French Fried

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Others were theorizing about where the shot came from. “The Chapelle de Saint-Martial,” said someone. “Unless the shooter stood here in the banquet hall and fired.” Nobody thought that possible. The gunman would have been seen here in the hall. Therefore, several men approached the door of the chapel, opened it, and peered in, which seemed foolish to me. What if the armed man was still in there? The academic investigators would be shot as well.

  Could Carolyn have been right about a terrorist stalking us? And where was she? Admittedly, with such a crowd around me, I couldn’t scan the reaches of the hall, but surely if she were here, she’d come over to see if I’d been hurt. Since I’d no doubt been the target, I’d have been wounded if Mercedes hadn’t stepped in front of me. It was this thought that convinced me I must go to the hospital with her when the ambulance attendants arrived, carrying a stretcher. A gurney wouldn’t have worked on the long flight of stairs to the lower floor.

  When Mercedes begged me to stay with her and hold her hand, I agreed. “Adrien, can you find Carolyn and tell her what’s happened? She was right. Someone is trying to kill us. I’d be grateful if you and Albertine could see that she takes no chances.” Then, after retrieving a slip of paper that Carolyn had provided, I asked the ambulance attendants if we could go to the Centre Hospitalier d’Avignon, where Blue Cross Blue Shield was accepted. “You do have university insurance, don’t you, Mercedes?”

  They moved her from table to stretcher, having taken her vital signs and inspected the rough-and-ready bandaging made up of cummerbunds and handkerchiefs. As soon as we were out of the hall, Mercedes looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and said, “Your wife has done this. She is jealous of the feeling that has grown between us.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? My wife has no reason to be jealous, nor would she shoot someone if she were. Furthermore, my feelings, Mercedes, are strictly professional.”

  She wept more copiously, splotching her mascara. “Well, of course you would say that. Oh, my wound hurts so much!”

  “Can’t you give her something for pain?” I demanded irritably.

  Evidently the ambulance attendants understood some English because they replied haltingly that no pain medication could be administered until we arrived at the hospital. Because they understood my request, I had to assume that they might have understood Mercedes’s accusation. “Why do these things happen to me?” I muttered aloud.

  Mercedes squeezed my hand and said comfortingly that she was going to survive, no matter what my wife intended. I pulled my hand away, and of course she cried some more.

  “Monsieur, it is best to keep the lady calm. If your hand comforts her—” The attendant shrugged expressively. When we got out of the palace, the pavilion in front was full of people, many standing around the ambulance and conversing with the driver; the air had turned cold, and the sky, heavy with dark clouds, showed only the occasional star and no moon.

  Mercedes shivered and asked for my jacket, but the attendants covered her with a blanket. Then she begged me again to come to the hospital, and the attendants insisted that I agree because she had told them I was her only friend in Avignon. Accordingly, we roared off, sirens shrieking, crowds scrambling aside.

  I tried calling Carolyn at our hotel while Mercedes was being examined, but got no answer. I called the Guillots’ hotel in case the banquet had been cancelled and they had returned, taking my distraught wife with them. They weren’t in. By then I was sent back to Mercedes, who told me sadly that she needed an operation to remove the bullet. “It will leave a scar. I will never be able to wear a bikini again, or a low-necked dress.”

  The dress she had worn to the banquet was certainly low-necked. Had I been her father, I might have considered the predicted scar a blessing.

  “I know your wife meant to kill me, but—”

  “She did no such thing,” I snapped.

  “Do not speak cruelly to me when I love you with all my heart, dear Jason.”

  “You are my student and not allowed to call me Jason, or to love me.” Thoroughly tired of being pursued by this foolish girl, I decided never to take another female student. However, such a policy would be noticed and cause me trouble, maybe even lawsuits supported by the Equal Employment Opportunity people, who always have their eyes on us and love to receive complaints against professors from female students.

