by Rita Lakin
Bonnard seems to be in a room full of men. Men who are easily amused. “Have you caught your ancient assassin yet?”
Jack answers. “Not yet. But we now have a description. In fact, we’d like to fax it to you.”
Bonnard says, “By all means. We will examine it quickly before your suspect dies of old age.” He recites the fax number and Morrie jots it down.
Morrie takes over. “Merci. Thank you. I will send it off immediately. I don’t suppose you checked on the winegrowers whose names I furnished?”
Jack thinks the inspector seems to be playing with something on his desk, maybe keys from the sound of the clinking. “As a matter of fact we did. They are simple winegrowers. I personally don’t like their Cabernet Sauvignon, too fruity, but, alors, to each his own.”
“And?” Morrie waits for an answer.
“And nothing. They have no criminal records.” Bonnard pauses, curious. “You think these people hired someone to do the dastardly deed—to kill the famous, beautiful writer?”
Jack says, “Yes. Because they want to stop her next book from coming out.”
Morrie leans in closer to the phone. “Her next book concerns this winery, and because she intends to expose them in such a way as to ruin them, we feel sure that they are the ones trying to kill her.”
Someone in the room calls out to the inspector. He translates what he’s just been told. “There have been such rumors. But there have been no attempted attacks as far as we know. Mme. duBois lives in the seventh arrondissement. A very rich neighborhood with a substantial police presence.”
Jack says, “Here’s our thinking. Logically, if someone were to put out a contract, they would naturally hire someone young. Which makes sense. But the odd fact that this man we’re searching for is old makes us wonder why. They might worry that a hired killer is an unknown factor? Something might go wrong?”
Morrie jumps in. “Is it that they couldn’t afford it, or wanted to keep it quiet? So, perhaps in one of their families, there was such a person? A contract killer who’s now old? Retired?”
Jack adds, “Perhaps he’s a killer who never got caught.”
Bonnard coughs, but they sense he is paying close attention. “A most original idea.”
Jack smiles. It’s a good thing they don’t know it was his darling Gladdy who came up with that idea. That would cause another round of derisive laughter. Nor would he inform Bonnard that he and Morrie also thought the idea preposterous originally.
Jack speaks again. “So the next question is—any criminals in their family trees?”
There is a sound of something falling. And another barrage of French. This time the voices speak quickly and excitedly. Vous ne croyez jamais. Il a trouvé Le Serpent. Après trente-cinq ans! Interpole, vite. Enfin.
All Jack can understand is the word Interpol. From a slight distance he hears the inspector excitedly calling out to him and Morrie. “It is nothing. Only my chair fell over. I will be right back. Hold on.”
Morrie uses the time to fax the drawing to Paris.
Bonnard is back. “I went to our wall with the most-wanted list. One man has been on this Interpol list for thirty-five years. His name is Anatole Oliviere. Also known as The Snake.”
Other voices call out to remind him. “Also he uses phony passport names. Pierre Gimpe. Michel Avedon. Louis Phillipe.”
Bonnard adds, “He has killed at least twenty people that we know of. There could have been more. In our never-ending search for him, we interviewed a distant cousin, many, many years ago, Gaston Dubonet. The very same winery owner. But it seemed at the time to mean nothing. Dubonet had never had contact with this very distant uncle. He was shocked to think such a person might be in his family. We let that go by. Eventually the killing stopped. We all breathed a sigh of relief. We thought he was dead. Now we think, thanks to you, retired.”
Jack smiles at Morrie—they’ve struck pay dirt.
Jack agrees, “No longer retired.”
Bonnard says, “I am looking at your fax. What the murder book tells us is that at about fifty years of age, he was a very thin man. Short of stature. Shifty, close-set eyes. Wiry. Skimpy black hair.”
Morrie adds, “Gray now, but that’s a pretty close description.”
Bonnard says, “We have only one possible photo of him, but it is blurred and has proven useless.” He adds grudgingly, “The Snake is considered the master of them all; none can compare. He’d slither his way in and slither his way out. Quick, efficient, and deadly.”
