Jason gave him a exhaustive description of his run, the itinerary, the people who greeted him, the point at which the dog joined him, and finally the car that sped around the circle, jumped the curb, forced him into the recessed doorway, and injured the dog before speeding off without stopping to offer aid.
How terrifying it must have been. I wondered if I could have jumped out of the way as Jason had. Probably not. But then I wouldn’t have been running up and down the street at dawn. “You’re going to have to give up exercise, Jason, until we’re home. Or at least until the inspector catches the culprit.”
“Can you describe the car or the driver? Did you see the license plate, Professor?” asked Inspector Roux.
“Lord, man, I was knocked down in the entry way with the dog on top of me. I couldn’t see the license plate. The car was black. The driver looked tall and was wearing a soft cap with a bill. A man. I had less than a minute to look and get out of the way.”
Inspector Roux sighed. “Not much information. Perhaps Doctor Petit will discover what killed your friend, and we can find the murderer in that way.”
“If there is one,” Jason replied.
“There is. Lyon pâté does not kill. Lyon drivers do not run down tourists. Perhaps the murderer is from Paris.”
I had to stifle a giggle. Everything bad came from Paris according to the inspector.
“Happily the dog will recover. It has a cut on the leg, so there may be blood on the car, but how will we find the car? Are you much hurt, Professor?”
“A bruised knee,” said Jason.
At that moment the owner came in carrying Henri, followed by the fat veterinarian. “Henri thanks you, monsieur, for bring him to safety.” He leaned down, and Henri, tail wagging behind his owner’s arm, licked Jason on the nose. Then the vet shook Jason’s hand and informed him, through translation, that he had a better opinion of Americans for having met Jason.
I went to the buffet for another kiwi. They were so good. If I stayed alive long enough, maybe I’d write a column on kiwis, New Zealand’s gift to fruit lovers. Actually, France grows its own, and the average Frenchman eats three pounds a year. That’s a lot of kiwis.
I couldn’t believe it. How many people decide to commit murder and fail twice? Twice! First I killed Robert. Then I waited two hours to spot Jason Blue, and what did I accomplish? I missed him and injured a dog. But I’m not done. I need a new plan, one that won’t fail.
12
Sylvie’s Suspects
Carolyn
Jason dropped me at the chairman’s office, where Professor Laurent was absent, but his secretary, Mademoiselle Zoe Thomas sat at her contemporary black and silver desk, her fingers flying over her keyboard and a telephone tucked under her chin, while she spoke rapid-fire French. I dropped into a black chair with a fan back and a hard seat, wondering if these contemporary designers ever tried sitting in their creations. The office looked very smart, but not very welcoming.
The secretary, on the other hand, was a pretty woman with curly brown hair, her face and figure softly curved, not as fashionable as the gaunt Victoire Laurent, or as chic as the décor of the office. Perhaps the chairman had chosen Mademoiselle Thomas for her gently feminine appearance as well as her typing skills.
She replaced the telephone and addressed me in French, to which I replied apologetically in English. “No necessity for apologies. The English is easier to understand than the French of Americans. You are Madam Blue, yes? Who has asked about pâté? It did not come from our department. No pâté ordered by me would sicken or kill. But if the pâté is innocent in the death of our Robert, then you and Professor Blue missed a treat.”
“Maybe someone else in the department sent it to us. Can you think of—”
“Perhaps the Guillots, but they were to meet you at the airport, so why send the gift? And they are gone. No, I think it was a mistake. You will find that Robert died of something else. America is such a violent country. But do not fret, madam. You are safe here.”
I was going to tell her about the attempt on my husband, but Sylvie, wearing a black-and-white polka dot dress, breezed in and whisked me away to her little sports car, a gleaming, silver blue, missing only the top. I’d never have known the car was very old if she hadn’t told me.
