Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) (34 page)

“That’s probably the last
thing Laurent would want.”

“
What
is the last thing I would want?” Laurent asked as he joined
them on the patio, a tray of dishes in his hands.

Maggie mouthed the words to
Grace:
hearing like a bat
. “For Grace
to have a piece of chewing gum before lunch,” she said sweetly.

“
Sacré bleu
!” Laurent turned to look at Grace with horror. “You are
chewing gum?”

“No, of course not, Laurent,”
Grace said. “I just asked Maggie if she wanted a stick for later and she said—”

“Chewing gum obliterates the
purity of the taste experience,” Maggie said, as if reciting it from memory.
“Oh, warm goat cheese on mesclun! Here, hand me Jem, Grace. He adores the
rosemary balsamic reduction that Laurent makes.”

“That looks amazing,
Laurent,” Grace said as Laurent placed a goat cheese cake on a bed of greens
and set it in front of her.

“It’s nothing,” he said, but
Maggie could tell he was pleased.

“Laurent,” Maggie said,
spearing a chunk of goat cheese, “I told you about my brother and his wife
coming next weekend, right?”

“
Bien sûr
.”

“Your brother is coming to
France?” Grace asked as Laurent refilled her glass of rosé.

“He’s actually already here.
Haley talked him into taking this Côte d’Azur tour. You’ve heard of the Bob
Randall show? The travelogue guy who goes around Europe?”

“Of course. Your brother’s
traveling with Randall’s tour?”

“It’s supposed to be a trial
tour of some kind for the television show. Haley and I went to school with one
of the tour guides, Lanie Morrison. Lanie told Haley they needed a couple of
people to play tourists on the trip so Haley and Ben got to come for next to
nothing.”

“Where are they now?”

“I’m not sure. They were
coming down through the Luberon.”

“They didn’t stop?”

“No, they wanted to do the
whole tour and come see us after it was over.”

“Has Ben ever visited you and
Laurent before?”

“Nope.”

“Are you guys not close?”

“Not a bit.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Maggie waited until Laurent
had retreated back into the house for the next course. “Ben is a big hotshot
lawyer back in Atlanta. Laurent and I have, like, zero in common with him.”

“What about his wife?”

“Haley’s sweet. I love her to
pieces, but because of Ben I never saw much of her when I lived in Atlanta.”

“He’s that bad?”

Maggie shrugged. “Not Lex Luthor
evil. Just kind of a low-grade douche.”

“Yikes. Your own brother. So
why is he coming to see you now?”

“I have no idea. My parents
are excited about it because they think this means he’s going to reach out more
to the family, but I think it’s just going to be awkward as hell. Might be a
good time for you to take a little shopping trip to Paris. Maybe I’ll go with
you.”

“Not on your life. While I
adore how utterly stress-free and serene life at Domaine St-Buvard is with you
and Laurent, frankly I could use the stimulation.” Grace sipped her wine. “So
is your school chum, the tour guide, coming to visit too?”

“No. I thought about inviting
her for like a nanosecond, but we’re not really friends any more.”

“Some dramatic reason why
not, I hope?”

Maggie laughed. “No, we just
drifted apart. I heard she got married and then divorced, and the one occasion
I saw her in the last ten years she spent most of the time riffing on how much
she hates men.”

“Well, we have that in
common.”

“It’s weird, because when we
used to hang out I was actually closer to her mom.”

“That
is
weird.”

“She was a very cool mom.
Always laughing and ready to share a secret. Every time I came over to Lanie’s
house, I ended up talking to her mom for hours. And yet Lanie treated her like
she was a hideous bore, and stupid beside.”
 

“Exactly as wee Jemmy will
treat you when his time comes.”

“Shut up. He never will. Will
you, muffin?” Maggie kissed the baby’s ear and squeezed him tight. He reached
for her with fingers sticky with goat cheese.

“
Allo
, Zouzou is ready for her lunch,” Laurent announced as he came
back out to the patio, this time with a three-year-old girl in his arms, her
face creased from her nap.

Grace stood up and took her
from Laurent. “
Merci, Oncle
Laurent,”
she said. “Are you hungry, petal?”

“You have cheese in your
hair,” Laurent said to Maggie as he reached for Jem.

“I know. My lover finds it
particularly alluring.”

“
Oui
,” Laurent said, his eyes glittering with meaning. “He does.”

