French Fried

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “Since you offer, no doubt you washed it off.”

  “Where?” I asked. “In the palais? I only know one ladies’ room there and couldn’t find it. If I had, I’d have ducked in and washed my face. Or maybe you think I washed my hands in the alley. Maybe I rubbed the residue off against the stones after I fell, or cried it off because my ankle hurt so much, or they washed it off in the ambulance or here in the hospital. Ask the medical people. The only thing on me that’s been washed is my leg, and that hurt. So just do whatever you do to look for gunpowder residue.” He did.

  Then my cab and crutches came, and I said if he wasn’t going to arrest me, I was going home to sleep. Because the inspector evidently didn’t have enough evidence for an arrest, I was wheeled to the cab, helped in and later out by the driver, and escorted upstairs by Bridget with the help of the crutches, which I couldn’t handle well. Maybe starting to walk tomorrow was the right thing to do. With that thought, I fell onto my bed and into sleep.

  41

  “Where Have You Been?”

  Jason

  Having escaped from the hospital and failed to contact Carolyn at the hotel, I headed toward the palais. Lately Carolyn’s complaints had involved Mercedes, and she’d been right. The girl did have designs on me, but that didn’t mean I was guilty of anything.

  It seemed to me that Carolyn might have returned to the banquet from, say, the ladies’ room, heard that I’d left for the hospital with Mercedes, and taken her place at our table, leaving me to the mess for which she blamed me. It just wasn’t possible that she’d actually shot Mercedes. Was it? No. I felt better by the time I arrived at the Grand Tinel.

  Dessert was being served; Jacques Laurent was on the podium at the far end of the hall speaking in French, while a translator gave a shortened version in English; and people were looking at me strangely. Only then did I remember that Mercedes had bled all over me. No wonder they were staring. The apparition at the feast had just walked in.

  Closer to the table, I saw the Guillots, but not Carolyn. So much for optimistic logic. I’d rather my wife had been there and angry than missing and unaccounted for. Albertine glared and refused to answer when I asked if she’d seen Carolyn. Several people asked how the “Mexican girl” was, and I replied that the bullet had been removed, and she was recovering at the Centre Hospitalier d’Avignon.

  “And why would someone have shot her?” Adrien asked curiously. “It seems a strange thing.”

  “I imagine the gunman was targeting me,” I replied. “This is, after all, attempt number four.” I needed to say that to absolve my wife, but just saying it gave me chills. Was attempt number five being planned? Or had the person—perhaps, as Carolyn thought, a terrorist—caught and killed her, after failing with me? I left. In the square, where the musicians were still playing, the strollers were leaving because of the chill and the threatening sky. From there I ran to the hotel and finally burst into our room. The door was unlocked, a very bad sign.

  But after all my anxiety, my wife lay fast asleep in bed. I could see her by the light coming through the window from the street below. She had simply left the banquet without telling me, come back, and—I couldn’t believe it. Without even turning on a light, I growled, “Where have you been, Carolyn?”

  She sat straight up, groggily, and stared at me. “Where have I been? Well, I went to the banquet, all dressed up to please you, although you didn’t say one single nice thing to me.” Her voice was slurred. Was she drunk?

  “And there you were with Mercedes, her arms around your neck, your hands on her waist, right there in the banquet hall in front of everyone. How do you think I felt? Catherine saw it and said if it were her, she wouldn’t put up with a husband who couldn’t even carry on an affair with discretion, who threw his sexual forays in her face—her exact words. I was so humiliated. I was so hurt, and on the verge of weeping and embarrassing myself even more. So I left.”

  She swung her legs out of bed and groaned when she tried unsuccessfully to stand.

  “What’s that on your leg?” I asked, distracted from the tongue-lashing I’d just received.

  “My ankle is broken. I fell in an alley while I was trying to get away from all those people who felt sorry for me. I’d still have been on that hill, in agony and freezing to death, if Martin hadn’t come along, called an ambulance, and carried me down to the square. He came looking for me. Tell me, Jason, when did you realize I was gone? When the banquet was over?”

