Fleur De Lies

by Maddy Hunter

  I did indeed. Whatever happened between Osmond and Solange had the family’s blessing and was to remain private. No speculation allowed. Violators would be refused future access. So if Osmond Chelsvig had fathered Solange’s first child, the family didn’t want to know.

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  “And you will help Mr. Chelsvig to understand?”

  I nodded again. “I’ll, uh … I’ll see that he abides by your family’s wishes.”

  “Merci. It would not be right to introduce scandal into my grandmother’s life after all these years, even if there is truth in it.”

  But how would I break the news to Osmond that it seemed unlikely he was a father? And even if he were, the Spenards didn’t want to hear about it.

  “You will be able to walk back to the boat without your umbrella,” said Madeleine as she nodded toward the street. “You see? The sun is coming out.” She marked the time. “And I must be leaving. I promised to bring Grandmama a decadent confection from Les Larmes de Joan d’Arc, so she’ll be wondering where I am.”

  “Is she feeling better? I’m sorry Mr. Jolly upset her so much the other day. Apparently, a funeral director can’t always gauge how someone’s going to react to his marketing pitch, but when the potential customer starts screaming, you’d think he’d know enough to stop. Poor Mr. Jolly is proving to have something of a tin ear.”

  “Grandmama refused to tell me what provoked her outburst, but for the past two nights, she has wanted to sleep with the light on. Pourquoi? I do not know. All she will say is that she no longer has the energy to poke the hornet’s nest.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Madeleine shrugged. “Perhaps she mistook him for someone, yes? Someone she once knew? Someone she feared? You heard her. ‘C’est toi, c’est toi. It’s you, it’s you.’ And then the anger and tears. But to me, she will say nothing.”

  Which, in a roundabout way, reminded me of another enigma. “Out of curiosity, could you tell me the significance of the framed embroidery piece that sits on your sideboard? The one with the chopped-off petal on the fleur-de-lis? I didn’t notice it initially, but it got included in one of the thousands of photos Bernice Zwerg strong-armed you into taking of her when we visited your house.”

  She frowned Etretat as if trying to recall the thing. “Grandmama brought so many pictures with her when she moved in with us. They’ve become invisible to me. But I know the piece you describe. Grandmama embroidered it when she was a new bride. It’s so old, I fear the pressure of the frame may be the only thing holding the threads together.”

  “Is there a story attached to it? I mean, do you know why Solange embroidered a fleur-de-lis with a broken petal?”

  “Mais oui. Grandmama’s village boasted a metalsmith who created the broken-petaled fleur-de-lis as his trademark. He made lovely jewelry—broaches, pendants, bracelets. But since Grandmama could afford to buy none of it, she embroidered the design instead. She was known to boast it was a fair likeness to the original trademark, and it cost her far fewer francs. The only problem was, she couldn’t wear it.”

  “Did the metalsmith ever design a line of rings?”

  “There was only one ring. He never made another.”

  A chill feathered up my spin. “Do you know why?”

  “He apparently complained that rings were too complicated and too heavy on a man’s finger, so he was going to stop at one. Perhaps if he’d chosen another precious metal for his designs, he would have made more. But he worked exclusively in brass.”

  The chill crawled down my arms and spread to my fingertips. “Do you know if he ever sold the ring?”

  “He wore it himself, and the only reason I know that is because when he visited my grandmother after grandpapa was imprisoned, he cracked her best china with that ring, so she was always short one teacup. She still curses his name every time we set the table with her china. ‘Damn Pierre Lefevre.’” She regarded me oddly. “You look so shocked. The elderly in America do not curse?”

  “What would you say if I told you that Woody Jolly is wearing a brass ring designed with a broken-petaled fleur-de-lis that looks exactly like Solange’s embroidery?”

  “I would say it was impossible.”

  “Why impossible?”

  “Because the other reason the metalsmith fabricated only one ring was because the war greatly foreshortened his career. He died on the morning of the D-Day invasion. He was part of the five-man team who went to Pointe du Hoc and never came back.”