Before we could climb in, I was introduced to Winston Churchill, a small pug dog who greeted me by racing around my ankles and jumping up on my legs. “You know Albertine Guillot and her dog Charles de Gaulle?” Sylvie asked as she picked up Winston Churchill. “Winnie met Charles de Gaulle when he was a puppy and Charles a horrid adolescent, to whom Winnie took an immediate dislike. Immediately I decided that I’d call my dog Winston Churchill. Not very nice of me. But Albertine and I are not compatible. She says unpleasant things about Winston Churchill, both the prime minister and my dog.
“My camera equipment is in the backseat, so you won’t mind letting Winnie sit in your lap, will you? If he does something you don’t like, just say ‘No’ or ‘Non’ loudly. He’ll stop.” She opened the door for me and, without waiting for my consent, plopped her dog on my knees. Winnie licked my hand, which I really didn’t like, but before I could say no, he circled once, curled up, and went to sleep. “He loves to sleep in the car, just like a baby,” said his mistress affectionately.
I decided that any dog who disliked Charles de Gaulle was a dog I could tolerate, but if he licked me again, I’d certainly say no loudly.
As she drove away from the university, Sylvie explained that her father had once had just such a car as hers. His wasn’t new even then, but she had loved to ride in it along the cliffs overlooking the sea in England, and she was his helper in the many repairs that had to be made. Her father bad been English, her mother French.
“So imagine my happiness when an elderly widow in our neighborhood inherited this car. It had been her husband’s, but she herself could not drive it, so I fixed it up for her and took her for a ride several times a week. It made us both happy, and then she died and left it to me. Of course, Raymond wanted me to sell it since it is old and always breaking down. But why would I do that? My own car, and I know how to fix it, so you mustn’t be alarmed, Madam Blue, if it stops unexpectedly. I am an expert mechanic, at least for this car, and I carry tools and spare parts.
“Now as I drive through these streets, look at the ends of the buildings. They all have murals. This is the project of Tony Garnier, the architect.”
I peered at the sepia-toned murals depicting neighborhoods, buildings, and towers. Occasionally, Sylvie whipped the car to a curb and took a picture of me in front of a mural holding Winston Churchill’s leash. She must have had a very fast camera, because the dog would not pose. He never stopped moving, tugging at the leash, or barking at me in a friendly manner. You had to like him, even if he was hyperactive, for he did mind. Perhaps a bit of Ritalin would do him good.
Since she seemed the least likely person to attack us, I told her about Jason’s experience that morning and confessed that I thought we were being stalked but couldn’t imagine by whom.
“Ah, well,” said Sylvie, “Albertine is capable of anything. She told us of your problems with Charles de Gaulle. And then he was so tiresome when they got back to Lyon. He bit a policeman. The Guillots had to hire a lawyer to keep the dog from being put down, and then they had to send him to school to learn better manners. You may find him a nicer dog, but Albertine is the same always. She says she is not angry with you, but she probably is.”
“But why would she try to attack Jason?” I asked.
“Maybe it was Victoire. What color was the car?”
“Black,” I replied. “But why would Madam Laurent—”
“She has a black car. Ah, here it is, Le Mur des Canuts. Canuts were those who worked the silk looms, very skilled. They contributed much to the wealth of the city, but they were so poor themselves.”
Ahead of us was a long stairway between two buildings, leading up to a grassy area and a stone wall. We left t
he car, with Winston Churchill bounding along, tugging on his leash, but when we got closer, Sylvie handed the leash to me and instructed me to walk over to the man studying a map and pretend that I was talking to him while she took a picture. “Won’t he find that strange?” I asked, reluctant to approach the tourist.
Sylvie burst into laughter. “You see how fine our murals are. He is a painted tourist.” So Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken beside the painted tourist. I think the pug was fooled as well because he barked at the picture. Then I moved back to study the mural. It wasn’t just the steps that were painted. The buildings to both sides were part of the mural. There was a pigeon on the ledge of an upper window so realistic that I expected to see it fly away.
