Money well spent,” Laurent said.

“Somehow I just knew you'd say that.”

D
innertime was always
hectic unless Maggie asked Mimi to stay and feed the children early. Maggie felt like she'd been doing that a lot lately and so opted to send the girl home and put the children at the table. Laurent believed strongly that they would never learn to eat properly if they didn't share the grown-up table.

Unfortunately there was usually not enough wine in the whole house to make it a stress free occasion for Maggie—and she lived on a vineyard.

She and Laurent exchanged a few non-child related comments at dinner. Maggie was organizing a wine tour for their label and trying to contact wine experts around the world to donate praise blurbs or blog posts leading up to the event. She was using her travel blog to showcase it. Laurent knew they needed to start doing things like this but it was not his favorite part of owning and running a vineyard.

After dinner was over and she was wiping Mila's hands with a washcloth before transferring her to the bathtub, Laurent came in from the kitchen and handed Maggie her cellphone.

“Your mother,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

Maggie had to laugh. It was his unspoken suspicion that Maggie arranged with her mother to call at certain times—like when it was time to do the dishes or put the kids down.

She handed Mila over to Laurent and took the phone.

“Hey, Mom. What time is it there? Two o'clock?”

“Hello, darling,” her mother answered. “Yes, early afternoon. I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?'

Maggie grinned at Laurent as he scooped up Jemmy in his free arm and took both children squealing and laughing up the stairs to start their baths.

“No, not at all. What's up?”

Maggie had spent the past summer in Atlanta with her parents. Her niece Nicole was growing up before everyone's eyes and aside from that nothing seemed to have changed in Maggie's childhood home.

Unless you counted what was happening with her brother.

“It's Ben,” her mother said.

“Oh, no. Now what?” When Maggie had been home last summer she'd made repeated efforts to get her older brother to open up to her. Seriously depressed, he had taken a leave of absence from his law practice and spent most of his days talking with his therapist or binging on Netflix marathons in their parents' home.

Not good.

“He's formally quit his job.”

“Oh, Mom, I'm sorry. Is he talking about it?”

“No, except to say he doesn't want them expecting him back when he thinks he'd rather die than practice law again.”

“Did he use those words?”

“He did.”

Maggie could hear the tremor in her mother's voice. She knew it was agony for her mother to watch Ben at such close quarters as he stayed mired in his despondency. Their father was useless at this sort of thing, leaving anything that had to do with emotion or communication to Maggie's mother.

And Maggie's mother was at her wit's end.

“I don't know what to do any more,” Elspeth Newberry said.

“It sounds like there's nothing for you to do. The ball's in Ben's court.”

“Honestly, Maggie, just wait until you see Jemmy go through something like this and then I'd like to hear you say there's nothing for you to do.”

Ouch. Touché.

“You're right, Mom. I'm sorry.”

“I guess I just needed to talk.”

“I'm always here.”

“I know, dear. Oh, your father's just back from the club. Let me go see if he needs anything. Everything all right here?”

“As rain.”

“Good. That's what a mother likes to hear. Hugs and kisses to everyone, darling.”

“I will.”

When Maggie hung up she sat for a moment holding her phone in her hand and looking out the huge plate glass window in the back of the house that—when it was light—showed the dramatic landscape of grape vines.

The sounds of laughter from the children's bath shook her gently from her thoughts. A smile found its way to her lips and she got up to join her family upstairs.

Two

Roger tried to remember the last time he'd driven through the countryside to get to the Abbey. Why was it he was always in a hurry these days? The sun filtered through the colorful leaves on the trees that lined the English country lane and dappled the road. He glanced at his wife in the passenger's seat of their car and felt the pleasure of the splendid fall day begin to deteriorate.

Anastasia was squinting at her smartphone. Her auburn hair was caught back in a long silk scarf. The dark glasses completed the whole Audrey Hepburn look, without doubt the effect Anastasia had been aiming for.

Roger refocused on the road ahead. The Daimler handled like butter. At the price the vehicle cost, that was the minimum of what one might expect of it, he thought drily.