Chapter Fifteen
“Promise me you won’t talk about the price of mangos in Auckland.” Darla squirmed in the passenger seat of Gary’s BMW and rearranged her headband in the visor mirror. “Let’s just be normal for a change, what do you say?”
Gary smiled at his wife. She looked good. She seemed happier, more relaxed since they made the decision. He knew he was.
“Maggie knows we’re planning to move to New Zealand, Darla. I’ve been discussing it with her all week.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t called me yet to suggest prices on a semi-private at a good mental hospital.”
“She supports me in this, Darla.” Gary pulled into the parking lot at The Parthenon. “Something you would do well to emulate.”
“She doesn’t have to live with it. She doesn’t have to wake up to your ‘G’day, mates’ and listen to the price of kiwi fruit as it rises and falls in the world market. We are not moving to New Zealand, Gary, and you are making us both look like idiots!”
Maybe he’d rushed that assessment about her happiness. Come to think of it, he thought, she looked bloody tense. “I won’t mention mangoes,” he said, pulling into a parking spot.
“Thank you.”
“And perhaps Maggie won’t mention her latest obsession.”
“What are you talking about? I thought Laurent was going to be at dinner with us.”
“I’m talking about her other obsession. The one about tracking down her sister’s killer. It’s all she talks about anymore.”
“Well, it gives her a sense that she’s doing something. She must feel pretty helpless.”
“I know how she feels.”
“In that case, you could probably suggest to her that she do something more constructive than tracking down Elise’s killer. Like, say, moving to the Antipodes instead.”
“Very amusing, Darla. I hope you’re going to be a little less riotous during dinner. And why is it, exactly, we need to meet this guy? He’ll be gone and out of her life in three months. Why invest the time in him?”
“You don’t know he’ll be gone and besides, it’s to show support for Maggie. So she knows we accept him.”
“I haven’t even met him yet and I can tell you I don’t accept him.”
“Well, doesn’t that just say a lot about the kind of person you are? You’re judging him without having met him?”
“Trust me,” Gary said as he locked the car and peered up at the ominous looking building Maggie called home. “When this all shakes out and he’s dumped her and gone on his way, just remember who called it.”
Maggie removed the candles from the fireplace mantle and set them on the table. She flattened the heavy cotton napkins out with her hands and placed them to the left of the four forks at each place setting.
“You know, I can’t believe they’ve latched on to this new suspect, someone who clearly fits their new favorite theory that it was all random and not connected to any kind of motive or anything—”
“Maggie.” Laurent appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, filling it. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeve tee shirt. His eyes looked tired. He held a wooden spoon in one hand.
“I know, I know. No one wants to hear about this.”
“It is not that. But perhaps just for the evening…”
“Yes, yes. Keep it light. No talk of murder and motive. Got it.”
“Maggie, you will stop it now, s’il tu plâit.” He shook his head and wagged a finger. She remembered the first time he had done that, how sweet and sexy and possessive it had seemed to her.
It still did. “I love you, Laurent,” she said impulsively, not knowing the words were coming until they were out.
Caught in a half-turn on his way back into the maw of the steamy kitchen, Laurent stopped and faced her again. “Je t’aime, aussi, chérie,” he said, a smile edging across his face.
Maggie ran to him and wrapped her arms around him. His grin telegraphed loud and clear that he was already calculating the possibility of moving her into the bedroom before the guests arrived.
“I’ll stop talking about murder and death at least for the duration of our dinner party with Gary and Darla. Promise,” she whispered.
“Merci.” He tossed the spoon in the sink and reached down to cup her bottom with both hands.
“Your roue is roiling.”
“Merde.” He released her and returned to the stove to snatch up the little pot of bubbling paste from one of the gas burners.
“You know, Gary’s probably going to be on this Kiwi kick of his. Have I told you about that?”
“Of course.” He lifted a ladle of the roue and plunged it into the hot broth in another pot on the stove.
A sturdy knock at the door brought Maggie around the dining room table and into the foyer. “Oh, that’s them now.” She gave her plum-colored tunic a quick pull over her capri pants and opened the door.
“Hey, guys!” Maggie and Darla hugged, then Darla pulled back and her face became serious.
“Maggie, I just wanted to say again I’m so sorry about your sister.”
“Thanks, Darla, thank you. Hey, Gar.”
Gary peered around the corner toward the kitchen. “Where is he?”
“Oh, God, you’re not going to be weird tonight, are you?” Maggie turned to Darla. “He’s not going to be weird tonight, is he?”
“Don’t be silly. Gary? Weird? But seriously, Maggie, where is he?”
“He’s in the kitchen.” She raised her voice. “Laurent! Do you have a breaking point?”
“You mean he hasn’t found that with you yet?” Gary quipped.
“Un moment, chérie.”
“Ohhhh, Maggie! You lucky creature! He calls you chérie.”
“I know! It’s so cool.”
“Oh, you girls are pathetic,” Gary said. “Can I come in or are you going to make us get our hands stamped first?”
“Yes, yes. Come in. He’s in the kitchen doing tricky things with flour and beef juice and stuff.” She led the way to the dining room as Laurent came out of the kitchen with a bottle of white wine and four glasses in his hands.
He and Gary shook hands almost solemnly, and when they did the air crackled with the tension between them.
It hadn’t occurred to Maggie before that moment that both men, perversely, considered the other a rival in some way. As if she had just witnessed a preview of the entire evening, she realized: Gary and Laurent are not going to be friends.
“Enchanté,” Laurent said, more to Darla than Gary. He put the wine bottle down and reached for her hand. He smiled broadly and handed her a glass of wine.