We stopped in a café for a snack of bread, cheese, wine, and, of course, sausage—Cervelas de Lyon. Sylvie said it had been brought here by the Italian silk merchants and bankers and contained delicious parts of the pig. Cervelas?—brains, I suspected, and shuddered. “So why would Victoire try to kill Jason?” I asked to distract Sylvie from further discussion of the sausage she had ordered.
“Robert was her lover, and Robert died in your room eating your pâté.”
“He actually died in the hospital, and it wasn’t our pâté. Someone sent it.”
Sylvie shrugged and popped a bite of the sausage into her mouth. “Victoire Laurent is a domineering woman. I can imagine her racing her car into someone if she thought the man killed her lover.”
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense,” I muttered, and slipped a piece of my sausage to Winston Churchill, who was happy to get it. He snuggled up against my leg, chewing lustily, but didn’t tip off his mistress to our conspiracy. “And thinking that Victoire tried to run down Jason doesn’t explain who sent the bad pâté.”
“Now you must try the cervelle de Canute.” As she pushed the bowl toward me, Sylvie laughed at my expression. “Nothing terrible, Madam Blue. Although the name means silk workers’ brains, it is simply a fresh curd cheese with a bit of olive oil and vinegar whipped in with fresh herbs, shallots, and garlic.”
“Do call me Carolyn,” I said, eyeing the cheese suspiciously, but I couldn’t see anything that resembled brains, and it was, in fact, very tasty. I ate that with my bread and wine and continued to slip the brain sausage to the dog.
While out to lunch with a lady from Lyon, I reencountered my own objection to eating brains. She ordered cervelas, a sausage I assumed contained brains because of the Latin word cervelle, brain meat. Rather than offend her, I cut off pieces and slipped them to her dog. Then she insisted that I eat a cheese called cervelle de Canute, silk workers’ brains. I couldn’t believe my ill luck, but she insisted that it contained simply curd cheese and flavorings. Only later did I discover that the sausage I fed the dog, although it did contain brains in the time of Julius Caesar, now contained only pork with pistachios or truffles. I’d probably have loved it. The dog certainly did.
Cervelle de Canute
• Beat 1 pound curd or farmer’s cheese with a wooden spoon. Add 2 tablespoons olive oil, 1 tablespoon vinegar, 1 finely chopped clove garlic and beat into the cheese.
• Chop 2 tablespoons chervil, 4 tablespoons parsley, 2 tablespoons chives, 1 tablespoon tarragon, and 4 shallots. Mix well into cheese. Season to taste and serve with toast or bread.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Birmingham Eagle
13
An Academic Suspect and a Japanese Fish
Carolyn
After our snack, Sylvie drove away while Winston Churchill lay burping in my lap. Perhaps the sausage hadn’t been such a good idea, but his ancestors must have eaten every part of the animals they killed, including the brains.
“. . . Bibliothèque de la Cité,” Sylvie was saying. She planned to take me to a library? Instead of a real one, it was a library painted on the outside of a building. On each floor were books, manuscripts, quill pens, and even a beak-nosed bird reading in a window. Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken in front of the trompe l’oeil library.
Sylvie was illegally parked when her engine sputtered and a policeman stopped to reprimand her. “What bloody bad luck,” she muttered and hopped out, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry. I can fix it.” She then turned to the policeman and chatted with him in French while Winston Churchill stood on my lap, barking with excitement.
We’ll probably end up in jail, I thought, but it didn’t happen. The policeman, obviously smitten with Sylvie, helped her raise the hood, then came around to pat the dog while Sylvie stuck her head underneath and banged on things with a tool from her trunk. “Carolyn,” she called, “try the engine now.”
“I don’t know how,” I called back, having observed that the car required shifting and depressing a clutch.
The officer filled in. “Voila!” cried Sylvie, slamming down the hood. Then he, beaming with admiration, waved as we drove away without a ticket for illegal parking.
“I have had a thought,” she said, “about who sent the foie gras. Maybe Professor Laurent found out that his wife was having an affair with Robert, so he sent Robert to your hotel with the poisoned pâté, knowing that Robert could not resist it. The man adored pâté, even more than he adored Zoe, the chairman’s mistress.”
