Read Online Murder à la Carte by Susan Kiernan-Lewis - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Kiernan-Lewis
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couple of the village workmen in their dark blue caps, shirts and baggy trousers, settling down at one of the other tables. The café had belonged only to the American women up until now. Each of the men had a large meat pie―their morning casse-croûte ―and a small jar of pastis . “He mentioned he had a trust...” Maggie said absently.
“Yeah, no kidding. He not only has a trust, he has access to heap-biggum investment funds for just about whatever kind of project he’d like to involve himself with. Millions at his disposal, I take it.”
“Is he into that sort of thing? Investing and commerce and stuff?
Grace made a face, as if the thought of Connor and business intertwined was too ludicrous to imagine. “Right now he’s into being the biggest, most charming goof-off in the northern hemisphere, you know?”
They both laughed.
“He’s eating and screwing and laughing his way through the latter part of his thirties.”
“So, he’s not really an artist.”
“Oh, he is! He is!” Grace said quickly. “He’s very talented. You’ll have to see his studio. He’s done lots of really neat pieces. It’s mostly found art, you know.”
“‘Found art.’ You mean, like, garbage?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. Garbage.” Grace laughed. “And he’s really good at it. I tell him all the time.”
“But...” Maggie began.
“But, no, he’s not going to make a living at it. It’s a hobby.” Grace shrugged. “You know, like having a thing you do to help you think you do something that matters in the world?”
Maggie winced inwardly, thinking of her own current career confusion. “You mean a project to do in between all the eating and screwing?” she said lightly.
“Exactly!”
They both burst out laughing again. Grace placed her cool, perfectly manicured hand on top of Maggie’s smaller one. “God, I’m glad you’re here! I’ve been desperate for a real, honest to God girlfriend. You know?”
As Maggie smiled back at Grace, it occurred to her that she’d been a little desperate for the same thing.
4
Connor eyed the gaggle of nuns and their giggling herd of schoolchildren from the corner of the taxi cab. His driver had just slammed to a stop to avoid broadsiding the little picture postcard scene of post-war France, and the position of Connor’s internal organs was returning to their original places. To top it off, the man was drenched in aftershave and smelled like a bowl of gardenias flung into a sewer.
A French sewer.
Arles was an unpleasant place, Connor decided, as he dragged his eyes from the back of his driver’s large greasy head. Surely there’s a sanitarium somewhere that has a missing persons bulletin out on this lunatic . He stared out the window at the now-stationary road-side setting of ugly, rust-brown patio furniture that called itself a café, abutting a nasty stoma of a store front, its awning stretched out like green-vined tendrils, the fringe fluttering like so many languid, dirty fingers wagging at him. He sat in the back of the taxi as the merry little group passed, the skipping children dressed identically in dark blue capes and stockings and caps, herded by the smiling nuns in their stark black headdresses and sweeping gowns. None of this calf-length stuff for French nuns, Connor noted, as the group disappeared down an alleyway.
He braced his arms against the back of the front seat in anticipation of his driver’s urgency to hurry to the next near-miss. Nuns that smile , he thought, as he shook his head. The ancient façade of the Roman amphitheater rushed by. And French cab drivers that actually attempt to avoid hitting them. Quel pays mysterieux!
He hated Arles. It was ugly, mired in dog shit and choked with tourists. Its good restaurants were few and too expensive (thanks to the tourists). But Marseille was even worst―riddled with crime, grime and too many false bouillabaisse . But he loved Marseille. He loved its dangers, its tackiness, its
“Yeah, no kidding. He not only has a trust, he has access to heap-biggum investment funds for just about whatever kind of project he’d like to involve himself with. Millions at his disposal, I take it.”
“Is he into that sort of thing? Investing and commerce and stuff?
Grace made a face, as if the thought of Connor and business intertwined was too ludicrous to imagine. “Right now he’s into being the biggest, most charming goof-off in the northern hemisphere, you know?”
They both laughed.
“He’s eating and screwing and laughing his way through the latter part of his thirties.”
“So, he’s not really an artist.”
“Oh, he is! He is!” Grace said quickly. “He’s very talented. You’ll have to see his studio. He’s done lots of really neat pieces. It’s mostly found art, you know.”
“‘Found art.’ You mean, like, garbage?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. Garbage.” Grace laughed. “And he’s really good at it. I tell him all the time.”
“But...” Maggie began.
“But, no, he’s not going to make a living at it. It’s a hobby.” Grace shrugged. “You know, like having a thing you do to help you think you do something that matters in the world?”
Maggie winced inwardly, thinking of her own current career confusion. “You mean a project to do in between all the eating and screwing?” she said lightly.
“Exactly!”
They both burst out laughing again. Grace placed her cool, perfectly manicured hand on top of Maggie’s smaller one. “God, I’m glad you’re here! I’ve been desperate for a real, honest to God girlfriend. You know?”
As Maggie smiled back at Grace, it occurred to her that she’d been a little desperate for the same thing.
4
Connor eyed the gaggle of nuns and their giggling herd of schoolchildren from the corner of the taxi cab. His driver had just slammed to a stop to avoid broadsiding the little picture postcard scene of post-war France, and the position of Connor’s internal organs was returning to their original places. To top it off, the man was drenched in aftershave and smelled like a bowl of gardenias flung into a sewer.
A French sewer.
Arles was an unpleasant place, Connor decided, as he dragged his eyes from the back of his driver’s large greasy head. Surely there’s a sanitarium somewhere that has a missing persons bulletin out on this lunatic . He stared out the window at the now-stationary road-side setting of ugly, rust-brown patio furniture that called itself a café, abutting a nasty stoma of a store front, its awning stretched out like green-vined tendrils, the fringe fluttering like so many languid, dirty fingers wagging at him. He sat in the back of the taxi as the merry little group passed, the skipping children dressed identically in dark blue capes and stockings and caps, herded by the smiling nuns in their stark black headdresses and sweeping gowns. None of this calf-length stuff for French nuns, Connor noted, as the group disappeared down an alleyway.
He braced his arms against the back of the front seat in anticipation of his driver’s urgency to hurry to the next near-miss. Nuns that smile , he thought, as he shook his head. The ancient façade of the Roman amphitheater rushed by. And French cab drivers that actually attempt to avoid hitting them. Quel pays mysterieux!
He hated Arles. It was ugly, mired in dog shit and choked with tourists. Its good restaurants were few and too expensive (thanks to the tourists). But Marseille was even worst―riddled with crime, grime and too many false bouillabaisse . But he loved Marseille. He loved its dangers, its tackiness, its
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