Gary took his wine from Laurent, too, and curtly nodded his acceptance. “So, Maggie,” he said, turning his back on Laurent, “how goes the police investigation?”
“Not good.” She ignored Laurent’s look of disapproval and ushered them into the living room. “Sit down and I’ll tell you a little about it. Are you just about finished in the kitchen, Laurent?” she called over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply. They settled themselves in Maggie’s tiny living room.
“Okay,” Maggie said. “I’ll be brief.”
“Oh?” Darla frowned.
“Well, you know, it’s sort of a depressing topic.”
Laurent entered the room, a glass of wine in his hand, but he did not sit down. Instead, he leaned against the archway of the door leading into the living room.
“Maggie is unhappy when she is thinking of her sister’s death,” he said, watching Maggie with eyes full of care and protection.
“It depresses me,” Maggie agreed. “But I can’t not do it, you know?”
Darla nodded sympathetically.
“I mean, I have to find out what happened and the police aren’t doing anything.”
“That is not true,” Laurent said.
“All right, they’re not doing enough for me.” She took a sip of her wine.
“Gary said you got a bad
phone call last week, maybe from the killer?” Darla leaned toward Maggie on the couch.
“Yes, I did. And I was so blown away by it that I didn’t ask him any questions. I just hung up.”
“What did the cops say?” Gary asked as Laurent retreated to the kitchen.
“I’ll let you know when they get back to me. I left a message and they haven’t responded yet.”
“What did the caller say?” Darla asked.
“He told me I was next on his list, or asked how would I like to be next on his list…something like that. I don’t remember exactly now. It freaked me out so much.”
“Why are you still investigating? Didn’t you say the cops have someone in custody for her murder?” Darla asked gently.
“Exactement,” Laurent said. Maggie knew Laurent’s comment was an extension of the heated argument they’d had earlier about why she still felt she needed to go to Cannes. Darla smiled as if she’d been praised for being good by a sexy professor.
“They do,” Maggie said. “But they had someone last week, too. A homeless guy sleeping in the basement who had a couple of bags of weed on him so he got upgraded to murdering crack dealer.”
“But this new guy confessed, right?” Gary spoke, but Maggie noticed he was looking at Laurent when he did.
“All kinds of people confess to things they didn’t do,” Maggie said. A quick glance at Laurent assured her it was past time to change the topic. His eyes practically flashed with frustration. “But enough about that,” she said. “I think the thing everyone here really wants to hear about is the ratio of sheep to the population in Remuera. Gary, you have the floor.”
An hour later, after a largely tense and laborious meal where everyone worked very hard not to talk about something that would inevitably upset someone else, Gary pushed his plate away and addressed Maggie. “Not bad. You’re improving.”
She gave him a warning look. “I didn’t make it. Laurent did.”
“Oh? My compliments to the chef.” He smiled stiffly at Laurent.
“Don’t be an ass, Gary,” Darla said, her mouth full of Boeuf en Daube Provençale. “You know Laurent cooked it. So, so delish, Laurent.”
“Merci,” Laurent said, smiling at Darla.
“And that soup!” Darla scooped up another spoonful of her Boeuf en Daube. “I need the recipe for that, although I’m sure it’s impossibly hard. Can you microwave it? You know, make it up early and then freeze it?”
“‘Freeze it?” Laurent asked uncertainly.
“Oh, never mind. Keep it a secret from me. It makes it taste better.”
Laurent replenished all the wineglasses and then returned to the table from the kitchen with a tray of sausage, cheeses, salad and thin slices of crespeou, a cold vegetable omelet smothered in tomato sauce and herbs.
“Well, finally,” Gary said when Laurent set the tray down. “I was wondering when you people were going to finish feeding us.”
Darla giggled drunkenly.
“Yes, well…” Maggie said, laughing with her. “The French definitely have the whole endless food thing under control. I told Laurent I’m going to look like a German hausfrau really soon now. He thinks I’m joking.”
“Speaking of joking.” Darla, sounding like she was one glass of wine over her personal limit, slid a slice of crespeou onto her plate and helped herself to a thick wedge of Brie. “What do you think about the idea of us emigrating to New Zealand?”
“I thought you didn’t want me talking about that.” Gary touched a piece of cold sausage suspiciously with his fork. “This is good stuff,” he said, reaching over and pulling the wine bottle to him.
“Chateau Cos D’Estournel l982.” Laurent looked at him with surprise. “You are familiar?”
Gary shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve heard of it.”
“It all just seems so sudden to me,” Maggie said, taking a pear from the basket of fruit on the table.
“Did you know that Auckland is the furthest point on the globe from Atlanta?” Gary said. “Except Perth.”
“And I guess that’s the whole point?” Maggie looked at Gary.
“I’m sick of being afraid for my family and reading about mass slayings at the McDonald’s restaurants and drug killings in Cabbagetown.”
“You act like it’s an every day occurrence,” Darla said, slurring her words.
“So your answer to that is to try your luck in another hemisphere?” Maggie cut her pear into small bite-sized chunks. “I don’t know, Gary, it seems drastic. Don’t you think so, Laurent?”
“I’m thinking it sounds like a bonne idée,” he said, shrugging.
“I thought you liked America,” Maggie said.
“I like wherever you are, chérie.”
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking it sounds like the end of the world,” Darla said, pushing her plate away. “Literally.”
Maggie looked at Laurent and he covered her hand on the table with his. She felt the sudden and unmistakable peace of the unspoken truce between them.