“Mademoiselle Thomas is Professor Laurent’s mistress?” I asked, shocked. Was there no end to the sexual liaisons in this department? The chairman’s wife and a professor. The chairman and his secretary. Jason thinks professors should set a good example, which reminded me that he himself had given me moments of unhappiness over Mercedes, his doctoral student from Mexico City. He made several scientific trips with her, although she was not with him on this one.
“Of course,” said Sylvie. “It makes excellent sense. Not only does the chairman dislike the affair of his wife, but he also would dislike the fact that Robert hangs around Zoe, looking besotted. Two reasons to poison Robert.”
“But the clerk at the hotel said a messenger brought the pâté.”
“So Laurent had the pâté sent and then dispatched Robert to greet you. Robert would not be suspicious. He knew your husband, and the Guillots were out of town. Yes, either the Guillots or the Laurents are behind these attacks. Poor Robert. I’m sure he’d much rather have had an affair with Zoe than with Madam Laurent, and now he’s dead. Ah, here is La Fresque des Lyonnais.”
Bemused by Sylvie’s speculations, I got out of the car and studied the new example of Lyonnais building painting. On the first floor was a shop with windows displaying the food of the city, and on the floors above, standing on their balconies were famous citizens from different centuries in the city’s history—Roman emperors, painters, poetesses, soldiers, and politicians. They covered the walls, wearing period clothes. Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken in front of Gastronomie Lyonnaise, with its painted sausages and other comestibles.
As soon as Sylvie dropped me off, I rushed up to my room and called Inspector Roux to ask what progress he had made and to pass on Sylvie’s suspects. Jason would probably disapprove of my pointing a finger at our hosts, but I did have our safety to consider, not to mention my citizen’s duty to be helpful to law enforcement. He wasn’t in his office, so I tried his cell phone. All Europeans have cell phones. “Inspector, this is Carolyn Blue, the woman who discovered the Canadian in her room. I wondered if you’ve made headway.”
“We have not found the car, but we found shopkeepers who agree that it did not seem to be an accident and remarked how good it was of your husband to take care of the dog. I hope he has recovered.”
“My husband or the dog? And why did no one go to the rescue if they saw the accident?”
“It is a busy time for a shopkeeper, and they said that he rose almost immediately. Has the professor seen a doctor for his knee? I can recommend one, and if we find the driver, the driver must pay for his treatment.”
“What about the poison?” I asked, sure that Jason hadn’t go
ne to a doctor. It’s harder to get a man to a doctor than to convince an El Pasoan to give up Mexican food. Only a serious medical condition will do the trick in either case.
“Ah, the poison. Doctor Petit chooses tetrodotoxin. The symptoms of the Canadian gentleman support that conclusion, although the symptoms support other conclusions as well.”
“How do you spell it, the toxin?” I asked, planning to look it up on the Internet. Our room had a modem connection, and my laptop has a modem. Inspector Roux spelled it for me.
“The problem is, Madam Blue, that the toxin is found in a fish eaten by Japanese. The chances of a French goose being fed a Japanese fish are slim.”
“Fugu. My husband has eaten it. Had I been with him, I would have protested, but a well-trained fugu chef is taught to remove all toxic parts but enough to numb the lips and tongue so the customer can enjoy the danger of what he’s eating.”
“The Japanese are strange people,” mused the inspector. “They never commit crimes, but they take the photographs continuously, more often, I think, than they actually look at the sights they photograph. Very strange.”
“I imagine the criminal mashed a bit of a puffer fish into the pâté. Since fugu is said to be quite tasty, Professor Levasseur would have noticed only the numbed lips and tongue, not the taste.”
“I know of no place in Lyon that serves such a fish. It is probably against the law.”
“Don’t you have Japanese restaurants? Have you called importers of fish?”
“Lyon has wonderful fish in the area. We have no need to import fish that kill people,” said the inspector indignantly.
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