  By now Carolyn was back in bed, crying, still wearing the black dress. And I felt terrible. “You—you don’t know what happened after—I guess after you left. Someone shot Mercedes.”

  “I can see her blood,” Carolyn said bitterly. “Was she in your arms when it happened?”

  “Well, not exactly. She—stepped in front of me, and the bullet hit her.”

  “Weren’t you lucky, and shouldn’t you be comforting her? She may have saved your life.” My wife didn’t sound as if she cared.

  “I was at the hospital, and sweetheart—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “You have to let me tell you the rest. There was an inspector there who seemed to think that you shot her. I told him that was ridiculous. Of course you didn’t.” Then I couldn’t help asking, “Did you?”

  “No, Jason, I didn’t.” She went, in just a second, from sarcastic to furious. “Even if you don’t love me anymore, you ought to know that I wouldn’t shoot anyone, even Mercedes.”

  “But, Carolyn, I do love you. I was never interested in her. She’s a student, for Pete’s sake. I can’t help it if she— she had a thing for me, which she evidently did, but I told her to forget it.”

  “When was this? After I warned you about her? After I begged you to—”

  “Well, it was before she went into surgery.”

  “That must have done her a world of good.”

  “She’s fine. She’s probably given up on me. God knows, I hope so. What we have to do is figure out how to convince the police that you didn’t—”

  “I doubt that you’re the person to do that, Jason. You aren’t convinced yourself. As for me, I was grilled by some square-faced inspector while I was drugged with more painkillers. I told him to take a sample from my hands for gunshot residue and then leave me alone. Since I haven’t held a gun since New Orleans, he’ll have to give up the stupid idea that I shot her. Let me guess? Did she tell him that?” Before I could stammer out an answer, Carolyn said, “I’m going back to bed. Sitting up makes my ankle hurt. I need to get some sleep so I can start walking tomorrow.”

  “You can’t be serious. You said your ankle was broken.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Jason, and I’ll never forgive you for not thinking I looked pretty in my new dress, and shoes—well, the shoes were a mistake, and don’t you dare say ‘I told you so,’ but the hairstyle was pretty. You’re really mean and stodgy.”

  With that she flopped down on the pillow and ordered me to put the sheet and blanket over her. I had to wonder if I’d ever be forgiven. How had our comfortable marriage come to this? We’d been so happy. I sighed and went into the bathroom. When I returned, my wife was deeply asleep, and she didn’t move so much as a finger or change the rhythm of her breathing when I climbed into the other bed. At least, she was breathing. The stalker hadn’t killed her.

  42

  The Morning After

  Carolyn

  I had the hazy impression that it stormed all night, but if so, I hadn’t awakened, probably because I was both tired and drugged. My ankle hurt, mostly when I moved, which made the doctor’s advice to walk as much as possible, as soon as possible, very hard to take seriously. On the other hand, I was awake because I needed to use the bathroom, something I couldn’t put off forever. I viewed the partially open door with a rueful eye. Jason wasn’t here to help me. I then turned to the clock on the nightstand. Nine-thirty. He was at either the conference or the hospital. Much he cared about me!

  I sat
up and edged the booted leg over and then to the floor, using my hands to hold it at the knee so that it wouldn’t thud down. Actually the boot didn’t weigh that much, which was a good thing. With my second foot on the floor, I looked for the wretched crutches and spotted them and the Lyon cane leaning within reach against the nightstand. At least my husband had given my condition some thought before he left.

  I chose the cane, grasped it with my left hand, and stood up on my right foot. Rising revealed that I was now lop-sided because the boot had a thick sole. I tried shifting my weight from the cane to the right foot and back, dragging the boot. That hurt so much I felt faint. Obviously I had to walk on both boot and foot, which would cause me to limp and look ridiculous, as well as hurt.

