Murder à la Carte Read Free Page B

Jean-Luc introduced as Eduard and Danielle Marceau.
    The Marceaus were also Laurent’s neighbors and winegrowers as well. Madame Marceau was a few years younger than her husband, a youthful fifty-something with severely coifed blonde hair that was obviously created from a bottle purchased at the village pharmacie . Her face must have been pretty once, but was now harshly lined from too much wind and sun. She smiled at Maggie and Laurent through razor-thin lips. Holding her hands folded neatly in her lap, she allowed her husband to do all of the talking.
    Eduard Marceau was as pale and flabby as Jean-Luc was ruddy and firm. Maggie marveled at the contrast in the two men: one of them obviously didn’t have to go out and pick his own grapes, she decided.
    Eduard extended a pudgy hand to Maggie and Laurent.
    “Bienvenue!” he said cheerfully. His wife nodded in agreement.  “We are happy to be meeting you at long last. Oui, Danielle?” He patted his wife’s hand, then turned to Maggie. “You are to forgive Jean-Luc for talking away with your husband not in English, yes? He is a rough country character with no manners, eh?” He smiled broadly at Jean-Luc, who poured Maggie a large bowlful of the strong red wine as if to compensate for his rudeness.
    “I am très sorry, Madame,” Jean-Luc said to her, smiling through the picket fence of his teeth. “I am so desiring to talk business with your husband.”
    “Eh? What’s this?” Eduard boomed out a little too heartily. “Talking business already? They have just arrived!”
    “They haven’t even seen the house, Jean-Luc,” Danielle said meekly.
    “What’s the house look like?” Maggie turned to the older woman and took a large sip of her wine. She noticed the old girl wasn’t drinking.
    “Of course, you see?” Eduard shook his head at Jean-Luc. “They haven’t even seen the property yet and you are working your wiles, you old devil! Let the man eat his lunch!”
    “What sort of business, exactement,” Laurent said pleasantly, sniffing the bouquet of his wine, “are you referring to, Monsieur Marceau?”
    “Call me Eduard, please,” Marceau said, tearing a piece of bread apart.
    “Eduard.”
    Marceau smiled and reached for his own glass of wine. “There is so much time for all of that, Monsieur Dernier...Laurent, that I think we will not bore the women, eh? First, let us enjoy a good meal and become a little of what we were to your uncle. Good neighbors.”
    “Friends,” added Madame Marceau.
    “You knew my uncle well?” Laurent asked, spooning into the huge spinach pastry, its steamy, fragrant contents spilling across the stark whiteness of his plate.
    “We were neighbors,” Jean-Luc said, helping himself to one of the pheasants. “Not really friends, but you get to know your neighbor. We helped each other when there was a call for it.”
    “For nearly ten years,” Eduard said.
    “So your property connects with Laurent’s?” Maggie asked, swallowing a mouthful of cod soaked in aïoli .  
    “Both of our properties touch yours,” Jean-Luc said to Laurent. “I am placed on the east, yes?” He positioned a chunk of bread next to Laurent’s wine glass to indicate where his house was located, and then moved the pâté below it. “And Eduard is just to the south, comme ça.”
    “Neighbors,” Laurent said.
    “ Comme il faut,” Danielle said, then smiled at Maggie. “My English is not being too good.”
    “That’s okay,” Maggie said. “My French sucks.” Danielle showed no sign of understanding the idiom. “At any rate, can you tell me about the house? Can we live in it or is it falling down?”
    “Live in it?” Jean-Luc looked questioningly at Laurent. “The agent said you were interested in selling Domaine St-Buvard.”
    “I totally the love name.” Maggie grinned and looked at Laurent. “I’ve got to get stationery printed up. Seriously.”
    “We are interested in selling it,” Laurent said, refilling his wine glass