  _____

  Dodging puddles the size of kiddie pools, I retraced my steps back to the Church of St. Joan of Arc to take a picture of the commemorative plaque for Nana’s Legion of Mary meeting, then set a course back to the boat by way of the cobblestoned mall with the giant clock.

  Madeleine had been right. With the skies clearing, I didn’t need my umbrella anymore, but the sun was doing little to cast light on the mystery of how Woody Jolly could be in possession of a one-of-a-kind ring worn by a Resistance fighter whose body had been incinerated in the Allied bombing of Pointe du Hoc on the morning of the D-Day invasion. Had Pierre Lefevre removed the ring before undertaking his mission? That would have made sense. A shiny object like a brass ring might have given away their position. But how would the ring have then found its way to America to become an heirloom in the Jolly family? Had it become one of the spoils of war, pocketed by an Allied soldier as a souvenir? Yet Woody had said the ring had been in his family for as long as he could remember, so that didn’t square.

  Well, some cryptic chain of events had allowed the ring to survive the war, because Woody was wearing it.

  Turning the corner onto the Rue Grand Pont, I slowed my steps as another explanation suddenly occurred to me.

  Nah, that wasn’t possible, was it? But if it were … Good God.

  “Are you on your way back to the boat?”

  I avoided colliding with the man by mere inches. Startled, I did a double-take, laughing with relief when I saw his face. “Patrice! Fancy running into you here. I mean, literally running into you. Sorry.”

  “You recognize me out of uniform?”

  “Any reason why I wouldn’t?”

  “Most guests don’t.”

  “It seems to be a universal problem. Don’t take it personally. Free afternoon?”

  “Oui. One afternoon and one morning a week. Rouen is a good port. Many sales along the Gros Horloge.” He smiled, looking a little embarrassed. “Cycling shoes. A man can never have enough.”

  “You’re a cyclist?”

  “I ride a bicycle. There is a difference. But the Tour de France passes through much of the countryside nearby, so I avail myself of the same roads. Do you need directions back to the boat?”

  I chuckled. “Nope. They’ve been involuntarily imprinted on my brain. I couldn’t forget them even if I wanted to.”

  “The police cars will probably still be there when you arrive.”

  Unh-oh. “Police cars?”

  “Oui. Something to do with the woman who suffered the fatal accident in Étretat yesterday.” He lowered his voice. “One of the staff overheard the conversation the police were having with the captain, so there’s a rumor flying around the ship now.”

  “What kind of rumor?”

  “Apparently, what was initially thought to be an accident was no accident at all.”

  thirteen

  “Drug overdose,” said Nana.

  My jaw hit the floor. “You’re kidding.”

  “They run one of them toxicology panels. Got it firsthand. Straight from the horse’s mouth. That Irv fella what sits in the lounge in a stupor all day? He told us. He can be pretty chatty between cocktails.”

  “How did Irv find out?”

  “He heard it from the bartender, what heard it from the purser, what heard it from the waiter what wa
s servin’ some snacks to the gendarmes when they was talkin’ to the captain in the dinin’ room.”

  I grinned. “Yup. It doesn’t get any more firsthand than that.”

  I’d found most of the gang on the top deck, sitting beneath the canopy, fondling their iPhones and sipping drinks that sported little parasols, swords, and pink flamingo swizzle sticks. Their eyes were glassy. Their mouths were curved into silly grins. They looked a little punch-drunk, as if they’d just been forced to sit through eight hours of nonstop campaign speeches—and something else was different about them, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “Did Irv know what kind of drug she overdosed on?”

  “Not yet,” said Tilly. “But his plan was to continue tippling in the lounge until the end of the day, so he’s well positioned to hear further information. He told us to check back with him later.”

  Stunned, I pulled out a chair and flopped down at the table with them, my thoughts heading off in eight different directions. “A drug overdose? Does that mean she didn’t die from a brain hemorrhage?”