Bonnard’s voice grows gloomy. “We never came close to catching him. He always outsmarted us. Maybe age has slowed him, but I would think he is still someone to fear. Now tell me everything that has transpired in this case of yours. Paris will work hand in hand with you to capture this elusive killer.”
Jack high-fives Morrie. About time. They’ve got to get Michelle safely out of the country and back home. If they can’t catch The Snake here, then Inspector Bonnard will be waiting for him in Paris. He can’t wait to tell Gladdy how her hunch was so right.
23
A SECRET REVEALED
Trixie waits for us inside Jerry’s Deli. She’s dressed as usual in a loud patterned flowery dress with a matching wide-angle hat. We pass chubby Jerry and his equally chunky son, Larry, busy behind the counter slicing, chopping, and nibbling. Evvie and I say hello. Jerry grunts. A man of very few words—none of them pleasant. His usual dialogue consists of “Wadda ya want” and sometimes “Hurry up. Order. I ain’t got all day.”
Trixie waves us over to join her in her booth. She is excited to see us, ready to hear our good news. Which won’t be so good after we’ve explained our position.
Before her sits a massive plate of pastrami and scrambled eggs, hash brown potatoes, a bagel with cream cheese. And a side of pancakes, swimming in butter and syrup. Cholesterol heaven.
She greets us happily. “Did you girls eat breakfast? Go ahead, order.”
Her look is disdainful as we ask Jerry for shredded wheat. “That’s a breakfast?”
Evvie assures her it’s enough for us. “And coffee also,” she calls to Jerry’s receding back.
Trixie settles down to business, but not missing a mouthful. “So, you took my suggestion. A double wedding. Now we’re ready to do business together. You two will look adorable in those sweet gowns you tried on. I already made a call and told the owner to put a hold on. So what sizes do you wear?”
Evvie and I look at each other. Our eyes say, You do it. Not me. You.
I’m about to tell Trixie, tactfully, I hope, thanks but we can’t spend much money, so we intend to buy our own outfits, in our own favorite store with prices we can afford, which means, we really have to say no to you, when Evvie jumps in. “No white wedding gowns. We’re wearing cocktail dresses. Ones we already own. I mean, we only wore them a couple of times. It’s wasteful to buy something new that we won’t ever wear again.”
My shameless sister doesn’t blink an eye as she lies.
Trixie’s lower lip forms a pout, but she recovers quickly. She jots down a note in her immense workbook, saying as she does, “Call and cancel the gowns. Okay, cocktail dresses are nice. You already wore white.”
Jerry brings our breakfast, places the dishes in front of us with a grunt.
Trixie is coy. “But remember: Something borrowed, something blue. Something old, something new.”
Evvie says, “We’re already supplying the old. Us.”
“Now, now girls. You’re only as old as you feel.”
Oy, I’m thinking. She’s going to recite every cliché she knows. I kick Evvie under the table for continuing this charade. We have to stop Trixie now. But which one of us cowards will have the guts to break the bad news? The way we’re handling this is slow, painful torture.
Trixie busily checks her list of what she wants to do and in what order. “I have about twenty places we can visit for wedding halls. Depends on whether you’re going for a big religious do, or not.”
That, at least, is the truth. Trixie swallows the news along with a dripping bite full of pancake. I can tell her adding-machine mind is already deducting wedding dress and wedding hall commissions from her fee. Through clenched teeth, she says, “Free is nice.”
I shoot Evvie a look. She shoots it back at me. Now? Trixie is a very large woman. What if she gets violent? Neither Jerry nor his son would come to our rescue. Too bad none of the Cane Fu experts are in sight. Even though I have Bella’s cane, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
Trixie rolls up her sleeves. She has a most determined look on her face that’s crying out—Where’s the money?
She heaves a huge sigh. “All right. Let’s talk about the guest list and the wedding invites. There’s a darling little paper shop—”
Evvie jumps in. “No need for that. We’ll call our folks and put up flyers on all the Phases’ bulletin boards. Everyone’s invited.”
Trixie’s eyes go glassy. “Okayyyyy,” she drags out. Another X in that box. “No invitations. But then how can we tell the caterer how much food we’ll need?”