  Nurses came in to transfer Mercedes to the operating room, and the English speaker assured me that my daughter would soon be in recovery. Mercedes protested that she was not my daughter, but my lover, and that I must be here when the anesthetic wore off. Of course, I denied that we were lovers while the nurses raised their eyebrows, but I realized that I’d have to stay, if only to stop her from telling people that Carolyn shot her.

  Where was my wife? I wanted to know that she hadn’t—no, I couldn’t even think that. Carolyn wouldn’t shoot anyone.

  I soon found that I couldn’t have left the hospital if I wanted to. The police arrived and, unable to interview Mercedes, settled for me. What happened? She got shot. What was our relationship? Student and professor. Who was present? Around four hundred people. Did I see anyone fire the shot? No. Had there been arguments prior to the shooting? No. Did I know anyone who would want to hurt her? No. What about my wife?

  I gave the inspector an angry look. “My wife has no reason to hurt Mercedes.”

  “She likes the young lady?”

  I compromised by saying, “They’ve only met a few times. And my wife would not shoot anyone. I doubt that she’s ever held a gun.”

  “Then why does mademoiselle think your wife shot her?”

  It was obviously too late to silence Mercedes on that subject, but by God, she’d have to find another research professor. How had they found out? From the ambulance attendants, no doubt. “Mercedes Lizarreta has foolishly decided that she is infatuated with me, although I have given her no encouragement and do not return her feelings. Perhaps she said that, hoping that it was true, or to cause trouble in my marriage. Whatever her reasons, my wife did not shoot her.”

  “Where is your wife?”

  “I don’t know. At the palais or our hotel. I had to come here with my student before I could find my wife.”

  “No one can find your wife, Professor. She evidently disappeared before the shooting, distressed over what she saw between you and the young lady. We must assume that she went to the Chapelle de Saint-Martial, fired the shot, and then escaped through a little-known exit.”

  “That’s absolute nonsense. Someone said the chapel was empty and there was not way out but the door into the Grand Tinel.”

  “They were wrong. If you hear from Madam Blue, we must insist that you call us immediately.”

  “Look,” I said desperately, “that shot was meant for me. If Mercedes hadn’t stepped in front of me, I’d have been here in the hospital.”

  “And still we would be looking for your wife. We are aware that American ladies are less tolerant of husbands with mistresses than are French ladies.”

  “I don’t have a mistress, and it’s not the first time someone has tried to hurt me. A car almost ran me down in Lyon.”

  “Well, those things happen, monsieur. Especially in Lyon, where the drivers are arrogant and reckless. Soon I expect to see the riots from Paris spreading to Lyon.”

  “Ah, here you are,” said a doctor, walking into the waiting room. “Your daughter is out of surgery. You can go in to see her, monsieur.”

  “She’s not my daughter,” I protested wearily.

  “And I am Inspector Villon. I must interview the victim. Perhaps this gentleman should be kept away from her since the shooting seems to be an affair of the heart. Not his it seems, but still I must ask you to . . .”

  At least I wouldn’t have to put up with any more romantic nonsense from Mercedes; I was barred from her presence. I shook the detective’s hand, which seemed to surprise him, and was about to leave when the doctor insisted that I stay to provide informat
ion about Mercedes’s family.

  Oh God, could I never get free to find my wife?

  40

  Rescue

  Carolyn

  It was so cold my teeth chattered, so cold the wind numbed my pain, although it might have been the nasty-tasting pills I chewed. Through the narrow opening between the stone walls, no light shone, not a star, not a golden ray from the moon. I couldn’t tell how long I had been lying there, but only one person had passed. He couldn’t see me because I wasn’t close enough to the dim lantern farther down, so I called “S’il vous plaît” when I heard his heavy steps. “Do you have a cell phone? Call a hospital, s’il vous plaît.” He jerked, peered in my direction, and hurried away, although I shouted after him. Perhaps he thought I was a decoy, that he would be attacked and robbed by someone coming out of the shadows if he came to my assistance.