“Come on, join us, Laurent,”
Grace said. “Oh, my goodness, is that fried calamari? Wherever did you get it?”

“Try the lemon pepper
aioli
,” Maggie said, scooping a small
fritter into the golden sauce. “It’s the reason I married him, I kid you not.”

“We need more wine,” Laurent
said, scanning the table with a frown.

“We have plenty,” Maggie
said. “Come and sit down. Tell us all about how plump and sweet our grapes are
at the moment.”

“I see you are being witty,”
Laurent said, pouring himself a glass of wine.

Grace laughed. “Yes, tell us,
Laurent. Maggie says the harvest looks awesome this year. I don’t know ripe
grapes from tennis balls, but they do look pretty on the hills surrounding the
house.”

Laurent sat down and Maggie
couldn’t help notice that his usual zeal for talking endlessly about the
vineyard seemed to be lacking. She knew for a fact the harvest was better than
it had ever been. Something wasn’t right if Laurent wasn’t clapping his hands
together in delight, ready to recount every minute detail of the vines’ growth
pattern.

“It will be a good harvest
this year,” he said simply, sipping his wine.

“Yay,” Maggie said, leaning
over and taking Jemmy’s hands and making them clap together. “A ‘good harvest’
means many trips to Paris for Mommy and a nice private
école maternelle
in Aix for Jemmy.” She shot a covert glance at
Laurent to see his reaction but, not surprisingly, his expression was
impossible to read.

“That’s great, Laurent,”
Grace said. “It’s earlier this year than last, isn’t it? Or am I imagining
that?”

Maggie watched Laurent’s eyes
and for a moment she thought she saw a shadow pass across his face. An earlier
ripening generally meant a better quality product. So why did the thought of it
seem to make him solemn?

“
Non
,” he said. “It’s true. We will harvest sooner this year.”

Maggie exchanged a look with
Grace. Something was definitely not right.

Two

“Will
you call her? What will you say?” Haley Newberry glanced at her husband from
where she sat on the bed. He seemed tired, as if he hadn’t shaken off his jet
lag, although they’d been in France for over week already.

“The truth,” Ben said. He
stood at the balcony overlooking the
Promenade
des Anglais
. “That we’re coming earlier than planned.”

“I hope you’ll at least
present it as a request,” Haley said.

He turned to look at her.
“Why? They sit on a farm counting their money and watching the grapes grow. How
could our coming a week early possibly be a problem?”

She hated seeing him like
this. Tense. Distracted. Hard.

“You’re right,” she said. “It
probably won’t be. You’ve never met her husband, have you?”

Ben turned away again. “You
know I haven’t. What was the point?”

Right
, Haley thought sadly.
Because it’s not like you cared about
deepening the relationship with your sister.

“Does she think it odd that
we’re visiting now?”

Ben went to the dresser and
picked up his cell phone. “I have no idea what she thinks.”

“She was good friends with
Lanie, you know.”

“A thousand years ago.” He
punched in a number and turned back to the balcony view.

Haley waited. It was hard to
imagine death in the midst of such intense beauty. The azure-blue of the
Mediterranean seemed to frame everything around it with a storybook semblance
that belied everyday woes like hangnails or indigestion…or death.

“Hello, Maggie. This is your
brother, Ben. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

Haley allowed herself one
more glimpse of the sea over Ben’s shoulder and then retreated to the bathroom
for her shower.

*****

Maggie waved her hand to
command quiet from Laurent and Grace in the kitchen where they were feeding the
children their breakfast. She handed a spoon of stewed apricots to Laurent and
settled on a barstool.

“Hey, Ben,” she said, “we’re
really looking forward to your visit next week.”

“That’s why I’m calling.
There’s been a change of plans.”

 
“Oh?”

Maggie was surprised to
realize the thought that he might be canceling prompted a surge of relief. She
looked at Laurent, who was studying her over Jem’s head.

“Yes, there’s been an
accident here on the tour,” Ben said. “Haley and I are having to drop out.”

“An accident?” Maggie focused
her full attention to the phone call, but still saw Grace out of the corner of
her eye turn her body toward Maggie.

“Actually you know her,” Ben
said. “Lanie Morrison? I think Haley mentioned in her email to you that she was
one of the tour guides?”

“Lanie had an accident?”

Maggie detected the brief
hesitation before her brother answered. “She did,” he said. “She was found this
morning. She was…unresponsive.”