  “The toxicology report doesn’t change the results of the postmortem,” said Tilly. “But what it might indicate is that the overdose caused the brain hemorrhage. The police were in her cabin earlier. No doubt searching for the drug in question. If they find it, I believe they might suspect an accidental overdose. If they don’t, I assume they may reclassify her death as a homicide.”

  Nuts! We were home free. A natural death. No suspicions. No flags. I sighed. Here we go again.

  “If the police don’t find the drug in her cabin, what are the chances they’ll search for it elsewhere aboard ship?” asked Dick Stolee, trying unsuccessfully to hide a nervous tremor in his voice. “You think they’ll search all the guest cabins?”

  “What do you care?” questioned Grace, eyeing him suspiciously. She gasped. “Oh, my Lord! ARE YOU HIDING ILLEGAL CONTRABAND IN OUR CABIN?”

  “Shhhh!” He shot a furtive look to left and right.

  Tilly raised her forefinger. “If you’ll allow me to make a grammatical correction, Grace. Contraband is always unlawful, so the expression ‘illegal contraband’ is redundant … much in the same way as ‘close proximity’ or ‘false pretense’ or ‘foreign import,’ or my absolute favorite, ‘two twin beds.’”

  Grace drew her lips back over her teeth in an unflattering sneer. “What about ‘buzz off’? Is that redundant?”

  “I thought ‘two twin beds’ was one a them oxymorons,” said Nana.

  Tilly shook her head. “An oxymoron is an expression that seems to contradict itself, like ‘jumbo shrimp,’ or—”

  “Isn’t ‘two twin beds’ hotel lingo for a double?” asked George.

  Dick Teig snickered. “ ‘Oxymorons’ are what Bernice calls us when we’re all in the same room together. You know. More than one moron.” He squinted in thought. “ ‘Oxy’ means ‘more than one’, doesn’t it?”

  “Quiet!” snapped Grace, her gaze boring into her husband like a drill bit into butter. “Out with it, Dick. What are you trying to hide from the police?”

  He slouched in his chair, shoulders slumped and head bent, looking as if he were about to confess to leaving the toilet seat up for fifty years on purpose. “Rocks,” he mumbled.

  “Did he say, ‘rocks’?” questioned Alice.

  “You’re hiding diamonds?” shrieked Grace.

  He shot up higher in his chair. “Diamonds? Where would I get diamonds?”

  “Where would you get rocks?” demanded Grace.

  I leveled a look at him. “Oh, my God. You took stones off Étretat Beach.”

  Dick Stolee hung his head with guilt. Dick Teig froze in place. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked in a tentative voice.

  “Didn’t you hear Rob before we got off the bus? He warned us that it’s expressly forbidden to remove stones from the beach.”

  “I didn’t hear him say that,” swore Dick Teig.

  “We weren’t supposed to remove stones from the beach?” asked Alice. “Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

  Oh, God.

  Dick Teig stood up. “How many people heard Rob tell us that we—”

  “No voting!” I stabbed my finger at Dick Stolee. “How many did you take?”

  “Two,” he said in an undertone.

  I waited a beat. “Only two?”

  “And they’re smaller than my thumbnail. Pebbles! Nobody’s gonna miss them, Emily. I bet no one even knew they were there. I’m no thief. Honest. They were just so unusual, I couldn’t resist.” He heaved a sigh. “Should I turn myself in to the police?”

  “No!” cried Grace. “What if they throw you into a jail cell and let you rot there for the rest of your life? You’re not going anywhere long term until you clean out the garage.”

  “He’s not going to be thrown in jail.” At least, I hoped not. I softened my gaze, relenting. “Okay, Dick, the beach might be able to spare two of its pebbles, but the next time Rob informs us that a town has ordinances that must be respected, you’d better—”

  “Two stones,” snorted Dick Teig. “Hell, I took a whole handful.”

  “I took at least a dozen,” confessed Alice. “They’re so smooth and white, I plan to make a paperweight out of them.”

  I tossed my head back and groaned. “Guys!”

  “I only took one,” said George.

  “Yeah,” Nana piped up, “but it’s as big as your head.”

  “Had to be.” He smiled. “I’m gonna use it as a doorstop.”