  Once I heard a siren and took heart. Perhaps he had called for help, even if he wouldn’t approach me. I waited and waited, but no one came. Then the siren resumed and went away, and I cried. Well, crying will do no good, I told myself. Maybe I can scoot downhill. I tried. The first push with my hands and my good foot caused a bolt of pain, so I stopped. I’d be here all night, possibly catch pneumonia, or die of hypothermia. How cold did it get here in the fall when the winds rose and the temperatures dropped?

  I cushioned my head on my hand to keep the concussion bump from resting on stone and wished myself asleep. I was even feeling a bit drowsy when I heard a door open above me and then thud closed, the same thud I’d heard when the guard ushered me out and left me. Footsteps rang on stone. “Help,” I called.

  “Madam Blue, are you there?”

  The voice was familiar. Not Jason’s. He was probably eating a wonderful dinner with Mercedes at his side. Then a giant towered over me, frightening me half to death since I immediately thought that he might be a giant terrorist.

  “Is it you, madam? I have been looking for you.” He knelt beside me and flicked a cigarette lighter so that he could see my face. And I could see the red hair on the giant’s head. “I saw you leave the banquet, looking so sad. You have been very kind to me, so I came to see if I could help. It is me, Martin. Are you hurt?”

  “Yes,” I sniffled, weak with relief and gratitude.

  “I searched the palais but couldn’t find you until a guard said he had guided you out here and that you were crying. Did my professor say something to cause you such pain?”

  That surprised me, but his professor was Catherine, who had indeed spoken cruelly about Jason’s behavior. “I think my ankle is broken, Martin. Do you have a cell phone? Can you call for help?”

  “She is a cruel woman,” he muttered and pulled something from his pocket. I heard the clicks, then the pause, then a flood of French. “They can not get an ambulance into this alley. I have said that I will carry you to the square. Do you think you can bear that?”

  As long as I got to a doctor, I didn’t care how Martin rescued me, but what if he couldn’t carry me that far, or dropped me? I needn’t have worried. When I agreed to his plan, he swooped me up as if I were a small child and strode off. When we reached the square, he would not put me down, although people gathered around us. He shouted at them, perhaps telling them to back away and mind my ankle. When the ambulance arrived, he told them who I was, “Madam Carolyn Blue.”

  “Can I go to the Centre Hospitalier d’Avignon?” I asked, remembering the name of the institution here that took Blue Cross. I’d had a hospital for Lyon as well, but being unconscious, hadn’t been able to request it of whoever took me away from the traboule.

  “Certainly, madam,” said the English speaker. “We have already made one trip there tonight.”

  Probably the siren that didn’t come for me, I thought, shivering.

  “She is cold,” said Martin. He helped them settle me on the cot and spread a blanket himself, but they wouldn’t let him accompany me.

  “Don’t worry, Martin. You’ve saved my life, and I shall be forever grateful. Go back to the banquet and enjoy the evening.” He looked reluctant, but he stood aside when they closed the doors.

  The attendants padded my injury, which made the trip less agonizing. By the time I was taken into the emergency room, I wasn’t feeling so shaky and frightened. “My name is Carolyn Blue,” I said to the doctor who approached me. “This is my insurance card. Blue Cross.” Thank goodness I hadn’t lost that in Lyon.

  “Really? Blue?” He took my card and walked away. To give the card to whoever registered patients, I supposed. Then my ankle was X-rayed and pronounced broken, but not badly. Not badly? It certainly felt bad. “We will give you a—what would be the word?—shoe? For your ankle. Much nicer than a cast. And pills for the pain, but madam, you must start to walk on the leg, wearing the shoe, of course, as soon as you can. Soon walking, soon healing, oui?”

  He expected me to walk on it? It hurt when he was washing it off with alcohol. It hurt when he was wrapping it in gauze, explaining that when I got home, I could and should wear a sock. And it really hurt when he fitted me for the shoe, which was actually a boot, and strapped it onto me. The thing, a sickly green, with which I’d have nothing to wear, covered my foot except for the toes and rose all the way up my shin. “Now madam, I will give you some pills for pain. You have pain?” I agreed that I did, and I didn’t mention that I’d already taken several concussion pills. I wanted relief! “Once you are more comfortable, you can go home.”