  And it was becoming crucial that I get to the bathroom, so I did, groaning all the way and reaching the facilities without a moment to spare. The doctor had said I could bathe or shower without the boot as long as I didn’t put unsupported weight on my ankle, fall down, or knock it into anything. Three impossible conditions to meet.

  I got off as many clothes as I could without rising—my beautiful, dust-covered, torn black dress, my slip, and the bra that I’d worn. The expensive hose and the shoes had been bagged at the hospital. I pulled up my panties; then, using the cane for leverage, I rose and wheeled to the sink and mirror for a much needed sponge bath. And what did I find when I faced the mirror? A Post-it note from Jason. “I love you. Take care. Will call at ten.” He was thinking of me!

  The bath that followed was more exhausting than trying to keep up with Catherine at Fort Andre. Drying could be managed only with much precarious twisting about while standing on one foot. After that I was too tired to favor the broken ankle. I just put my full weight on it and—surprise! —it didn’t hurt as much. I got to the bed in time to pick up the ringing phone without causing myself horrendous pain.

  It was Bridget, asking if she could send up breakfast? Of course, she could, I answered. It was only after I’d hung up that I realized I couldn’t open the door wearing only my panties and boot. I dropped my head into my hands, vanquished, until I remembered the robe and spotted it lying across Jason’s bed. Had he been thoughtful? Or just neat? Anyway, I could and did put on the robe. Now I could go to the door.

  The phone rang again, and this time it was my husband. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” He hadn’t. “How are you feeling?” I said I’d managed to walk to and from the bathroom without causing further damage.

  When I asked him if he’d been to see Mercedes, he replied, “I have not, but the wretched girl called me out of a lecture to ask when I’d be there. I told her never, that her conduct had been so improper I wanted her to find another research director. In fact, I suggested one at another university. Then, of course, we had a nasty argument. Nasty on her part. I was moderately calm and polite, but the upshot is that she’s threatening to sue me because she’s in the hospital with a bullet wound. Carolyn, I’m at my wit’s end. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Tell her that you’re going to countersue for sexual harassment,” I replied flippantly.

  There was a silence. Then Jason started to laugh, after which he said, “Embarrassing as that sounds, I’m putting a call through to Human Resources at home as soon as I can.”

  “You aren’t?” I retorted, starting to laugh myself.

  “Damn right I am. You’re a very smart woman, my love. I’ll call you around noon.”

  I hung up, all smiles. Probably I should have stayed angry longer, but the idea that Mercedes was about to be charged with sexually harassing my husband was just too delightful to ignore. Of course, I’d be peeved if he didn’t do it. In a much better mood, I limped over to admit the bellman with my breakfast, which I enjoyed immensely.

  Only after the last bite did I realize that I’d be stuck here all day, and maybe for as long as the meeting lasted. How much walking was I allowed to do? Another knock on my door produced Albertine, arriving with candy and flowers, and shocked when I opened the door myself.

  “My dear Carolyn, you are walking! Do sit down.” She scolded me for leaving the banquet and not standing up to Mercedes, although I felt that there was some justice in Mercedes taking the bullet for Jason. Albertine complained because he had gone to the hospital with the “awful girl.” I passed on the good news that he had told his troublesome student to find a new professor, and that he planned to file a sexual harassment complaint against her.

  “You Americans!” Albertine exclaimed. “Always going to court. These things can be settled less publicly.” Then she commiserated with me for being stuck inside on such a nice day, when the conference had announced a tour of the cathedral, the gardens, and a portion of the walls. The organizers wanted to make up for yesterday’s truncated outing. The very thought that I would miss the new tour sent me into despondency. It wasn’t fair. “I’m walking pretty well,” I said hopefully.

  “Don’t even think of it,” Albertine replied. “I’d rather stay here with you than have you take any more chances with—” I interrupted to ask what time the tour began. “Two, but you can’t go. You have a broken ankle. You probably shouldn’t be walking on it now.”

