The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure

by Bill Jones Jr.

  “I could say it in French, but I fear it might sound too sexy for you.” His mouth gapped open and I tossed in it a mint I’d taken from the restaurant. He almost choked. We climbed into a cab, which was fortuitously waiting, and headed to the hotel. Only after he agreed on a complete lower-body massage did I reveal the remainder of my assessment of the case thus far. “I could tell the young woman was Helen’s daughter because unlike you, I was looking at her face. If you had looked higher, you would have noticed the Asian genetic influence in her eyes.” He attempted to defend himself, but I hushed him and continued. “In addition, her appearance caused a tingle along my left arm in precisely the same spot as her mother, so I was confident as to the similarity of their appearance.”

  He stopped me again. “Um, you want to explain that?”

  “Non.” I said. He gave me an unhappy look, so I gave him one of mine in exchange. When he relented, I continued. “In any case, Mr. Rao had quite dark skin, yet the girl was fair, even lighter than her mother. It was unlikely he was her biological father given the fact that DNA for skin tone combines.”

  “Yeah, children are usually midway between their parents’ skin tones.

  “Not always in the middle, but somewhere in the range, certainly. So, I assumed that Mr. Rao was Helen’s second husband.”

  “Shouldn’t you have just asked her that?”

  “The woman was upset. Why waste her time with questions I already know the answer to?”

  Foss made a frowning face, as he does frequently. “That girl didn’t exactly shed tears when she learned her stepdad had died.”

  “Again, ‘that girl’ has a name, Rosie.” I smiled at him. He is adorable when he’s proud of himself, and I could sense the amour-propre emanating from him like dragon’s fire. I was glad to put out his flames.

  “How … how do you know her name?” he asked, looking less dragon and more sheep-like.

  “Did you not notice the staff wears name tags? I am surprised you missed hers. It was on her left breast.” I looked out the window to avoid his scowl. “You must favor the right ones,” I added. I did not add that when her mother was thinking of her, I got a sense of the smell of roses. He would not have understood.

  “So, Rosie either didn’t care Rao was dead or already knew it.”

  “Oui. She was also very tense when we showed up asking for her mother. So, put the pieces together, and voilà, you have a protective daughter who does not like her stepfather.”

  “And you weren’t buying that the wife’s reason for staying away from the Institute was that she didn’t want to watch him die.”

  “At the time of his impending death, perhaps yes. But she was not a frequent visitor even before then, according to Dr. Phillips. That doesn’t sound like a woman who’s happy with her husband. And since a common reason for marital estrangement is cheating or abuse, I picked abuse. Cheating would have been difficult for a man who could barely walk and who worked with his wife and stepdaughter … unless, of course, it was with the stepdaughter. I would normally suggest the police look for hospital reports of injuries to Helen, but it is clear they did not use doctors.”

  “That sounds like the real reason Rao never got insurance.” Foss gave a breathy laugh that was full of irony. “Talk about karma biting you in the ass.” He looked out the window. “Well, I guess this was a dead end as far as the polonium is concerned.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “You said so yourself. It’s nothing more than a tragic revenge killing.”

  I sighed at him. “You don’t listen to me at all, do you?”

  “Huh? That’s exactly what you said.”

  “I also said, when we were at the Institute, that the monkshood poisoning was used to cover up the polonium.” I tried to disguise my irritation, but it showed in my voice.

  “I … I heard that. I thought you’d decided you were wrong at first.”

  I placed my hand on his arm. I was tired and was barking at him without cause. “I promise to let you know when I am wrong.” The taxi stopped and I looked out and saw we were at the hotel. “You should stop thinking about this now,” I said. I don’t want you too stressed when you give me my massage. I am a delicate French flower.”

  He mumbled something about a cactus, so I decided not to bother shaving my legs before the massage. I would show him a cactus.

