Murder à la Carte Read Free

six years old, her basket full, her little back bent to the job.
    Laurent smiled and pointed to the map in her lap.
    “We have a turn coming up, Maggie,” he said.
    A quarter of an hour later, they saw the sign announcing St-Buvard. Perched in three tiers on a bosky hilltop, the village was a series of compact, rose-colored buildings protected in its spiraled setting against the fierce mistral . As they drove closer, Maggie realized how tightly spaced the little village was. Its narrow, rock and pebble streets looked more like alleyways than main avenues. And the stone apartments and shops tucked into the dark, looming buildings were perched on the roads without buffer or curb. As they approached, they discovered a crumbling Roman aqueduct ran at the base of the hill that supported St-Buvard―looking to Maggie like some ancient train trestle leading nowhere. Laurent drove through the village, his face flushed with excitement.
    “ Voici, St-Buvard!” he said. “There is the boulangerie , and the charcuterie , oh, the post office, chérie ...”
    As quaint little Provençal villages go, Maggie had to admit, St-Buvard was classic. Blue and green shuttered windows winked out over the gailystriped awnings of the village shops and narrow cobblestone avenues shot out from the main road. Even the people didn’t look too distrustful or bothered by the arrival of strangers, Maggie thought, as she received a curious half-smile from a young worker hosing down a front walk in his blue combinaison .
    “Ah, the village café!” Laurent said as they drove past an outdoor terrace of small tables which backed up to the dark cavern of a restaurant. “We will be spending much time there, I think.”
    Maggie smiled. St-Buvard was charming. It was old-fashioned and cobblestoned with window boxes of geraniums still blooming in October!-- and no other cars on the streets but their own. She half expected to see a horse-drawn cart meet them around the next corner.
    They were through the little village and onto a gravel road that led off into the horizon.
    “This can’t be right,” Maggie said, squinting at the map.
    “Monsieur Alexandre’s vineyard is less than a mile from here,” Laurent said.
    “He’s got a vineyard too?” Maggie asked. She looked into the surrounding fields and pastures and wondered if one of them could be a part of Laurent’s property.
    “Yes, yes,” Laurent said. “But which way?”
    “Well, there’s only to the left or to the right,” Maggie said. “Why don’t we drive a half a mile up each way and see what we find?”
    Laurent rolled his eyes, then pointed to an old man shuffling along the road a hundred yards in front of him.
    “This old fellow’s bound to know,” he said, driving the car abreast with the man. “ Excusez-moi ,” Laurent called to him.
    The old man turned and looked at Maggie and Laurent in their car. He frowned and said nothing.
    Laurent spoke quickly to him in French.
    The man peered into the car at Maggie.
    “He thinks we’re tourists,” Maggie said, smiling broadly at the man. “Tell him we’re his new neighbors.” She spoke loudly to the man as if he were hard of hearing: “ Nous nous neighbors à Domaine St-Buvard? Oui? Comprenez-vous?”
    Laurent grimaced. “Is there a reason why you are speaking bad French to the poor man,” he asked, “when I am sitting right here?”
    The look of horror and fear that swiped the old gentleman’s face was vivid for several seconds before he turned and ran. Within moments, Maggie and Laurent watched him disappear behind an ancient stonewall.
    Maggie spoke first. “Did you see that?”
    “ Incroyable ,” Laurent said, starting the engine again, “…the effect your French has on the natives.”
    “He was afraid of us.”
    “ C’est ridicule ,” Laurent said, choosing the left fork and driving slowly. “French villagers are just not as open as Americans.” 
    “Come on, Laurent,” Maggie said. “I didn’t ask him if