My turn to add to Trixie’s suffering. “Look, Trixie, what we’re trying to say is … uh … people around here like to contribute their special dishes. To show off their culinary skills, you know? It’s kind of a tradition. Sort of a potluck.” I am such a coward.
I think Trixie is getting apoplexy. If she has a fit, no one will be able to lift her off the floor if she drops. “Potluck! Potluck! That’s suicidal! You know what happens at potlucks? Desserts, that’s what! Everyone brings desserts!”
Evvie shrugs. “If it was good enough for Marie Antoinette, it’s good enough for us.”
“Marie … Antowho? Who the hell is that? Did you talk to another wedding planner behind my back?”
I look pleadingly at Evvie. Get us out of this already!
Evvie pats Trixie on her arm, hoping to calm her. Trixie is shoveling the food down like there’s no tomorrow. Well, food is cheaper than Valium. “Marie Antoinette was the queen of France. She said, ‘Let them eat cake.’”
I watch as Trixie’s eyes now seem to roll around in her head. “No caterer.” Hardly daring to hope: “Flowers?”
“Well,” Evvie starts to say.
Trixie sighs. “Don’t bother; the lawn has plenty of flowers.”
I try to look benevolent. “Yes.”
She nods dejectedly like someone heading for the guillotine. Like Marie Antoinette. “I know,” she says. “Free.”
She heaps a huge forkful of the pastrami and eggs into her mouth. “So, what date are we talking about?”
Here we go. I say it softly and recoil just in case. “Actually, next weekend, but—”
Trixie leaps up, spitting out her mouthful of food. Most of which lands on her ample bosom. She’s stuck in the booth, so her huge body lifts the tabletop up. Everything on it starts to move downhill toward us! Evvie and I slide out of the booth as fast as we can. We’re lucky. Only a few bits of food hit us. I didn’t know we still had such good reflexes.
Trixie shrieks and everyone in Jerry’s turns around. “Next weekend? Next weekend! I ask for a year in advance and you want next weekend! I haven’t even started!”
Evvie tries to pacify her. “I’m sorry, we’ve been trying to tell you—that’s why we can’t use you. However, we’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“What! You’re crazy! Both of you!”
With that, Trixie stomps toward the door, lurching and tottering from side to side on her pointy-toed three-inch high heels. Evvie calls out, “Thanks for all your wonderful advice!”
The diners go back to dining. The deli is quiet except for an occasional slurp.
I frown at Evvie. “I’m ashamed of us. We were cruel, dragging it out that way.”
“Listen. I found out the truth about her. She doesn’t have any sick grandchild she’s supporting in an iron lung or dialysis or whatever cockamamie story she made up. Her last three clients fired her because she botched up their weddings, and they wanted to kill her.”
“Hmm. So when did you expect to share that news with me?”
“I was waiting for the right moment.”
“How did you get Lola to confess?”
“Hy told me. Behind Lola’s back, naturally. Feel better?”
I grab Trixie’s check. It’s the least we can do.
Jerry, now at the cash register, looks at us with eyebrows up. “Meshuggeners,” he mutters. Maybe we’re wackos to him, but he isn’t above taking our money.
Evvie humphs as she collects our change. “Who asked your opinion?”
To our surprise Trixie is still outside the deli. I’d have thought she would have taken off in a huff. She’s standing with Ida. What’s Ida doing around here? I wonder.
I can’t help myself. “Trixie, I’m sorry we didn’t work out for you.”
Her nose goes up in the air. “Never mind. I have many other classier clients who are less trouble than you. My personal code of ethics, when I deal with difficult people, is to take the high road!”
I almost choke on that. You and me, too, Trix. Somehow that makes me feel better. Trixie is a survivor.
Evvie is curious. “What’s going on?”
Trixie comments, “Your friend here was snooping around the building.”
Ida says, “So, what’s it your business?” She turns to us. “I was just trying to figure out how that guru works his shtick. I know he’s a fraud and I’m sure Sophie and Bella are being rooked.”