  I shot them a disgusted look. “Anyone else want to own up to petty thievery?” I eyed Tilly and Nana expectantly.

  “Don’t look at me,” clucked Nana. “I was busy talkin’ to the Frenchie in the neon thong, so I didn’t have time to steal no rocks.”

  George’s mouth popped open. “Marion! You were flirting with the fella in that … that”—he swept his hand from his neck to his groin—“in that green rubber band that barely covered his privates? He looked like he was wearing a slingshot!”

  “It’s not a slingshot. It’s called a mankini, and you can buy ’em over the Internet. He says all the hotties are wearin’ ’em.” She waggled her eyebrows at George, eyes glowing with anticipation. “And they come in jumbo.”

  “So what are we supposed to do if the police search our cabin and find the goods?” persisted Grace. “Plead the Fifth, throw ourselves on the mercy of the court, or send them down to Alice’s cabin? She swiped a lot more than my Dick.”

  Alice gasped. She threw me a desperate look. “They can’t arrest me, can they, Emily? It would be so unfair. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.”

  “Don’t listen to Grace,” I soothed. “She was just pulling your leg.”

  “No I wasn’t,” quipped Grace.

  Dick studied his wife’s face, thunderstruck. “Grace Stolee, I can’t believe my ears. After all you and Alice have meant to each other through the years? The friendship, and church groups, and book clubs, and fundraisers? What kind of heartless creature are you? Can you actually sit there and tell me you’d be willing to throw Alice under the bus to save me?”

  “Damned straight.”

  He threw his shoulders back, his chest swelling with pride, his eyes a little dewy. “Aw, shucks, honeybun. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in decades.”

  “Okay, that settles it.” Alice dusted off her hands. “I’m throwing my stash over the balcony rail. Sentence commuted.” She arched a self-satisfied brow at the Stolees before turning back to me. “If the police don’t know I have the rocks, they can’t haul me away for destroying evidence, can they?”

  My eyelid began twitching like a Mexican jumping bean doing the Macarena.

  Tilly thumped her walking stick on the deck. “I’m not so sure I’d count on the police conducting a cabin-to-cabin search. If
Krystal ingested an over-the-counter drug, like aspirin, ibuprofen, or acetaminophen, a search would be entirely futile. All of us probably carry the big three. But if she overdosed on an exotic prescription drug, now that’s a different matter.”

  “If I killed someone with meds I brung with me,” said Nana, “I’m chuckin’ ’em over the side with Alice’s rocks. No way I’m lettin’ anyone find ’em in my pill caddy.”

  “Are you sure it was pills?” asked George. “What if the killer used something more common, like a cleaning compound or hair product or … or hand sanitizer?”

  Alice sucked in her breath. “You think Margi did it? Oh, my stars. Why would she kill someone after buying all those new clothes? They’ll never let her wear them in prison.”

  “Margi Swanson did not kill anyone,” I stated firmly. “And furthermore, we don’t have any information about when Krystal ingested the drug, so no one’s going to know anything until someone figures that out.”

  “Emily’s right,” Tilly agreed. “If the drug was fast acting, the implication would be that someone on the tour might have slipped it to her. But if it was slower acting, then she could have ingested it even before she boarded the plane. Is it possible that someone back home wanted her dead?”

  Uff-da. I hadn’t thought of that. Bobbi and Dawna had reason to want her out of the picture, but had someone back in Texas beaten them to it? “I’ve just realized that I don’t know anything about Krystal other than she was blonde, beautiful, turned heads, had a fondness for snakeskin, and was probably the top sales rep for her cosmetic company.” I regarded the gang expectantly. “Anyone want to volunteer to dig up more background on her?” This was the nifty part of traveling with seniors with major iPhone addictions. They were always looking for an excuse to surf the Web.

  Breathing stopped. Heads froze. Eyes shifted. Phones remained idle in their hands.

  Hunh. What was wrong with this picture? They should have been gunning to see who could access Google first by now. I frowned. Ohhh, I got it. “Cell signal down?”