Maggie stood up. “She’s
dead
?”

Laurent tapped Maggie on the
wrist to get her attention. He mouthed
qui?

 
“Lanie Morrison,” Maggie said to him. “The
one I went to school with. Ben says she was found dead this morning.”

“And so of course the
remainder of the tour is cancelled,” Ben said on the line. “Haley and I were
hoping we might come to Domaine St-Buvard earlier than planned.”

“Yes, of course,” Maggie
said, trying to process this news. “How did she die?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Well, how did you find out
about it?”

“Maggie, I’m happy to answer
any questions you have when Haley and I arrive, which, if it’s all the same to
you, will be tomorrow evening.”

“Is her mother coming over?”

“Pardon?”

“Lanie’s mother. Ann
Morrison. I assume she’s coming to Nice to bring…Lanie home?”

“I don’t know about any of
that. Will you or someone meet us at the train station? And is Arles the
closest one?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Arles. Call
us when you’re about an hour out and one of us will be there with the car.”

“Very good.” He hung up.

Maggie sat and stared at her
phone. “God, he’s a jerk.”

“Lanie died?” Grace asked,
holding Zouzou on her hip, a spoon in one of the child’s chubby fists.

“That’s what he said.” Maggie
shook her head. “She was only thirty-five. How did she die, I wonder?” She
looked at Laurent. “As I understood it from Haley, this was Lanie’s chance to
earn a permanent slot on Bob Randall’s television show.”

“Maybe she had health
issues?” Grace asked.

“Maybe.” Maggie looked around
the kitchen. “Can you guys finish up breakfast without me?”
 

“Why?” Laurent asked,
frowning.

“I just want to look at
something on the Internet,” Maggie said as she gave Jem a quick kiss and
hurried into the living room where her laptop was. Booting up quickly, she
typed in the name
Ann Morrison
and
found the phone number she was looking for.

*****

If it had been tricky finding
reasons to leave Domaine St-Buvard
before
Jem was born, it was positively onerous now, Maggie thought as she accelerated
on the A8 heading toward Nice and the coast. Unlike Laurent, she needed a break
from time to time from the constant monotony of rural life. Having Grace live
with them helped immensely.
But even a
glass of wine and your best girlfriend is no substitute for a weekend shopping
trip to Paris
, she thought with a smile.

Maggie reviewed her
conversation yesterday with Lanie’s mother. Annie Morrison had been distraught,
of course, but her relief was palpable over the phone line when Maggie offered
to meet her at the Nice Côte d’Azur airport. Maggie had never met Lanie’s
father. He and Annie had divorced years ago and he’d long since passed away.
For reasons she couldn’t put her finger on, Maggie wasn’t surprised to hear
that Annie had never remarried.

It took three hours to drive
to the coast from Domaine St-Buvard, and as Maggie drove she reran the tapes in
her head of her efforts to convince Laurent that she needed to go. Not
surprisingly, he resisted the idea. She knew he didn’t mind taking care of Jem.
That
little duty he embraced with
enthusiasm. Maggie was lucky to pry the child out of Laurent’s arms. Her
husband had always begun his day patrolling his vineyards, only now he did it
with Jem tucked in one arm. Thinking of the image of Laurent and Jem outlined
against the horizon this morning as they returned from their vineyard walk
reopened a kernel of worry in Maggie.

There was definitely
something going on with the vineyard and with Laurent. Normally, he would
return from his walk with a spring in his step. He used to say it was like
visiting a special lover—you always felt great afterward.

Maggie shook her head and
grinned in spite of herself.
The French
.

But lately there had been no
spring in anybody’s step and no cheerful mood spreading into the late morning
and the afternoon. Lately there had just been motions being gone through and
items ticked off a vast to-do list.

Not at all Laurent’s style.

Maybe Grace would have some
luck finding out what was up, Maggie thought. This was actually a perfect
opportunity for her to use her quiet skills to find out those things Laurent
worked to keep hidden—Laurent, who was the most closed, private and
secretive of men. But then, Maggie thought with a smile, he’d never really been
up against a true Southern belle in her prime before.

She took the airport exit and
parked the car, focusing on the task at hand. She hoped Lanie’s mother would
lean on her. Annie admitted on the phone that she spoke no French, had in fact
never been to France. Maggie hurried to the receiving line of the incoming
flight from Atlanta and scanned the crowd for sight of her, wondering if she’d
have trouble recognizing her. The last time she’d seen her, nearly eleven years
ago now, the woman had been seriously overweight.