  5 - Cactus Flowers and Rose Thorns

  The bathroom door opened and steam roiled out, bathing the room in warm, damp air. From its dark midst emerged Jeanne, lit by the flickering light from the living area as if she were a chimera, or perhaps a wounded angel, defrocked and sent limping to Earth. She was dressed in a flowing, white robe with her hair wrapped in a towel. It was ordinary hotel attire, yet she wore it as if she were an ancient Persian Princess and I her faithful servant. I’d doused the lights in the hotel room and substituted them with candles that were bright enough for her to see her way to the bed, but little else. I’d just turned off the lamps, and my eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when she approached. I regained my vision in time to see the creamy outline of her flesh through the sheer robe. I swept her up with my eyes, and for a moment, she met my gaze and the fog was no longer in the room, but in my mind, clouding out the thoughts I’d had of our case, our agreed professionalism, my reason. I realized, too late, that I’d not thought the setting in the room through. Behind me, Coltrane and Ellington conspired in playing “My Little Brown Book,” which added just enough heat that I feared the room might melt. That woman and her jazz were going to be the death of me.

  “Merci d’atténuer les lumières,” Dark said, taking my hand so I could help ease her onto the bed. “It was very thoughtful.” My elementary French told me she was thanking me for dimming the lights. I breathed a sigh of relief that she didn’t think the setting was as full of romance as my thumping heart was telling me that it was. Dark removed her sunglasses once again. Even in the dim light, the gloriously large olive orbs were breathtaking. She lay on her side, briefly looking me in the eyes, and smiled. “You are full of compliments tonight,” she said.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Oui. You said plenty.” She turned on her stomach, reached underneath and undid her robe. My brain reminded me for the second time I hadn’t thought the scenario through. It was, however, way too late to turn on the lights and the television to break the mood. She pulled the robe over her shoulders and lifted her chin to me. “You can help, you know.” I gingerly eased the garment off her shoulders, to her mid-back, stopping at her hips. I could see a strap across her back that looked like a … “Do you like my bikini?” she asked.

  The question startled me, because for a moment I thought the woman could see me out the back of her head. It would have been a natural evolution from her current set of gifts. I managed to stutter out a query as to why she had a bikini in London.

  “I bought it the day we met, when you promised me a massage. I was beginning to think I’d never wear it.”

  I settled in over her and began at her shoulders. Her fragrance stopped me. “Why do you smell like oranges and vanilla?”

  She gave a throaty laugh. “Do I make you hungry?”

  I muttered my answer under my breath. “You have no idea.”

  I resumed work on her shoulders, but she turned, looking at me. “Is the rest of me too damaged for you to massage?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you start with the bottom and work up. All the pain is from below the waist.”

  “Should I pull your robe back up?”

  “If I am ugly, oui.”

  I pulled the damned thing the rest of the way off, revealing her slender frame, delicate skin, and slim legs. From head to toe, she smelled of the attar of orange petals. “Yeah, my pain is from below the waist too,” I said.

  “Shut up and rub me,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice.

  I took possession of one of her
delicate feet. It was smaller than my hand, and I had to resist the urge to pop it into my mouth like a piece of candy. Gathering the tattered shards of my wit that weren’t lying in fragments on the bed next to her, I began shiatsu on her left foot, starting just below her small toe. I watched her closely for any response. Some people are quite sensitive to the technique, while others consider it to be hokum. Within thirty seconds, I heard a soft groan and she moved her shoulders.

  “Oh!” she said. “That bit of a shoulder rub you did made a difference.”

  I smiled but remained silent. She was definitely in the sensitive camp. I’d started her out on the point of the foot that was supposed to stimulate her shoulders. I moved near her heel, stimulating her knee’s natural healing. The groans turned to a low hum that reminded me of an idling engine. My motor was running too. By the time I had finished with both feet, Dark was in a comfortable mood, relaxed, with both hands draped by her side.

  “I want to marry your hands,” she said. Her voice sounded soft and deep, liquid and languid like warm molasses.

  “Sorry, they come with the rest of me.”

  “Typical man, always making demands.”