  “The doctor said I should. And I’m going to. Of course, it would be nice if you drove me over there. You do drive, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, but I can’t drive you through the cathedral or the gardens.”

  “If I can get up to the gardens, I can walk along the walls, can’t I? How much climbing is there?” I thought about climbing. “What I need is a pair of shoes with a heel that brings my other foot to the level of the boot. Could I find such a thing?”

  “One can find anything if one knows where to look, and the shoe is a very sensible idea. Hobbling at two heights could damage your hip. Very well, I’ll pick you up at one, but I won’t promise to take you to the cathedral. First, we must see how the new shoe works. That saleslady where we bought the first pair will be able to suggest something. How are your pretty sandals, by the way?”

  “The heel broke when I broke my ankle. If I’d been in flats—”

  “I take no responsibility for your fall, Carolyn. If you hadn’t left the banquet hall, you’d be fine. Did your beautiful dress survive? I see that your hair has held up well in front, although the back is not good. Shall I comb it for you?”

  “The dress is dusty and torn, and I’d appreciate your help with my hair. In fact, I’ve been worrying about how I’m going to get dressed. I’ll have to wear a skirt.”

  “Ah! I shall chose clothing for you and help you dress. Then we will do your hair.”

  “Thank you so much, Albertine. You’re such a good friend.” I had no intention of being talked out of the cathedral, and possibly I’d insist on the rest. I did have pills.

  “Of course I’m a good friend. I told you that in Sorrento, but obviously you did not believe me. Even Charles de Gaulle is your good friend. Poor dear, I left him in the room, lest his presence make you anxious, but I think we must bring him this afternoon for safety. The shooter might try again.” She stopped rustling through my closet and looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you should not—”

  “At least don’t leave me wearing nothing but a robe, panties, and messy hair,” I pleaded. Once I was dressed and groomed, I’d address the visit to the shop and the tour. She’d never be able to resist shopping.

  She did think Jason might be upset if I purchased more shoes, but I answered, “I don’t intend to worry about his concerns until I’m sure that he’s filed that complaint against Mercedes.”

  “Hmmm,” said Albertine, and brought over a gathered skirt and blouse made from one of those travel fabrics that you can wad up in your suitcase and put right on once you’ve unpacked. It wasn’t exactly what I’d have chosen for a casual occasion, but what else was there? I wondered if I could pull on slacks without the boot and then Velcro the boot over the trouser leg. I’d probably better consult the doctor about that.

  43

  Pho
ne Calls and Gifts

  Carolyn

  Once Albertine left, I called the hospital to ask about putting the leg of my slacks inside the orthopedic boot. The doctor thought the bunched material around my broken ankle would make the boot less efficient. He was, however, pleased that I had been walking and intended to shop for a shoe with a heel the same height as the boot.

  “But perhaps you do not know that in France is not possible to buy only one shoe. You must buy a pair. Also I must warn you not to fall, which can happen while shopping in such a city as Avignon with pavements of ancient unevenness. You could wear tights instead of slacks, but you must keep the foot in the proper position while putting them on, the position in which your foot is held by the boot.”

  While he talked on and on, I decided I could wear those shin-length pants, if they were sold in France. And did he really think that I could buy one shoe in the United States? What strange perceptions people had of our country. If I couldn’t find capris, I’d try for tights. That shopping decision made, I sat back on the bed, my ankle resting on a pillow to prevent swelling, and clicked on the TV, which showed one picture after another of cars and buildings burning in Paris, as well as youths running around at night and policemen chasing them. Watching the policemen reminded me of Inspector Roux and the horrid Inspector Villon. I was glad that I hadn’t heard from Villon. No doubt the gunshot residue had cleared me and embarrassed him, which meant he owed me an apology.

  I also felt that my police friend in Lyon would want to hear about the new attempt on our lives, this time with a gun, not to mention the theory that the attacker might be a terrorist. That hadn’t even occurred to me when we were in Lyon.