Annie was easy to pick out in
the crowd, and Maggie realized with a sinking heart it was not because Annie
was heavy. While everyone else was moving quickly—to locate luggage,
greet loved ones, find ground transportation—one woman was trudging, head
down, through the throng as if looking for something on the ground. Maggie’d
had plenty of time on the drive over to imagine the horror of losing your only
child. Now that she was a mother herself, the thought was especially harrowing.
She couldn’t imagine what Annie was going through. And she didn’t want to.

“Annie!” she called to the
heavyset woman walking toward her. Annie lifted her head, her face flushed for
a moment, but the light that flickered in her eyes quickly extinguished when
she saw Maggie.

For
a moment she thought it might be…

Maggie moved to her side and
put her arms around her. As soon as she did, Annie began to weep, her shoulders
shaking in Maggie’s embrace. Seeing the naked pain of Annie’s grief was almost
unbearable. But when Maggie reminded herself of what Annie was attempting to
bear, she held her tighter and let her cry as long as she needed to.

An hour later, they were
driving up the coast to Nice. Annie spoke very little. When Maggie’s hand
wasn’t on the gearshift, Annie was reaching for it.

“Where did you book?” Maggie
asked gently.

“I…Lanie’s hotel,” Annie
said, her voice raspy and hoarse from hours of crying.

“The Soho,” Maggie said. “Do
you want to check in first?”

Annie shook her head. “No. I
want to see my baby.”

Her words raked a chord of pain
across Maggie’s heart.
They’ll always be
our babies
, she thought as she pictured Jem laughing and clapping his hands;
her gut twisted painfully.

She drove to the
Bureau du Coroner
off the
Rue de la Prèfecture
and parked in the
public parking lot. Hand in hand, she and Annie walked into the police morgue
where Lanie awaited them.

After giving their details to
the officer at the front desk, Inspecteur Alphonse Massar met them in the
lobby. Maggie was surprised to see he was elderly. In fact, he looked to be
nearing retirement. A tall man with grey hair and a tightly trimmed, grey
pencil mustache, he entered the lobby and bowed curtly to both women. He had
such a strong military bearing about him that Maggie half expected him to click
his boot heels together. He glanced at her, but without much interest. If
Maggie had been expecting him to reach out to Annie with words of comfort or
solace, she was disappointed. She held Annie’s hand tightly and stayed close.

This next part was not going
to be easy.

They followed Massar down a
long hall of offices. Maggie was surprised to see Massar’s name on one of the
doors. It made sense, she reasoned, for the police to share real estate with
the bodies they collected from the city. It was certainly tidier and more
convenient that way. Something about his office door bothered her, but she
pushed the feeling to the back of her mind. She needed to be present in every
sense of the word for Annie.

Massar led them into an elevator,
which took them two floors below the main entrance. There, the temperature
dropped significantly. Maggie had the sense that they were literally entering a
catacombs of graves buried deep beneath the city’s vibrant and pulsing core.
Perhaps Annie did too, for her hand clutched tightly at Maggie’s.

Massar opened a door to a
large room, for which Maggie was grateful. She was already having trouble
breathing just thinking of how far below the surface they were. She didn’t
think she could handle a small room at this point.

A table was set off to the
side against the wall, a draped body on it and a large overhead lamp poised
over it. Massar strode to the table and waited for Maggie and Annie to catch up
to him. He turned on the light and, once they were standing next to him, jerked
back the drape to reveal the corpse. Annie sank to the floor without a sound
and Maggie, momentarily stunned, failed to move fast enough to catch her.
Massar whipped the drape back over Lanie and knelt next to Annie. Maggie took a
step back and felt her stomach lurch.

In the background of her mind
she heard Massar talking to Annie in French. The words didn’t matter. The voice
was kind. Maggie stared at the draped body and a series of images burst into
her head: Lanie in her cheerleading outfit; Lanie lip-syncing to a Backstreet
Boys song in her mother’s living room; Lanie drinking her first beer and
laughing when most of it ended up down her shirt front.

And underneath it all was the
niggling memory of what she’d seen on the walk down to this terrible place—the
door with Massar’s name on it and the plaque under it that read
Enquêteur Homicides
.