  I saw my opening and took it. “Speaking of which, how come you’ve never gotten married, Jeanne?”

  “Why haven’t you? I mean, besides the fact that your fiancée was insane.”

  Bad memories flooded my brain as though someone had opened the sewer gates. “I did once. Lasted all of two days before I started annulment proceedings.”

  “Mon dieu!” Dark said, stuffing her laughter back into her mouth with one hand. “What happened?”

  I sighed. “Crazy magnet again. She accused me of trying to hit on her mom at the wedding ceremony. Said I was staring at her too much for it to be innocent. Her mom was the damned minister.”

  “You are making this up!”

  “I wish I were. My dear bride ended up attacking me with the knife they brought for us to cut the cake. Bottom line? Woman was crazy. I heard she was institutionalized a few years later.”

  Dark was in full howl by this point, and I was beginning to get irritated. She sensed it, and reined herself back in. “I’m sorry, it’s just …”

  “I know, pathetic. But forget my horror stories. Why haven’t you married?”

  She grinned at me over her shoulder. “I was waiting to marry you.”

  Now, I was full-on pissed. It was one thing to laugh at my two-day marriage, but the woman knew I had feelings for her and was mocking me. “That was just mean, Dark.”

  Her smile fell off her face and onto the bed. She sat up and pouted at me with her arms folded in front of her. “No, you are mean,” she said. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she asked. “Is that the end of my massage, or do I get legs too?”

  By then, my hands were missing her skin, so I decided to make peace. “You get whatever you want.”

  That got me a long, hard stare that revved my motor to another gear—but it was no longer irritation I was feeling. I wondered if I could backtrack somehow to the point where she was relaxed and laughing and dressed only in a skimpy bikini. While I fought with my better judgment, she lay back down, settling my inner debate for me. “It’s too late to make amends. No honeymoon for you.”

  “I wish you would stay out of my brain,” I said.

  “Then perhaps you should not make it such easy reading,” she answered. In my head, I mimicked her French accent while pantomiming her infuriating certitude behind her back. Dark reached behind herself, her arms at an improbable angle, and smacked me. “Do not mock me.”

  “You are a scary little woman.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Hush, woman, before I change my mind.” I leaned in, placed my hands on her right thigh and began to knead the muscle. “Ouch!” I said, shaking my hand. “What are you, a French porcupine?” The hairy stubble sticking out of her leg felt like bits of glass.

  She hooted and began rubbing her prickly legs against my arm, my neck, and my face. I pretended not to like it. The massage was already helping. She showed more mobility than she had all night. “Call me a cactus again,” she said, laughing, as I fell to the floor with a heavy thud. I actually checked to see if she’d broken the skin.

  “Those legs aren’t as pretty as they look,” I said. I was sitting up at this point with my face level with her eyes.

  “Serves you right,” she said, looking me in the eyes. We stared at each other for what seemed like minutes, with neither of us speaking. She won the battle, since I pretended to clear my throat and stood up. “I have a razor and foam in my bag on the sink,” she said.

  I stood and headed for the sink. “Don’t you need hot water or something to shave?

  “I’m not going to shave. You are going to do it.”

  I jammed on the foot brakes. “Like hell I am.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not shaving your legs.”

  “That is not an answer. It is a restatement of your previous sentence.”

  “Because, I might cut you or something.”

  “Not if you’re careful.”

  “I … No.”

  Dark sat up, holding the bikini top to her chest. My brain went on pause as I wondered when and why she’d undone the strap. “Oh, I see,” she said, a slight, smug smile on her pretty face. “You are too mâle to be seen shaving a woman’s body.” She lay back down, placing that self-satisfied smile on the cool sheets. “I was wrong, you are not purple. You are just yellow.”

  Now, I understood that Dark’s colors were a personal quirk of hers and one I shouldn’t take seriously, but still, that got me riled. “Hey, it’s not like I’m scared to shave you.”

