Free Murder in Nice by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

back to the
kitchen.
    “ I love your home, Maggie,”
Haley said as the three women went into the living room.
    A tray of iced drinks sat on the coffee
table. “Oh, my God, that man is a mind reader,” Grace said, seating
herself and reaching for one of the glasses.
    Maggie settled next to her with Jem on her
lap. He clapped his hands together and pulled at her silk scarf,
stuffing one end of it into his mouth. Her little poodle mix, Petit
Four, jumped up on the couch and settled against her thigh. Maggie
touched the dog’s topknot curls absently.
    Haley patted the couch next
to her and Zouzou clambered up. “I see your uncle Laurent hasn’t
forgotten you,” Haley said, handing the child a section of socca from a plate of
still-warm chickpea cakes.
    “ J’aime
ça !” Zouzou said, stuffing the cracker into
her mouth and looking in the direction of the coffee table for
more.
    “ How much work have you
done on the place?” Haley asked Maggie.
    Maggie sighed and reached for her drink.
“Well, I did get Laurent to agree to get the bathrooms updated,
thank God. And we repaired the terrace because I kept tripping over
the broken pavers, but that’s it. I wish we could do more.”
    “ Well, it’s simply
gorgeous,” Haley said.
    Maggie knew Haley was being generous. She
and Ben lived in one of the wealthiest zip codes in Atlanta. Maggie
was sure Haley’s idea of French Provincial was nothing like the
living room in which she was currently sitting, which was anchored
on one wall by a massive floor-to-ceiling fireplace of stacked
stone and had a double set of French doors on the opposite wall
which led to the terrace.
    You’re never truly
dissatisfied until you look at a thing through someone else’s
eyes , Maggie thought.
    Domaine St-Buvard was comfortable. It was
big and rambling, but it was nobody’s idea of a French country
estate by any means. The kitchen had its original stonewalls,
two-foot thick and exposed. The terra-cotta tiles on the kitchen
floor dated back to the nineteenth century and the ceiling arced to
an apex that held a large, circular skylight. The cabinets were
glass-fronted to show colorful local earthenware bowls and plates
within.
    Off the kitchen a steep staircase led to the
wine cellar—and because it was used for wine storage, it was the
only room in the house with air-conditioning. Old, stained oaken
barrels lined the cellar’s limestone walls. A rack holding at least
one hundred bottles of wine faced the staircase, minimizing the
steps necessary to replenish party supplies.
    Maggie flinched when she thought of their
basement. Something terrible had happened down there one
Thanksgiving five years ago. To this day, if she didn’t have to go
down there, she didn’t.
    “ I would kill to live your
life,” Haley said, sipping her cocktail.
    “ I didn’t know you were
interested in France,” Maggie said, tipping her head to the side to
see Haley better. “You should have visited before now.”
    “ I know we should have,”
Haley said solemnly.
    “ I wasn’t fussing at you. I
didn’t mean it like that.”
    Grace stood. “Glad you’re back, sweetie,”
she said to Maggie. “I think I’ll help Laurent in the kitchen.”
    “ He lets you do that?”
Maggie asked. She kissed Jem’s cheek. “Daddy doesn’t like us
anywhere near where
the magic happens, does he?”
    Grace laughed and left, her drink in
hand.
    “ He doesn’t really keep you
out of your own kitchen, does he?” Haley said.
    “ Are you serious?” Maggie
grinned. “Trust me, it’s his kitchen.”
    “ Well, I guess everything
is different over here.”
     
    *****
    An hour later, showered and dressed in a
simple linen sheath with sandals, Maggie slipped into the kitchen,
where Laurent faced a full panoply of pots and pans on the
stove.
    “ Tiens,
chérie ,” he said, gruffly. “Go to the
terrace. It is too hot in here for you.”
    He turned and wiped a sleeve across his
cheek, his eyes taking her in, fresh