Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5) Read Online Free

thought
about suggesting she go to the same well that obviously paid for the expensive
facelift she was parading about, but he didn’t feel altogether well and was certainly
not up for a public showdown on issues they had fought over endlessly already.
    “Perhaps the poor
child might find employment of some kind? I have a friend whose son did that—got
a job. It was immensely appreciated by both parents, I’m told.”
    “You are despicable
to let your only child wander the streets like a common panhandler to pay for
her education.”
    “Well, that’s
certainly one way to do it, and I would applaud the child’s initiative if
that’s what she chose to do.”
    “I hope you die
of the gout,” Annette snarled at him. “I hope your heart seizes up and
strangles you in your bed—alone and desolate. I hope you die from all
your sins at once.”
    “Thank you, Annette.
Now please piss off. You’re frightening the patrons.”
    “Your own
daughter detests you!” Annette whirled around to face the more curious café diners.
“She hates her own father and wishes he were dead.”
    “I’m sorry about
this, Florrie,” Jacques said as Annette pushed her way out of the café terrace and
disappeared into the parking lot. Florrie vaguely shook his head as if to say no problem, but instead looked more like
a man confused and undone by the situation. He sat down heavily and ran a hand
across his face. Jacques thought about the changes to come—the money to
come—and he smiled to himself. He drank down the last of his pastis , feeling the burn of the liquid as
it edged its way down his throat. And he felt better.
     
    Wash the death trumpets gingerly with a paper towel or other
kitchen towel. Linen is good if you are wealthy enough to throw away a
perfectly good linen towel cleaning the dirt off a mushroom.
    Julia smiled to
herself as she piled the newly cleaned mushrooms onto her chopping board. She
would have to edit that entry later—or her editor would. Still, it amused
her. She picked up one of the largest of the mushrooms and held it to her nose,
inhaling deeply. Instantly, the moment that morning in the glade north of the
city came back to her. Even the feel of the early morning air, a brisk breeze
holding all the promise of winter, came into her mind and seemed to flit across
her bare arms. She placed the mushroom down and picked up her chef’s knife. She
wasn’t sure the time she spent each day foraging into the meadows and forest
outside Aix weren’t the best part of creating her mushroom book. She roughly
chopped the mushrooms and set them aside before deseeding the green pepper she
had purchased from the Place Richelme market that morning.
    That was silly,
of course. The search was just one more wonderful component to this her most
amazing life project. Would she ever have imagined in her wildest dreams that
one day she would become the recognized expert on culinary mushrooms? Was it
possible to have imagined that even six months ago? Of course, she cooked.
French or not, one could hardly escape cooking while living in France. But her impassioned industry, some might say driven fanaticism,
to unlock the secrets of the simple mushroom—in all its glorious forms,
in all its magical capacities— that had not manifested itself until after Jacques left her.
    She nicked the
tip of her finger with the sharp knife and dropped the utensil immediately in
surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cut herself in the kitchen.
She twisted a piece of paper towel around the stinging cut. The sensation,
combined with the thought of Jacques, was enough to make her reach for a handful
of the Death Trumpets once more and bring them to her nostrils. She inhaled
deeply and felt her heartbeat slow, her pulse steady, the tension in her
shoulders relax. It was appropriate, she decided as she dropped a large knob of
butter into a hot skillet on her stove, that one achieved these life-altering fungi
by groping—no,