  Still holding onto her top, she rolled over onto her back and raised one leg. She looked back at me. “Prove it, Mr. Angry Dragon.”

  The woman was pulling my chain. I decided that I wasn’t going to win at her game, so it was time to play mine. I shook my head. “No need. I’ve got something better than shaving. Better for your skin too.” I went into the bathroom to get my stash.

  I heard her plaintive cry from the bedroom. “You cannot use depilating cream on my skin,” she said. “I am allergic.”

  I returned to the bed with a large towel and a bottle of the good stuff. “This isn’t depilatory. Here, roll over on this.” I got her situated on the towel and sat next to her, where she could see me. The frightened little rabbit look never left her face. “This is the best massage oil money can buy,” I said.

  “How did you get that on the plane?”

  “I know people.”

  I moved behind her before she could object or squeak out a mousey little apology and started kneading her calf muscles, this time working in the oil. Her little cactus needles folded under the lubricant like so much down on a baby’s bottom. I continued working her calves, the outside of her thighs, and the insides, until her breathing slowed then quickened and grew heavy. Towards the end, she was groaning and I was sweating. I continued on to work her spine, and she gave a boisterous, unfeminine grunt as I applied pressure to her lower back.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” she said, her voice breathy. “Give it to me. I can take it.”

  I gave it to her, inching along her spine in careful circles, following the lines of nerves and muscles to their endings. Fifteen minutes later, I was at her mid-back and she rose slightly and pulled off her top completely. It was about then that I stopped winning this war and began looking toward a dignified surrender. I continued my circles, finally reaching her neck and shoulders. I reached under her arms and lifted her back in a slow arc towards me now that I’d loosened it sufficiently. As I glanced sideways, I could see her breast in the candlelight. It was small, round, and perfect. I’d lost the war completely. She’d set a snare, allowed me to charge through her unprotected gates, and exterminated me once I was inside. Trying unsuccessfully to tear my eyes away from her, I lowered her to the bed, sliding myself off her and onto the
floor. I turned, intending to head to the bathroom to wash the oil from my hands.

  “Foss,” came her soft voice behind me. “I’m sorry about … I am just too comfortable around you. Please don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” I said, not turning towards her. It wasn’t a lie.

  “Then please finish.”

  This time I turned. She was seated on the bed, covering her breasts with her arms. “I’ve done your feet and legs, your back, neck, and shoulders. I don’t think I should do your front.”

  She gasped a little, looking hurt, to my reckoning. “I didn’t mean for you to. I wouldn’t let you do that.” Then she did something I’d never have expected in a million years from my brilliant, stubborn, badass little detective. She started tearing up, the droplets rolling down her cheeks in a slow line.

  It tore me right out of the frame. I apologized and told her I wasn’t accusing her of trying to seduce me. I think I was doing okay until I said, “Please don’t cry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “You are an arrogant pig of a man,” she said. “I am only crying because I am sad that murdering you is against the law.” That was followed by a mumbled torrent of French I didn’t need to be a synesthete to know was blue language.

  She was seated in the middle of the bed, almost nude, her short hair disheveled, holding her breasts and muttering obscenities at me through her pouty, pink lips. It was all I could do to keep from tearing off my own clothes and joining her. I inhaled, gathering my composure. “Look Jeanne, I only meant that we need to be careful because sometimes I find you dangerously attractive.” I had my hands together as if I were praying. Maybe that helped, or maybe the expression “dangerously attractive” is something of a get-out-of-jail-free card, as she lay on her stomach with her arms once again by her side.

  “Do you trust me, Foster?” she asked. I admitted that I trusted her completely. I did not admit I trusted myself not even a little. She said, “Then, I have to tell you, it is my hip that hurts. One is weaker than the other, and they become misaligned. After that, the joints hurt, and the muscles in my buttocks begin to cramp and ache.” Without another word, and with her eyes shut, she reached back and undid the string from one side of her bikini bottoms. “If you don’t mind my skinny derrière and my long scars, I really need your healing hands.”