Trixie starts to cackle. A rather weird sound like heh, heh, heh. “Your friends are in that dumb Dead Husbands Club?”
All three of us gape at her.
Ida gets excited. “You know something about it?”
Her chin comes up; proud bearer of insider information. “I know everything about Erwin Blatstein. This whole neighborhood knows everything about Erwin.”
Ida is not surprised. “Except our loopy friends. Erwin? Is that the guru’s real name?”
Trixie cackles again. “Jerry’s other son. Haven’t your friends noticed the wart on his chin? This one thinks he’s too good to be in the deli business. He went to some radical hippie school in Kansas and came back ‘enlightened.’”
Ida adds her two cents. “Wait a minute. So if you have so much data about those gullible women who attend, cough it up. What’s the secret?”
Trixie delights in revealing all to Ida. “It’s the closet where you put your purses and packages. There’s also a sister. Phoebe. The waitress? She also has the family wart.”
Evvie can’t resist a comment. “I doubt if warts are hereditary.”
“Whatever. There’s a trapdoor to the closet, and while Erwin is guru-ing, Phoebe searches everyone’s bags. Then later they Google and learn a lot more.”
“Wow!” Evvie says. “Oy. Sophie and Bella will have a fit.”
Ida is fairly bursting at her seams. “I knew it! I knew he was a fraud. How does he do the dead husbands’ voices?”
Trixie shrugs. “He took up ventriloquism as his major at that half-baked college. He knows how to change his voice.”
Evvie comments, “I don’t get it. It’s like a nickel-and-dime business. Chump change. How much can you make with a few five-dollar bills?”
I add with a touch of amusement, “Don’t forget the long-distance phone calls to heaven.”
Ida’s grin is so wide, she could crack her face. “Hey, we’re not talking about that momza Bernie Madoff and his stolen billions. Jerry and his sons and daughter and wife are small potatoes. Money is money. Besides, the guru son thinks he’s making these widows happy.”
Tessie comments, “Jerry thinks he’s an idiot.”
Ida practically jumps up and down with glee, but Evvie is upset. “Just look at you. Y
ou can’t wait to tell our friends about this and see how it hurts them?”
“Hey, they started it when they wouldn’t admit what they were doing. I hate liars. I told you that. Besides, I’m not going to tell them, I’m going to show them.”
Trixie starts off. “Bye, ladies. Don’t forget to recommend me to your friends.”
Off she goes. Good-bye and good riddance.
Ida imitates the Trixie cackle. Heh, heh, heh. “I know just what to do to trap those goniffs into revealing who and what they are.”
As we start back across the street I feel sorry for Sophie and Bella.
24
PLANS
“So, honey, what’s your plan?” I ask Jack later that evening. I know he’s bursting to get off his chest what I’m longing to hear—that he really and truly is through with Michelle. It must be true, since he’s back with me. “Do you want to take me out for dinner? Or I have lamb chops waiting to be broiled. And potatoes waiting to be baked. And cheesecake and coffee for a to-die-for dessert.”
Jack seems unsure. “I was going to suggest a long walk first. But not with your hurting ankle. I should have brought you flowers, but I was in a hurry to get home.”
“I don’t need flowers. Your being here is good enough.”
“We could go out for a quiet dinner somewhere. Someplace romantic and expensive.”
I can’t resist giving him a little dig. “That’s something guilty men do. Bribe their women with flowers and expensive restaurants. You don’t need to do that.”
He reddens. Caught. “Maybe I thought I did. I want to tell you everything, but we need privacy.”
“Well, this place isn’t bugged as far as I know. We have all the seclusion we want right here. How about we have cocktails in the Florida room and look out at the ducks on the waterway?”
Jack looks pleased. “Sounds perfect. Bloody Marys?”
I’m already heading for the ice.
It’s lovely this time of evening. The air coming in the louvers is cool and refreshing. The drinks are strong enough to make us mellow. Just the right amount of vodka and Tabasco. The ducks quack away at one another. Maybe there’s some male duck out there confessing to his female counterpart a tale similar to Jack’s. Who knows?