  “Walk home?” I asked, horrified. These people were sadists.

  “Non, non, madam. We will call a family member.”

  “My only family member is at a banquet and doesn’t have a cell phone.”

  “At a banquet. Amazing. We will call for you a cab.”

  What was amazing about my husband being incommunicado at a banquet? I was the only one who had reason to consider that cause for dismay. A nurse approached with water and pills in a little cup, and I swallowed them eagerly. “Maybe I need crutches,” I suggested. Otherwise, how would I get to my room? I was not going to walk on the ankle tonight. I’d consider it tomorrow, but tonight I was going to bed, knocked out by four pain pills.

  “We have crutches,” said the doctor soothingly, “but remember to walk. Walking is healing.”

  I wanted to tell him to shut up; instead he told me to rest, and I obediently closed my eyes. I was truly in less pain. With luck it would abate even further.

  “Madam Carolyn Blue?” asked a commanding voice. I jerked out of my doze and stared, confused, at a man I hadn’t seen before.

  “Yes. Has the cab come?”

  “You will not be leaving immediately. I have questions to ask.”

  “For the bill, I suppose. Will Blue Cross pay most of it, do you think? Jason took care of the bill in Lyon.” I felt very fuzzy. Perhaps the added pain pills hadn’t been a good idea. “My ankle does feel better,” I murmured to myself.

  “I’m pleased to hear that, but it is not your hospital bill I wish to discuss. You are the wife of Professor Jason Blue, non?”

  Of course, I was. Hadn’t I just mentioned my husband?

  “Where did you leave the gun?”

  “What?”

  “Do not dissemble. We know you shot the student from the Chapelle de Saint-Martial and then left with the help of a palais guard, after which a fall and a broken ankle foiled your escape. But we did not find the gun in your handbag, so you must have hidden it. In the palais? In the ambulance?” He bellowed to someone leaning against the wall in the corner, and that person scurried out.

  “I don’t have a gun. What are you talking about?” Who was this person with his square, pitted face and tiny eyes?

  “Even the victim says you shot her, Madam Blue, and of course we understand these spousal quarrels that end in violence. Our courts will understand, as well, but you must confess. Failure to express remorse will make your punishment more severe.”

  I closed my eyes, sure I was having a bizarre dream, but when I opened them
again, he was still there. “Perhaps you have the wrong person,” I suggested wearily, wishing that he’d go away and let me rest. “I don’t know of anyone who’s been shot, and I certainly don’t have a gun. I’m a tourist. Guns aren’t allowed on planes, you know. Are you a policeman?”

  “I am an inspector of the Avignon—”

  “Then you must know Inspector Theodore Roux in Lyon. Perhaps you’re even the inspector whose name he gave me. Maybe you should call him. He’ll tell you that I’m the victim, my husband and I, not a criminal.”

  “A Mademoiselle Mercedes Lizarreta was shot this evening in the papal palace while in your husband’s arms,” he said very slowly.

  “She was?” I took that in and then added, “Well, I didn’t shoot her.”

  “You will admit that you had cause?” he persisted.

  “Certainly not. There is never cause to shoot anyone, and I have never done so—well, in New Orleans,” I amended, remembering that incident. “I guess you could say I shot the priest, in a manner of speaking.” The inspector’s mouth dropped open. Perhaps mentioning the priest hadn’t been a good idea. “He wasn’t a real priest, and it was his gun. I thought it was a toy, so I tried to knock it out of his hand. It fired and hit his ear, but even the New Orleans police agreed that having one’s fingerprints on the barrel is not evidence that one has shot someone. He was a known criminal.”

  “Madam obviously has an interesting history,” said the inspector dryly, “but I am interested in the location of the gun you shot from the Chapelle—”

  “I didn’t do that. I wasn’t in any chapelle tonight, and all you have to do is check my hands for—what’s it called?—gunshot residue. It’s something you get on your hands if you shoot a gun. I’ve seen it on TV.” When I held out my hands, he scowled.