by Maddy Hunter
ating?”
“Not hang out with the gang?” Her face started wilting like a wax candle in a hot attic. “But I like hanging out with them.” She lowered her gaze, looking crestfallen. “They don’t act snotty to me because I’m the one person in the room who’s different.”
Awww. I was suddenly very proud that my little band of Iowans could show as much respect for a six-foot transsexual as they could for each other. “Of course not. Your gender reassignment surgery doesn’t faze them in the least.”
She flashed a quizzical look. “What does my surgery have to do with anything?”
“I’m agreeing with you, Jack. I think it’s wonderful that the gang doesn’t look down their noses at you because you used to be a guy.”
“That’s not the reason I—” She rolled her eyes. “I’m happy they don’t treat me differently because I’m beautiful! Women can act so snotty when the new kid on the block is a real knockout, but the gang doesn’t seem to mind how much better looking I am than they are. They’re so accepting.” She paused thoughtfully. “Either that or their cataracts are so bad they can’t actually see me.”
I’m not sure why I bothered to compliment Jack when she was so much better at it than I was.
“Say, when we were eating dinner with Woody the other night, did you notice the ring he was wearing?”
“I was a little preoccupied, Emily. Incoming flak by the blonde bombshells? Sustained verbal attack? Artillery fire directed at my jugular?”
“Well, I noticed it at breakfast yesterday morning because Krystal made a big fuss over it.”
“Krystal? Make a fuss? Shocking.”
“It’s brass with a fleur-de-lis motif that shows one of the petals broken off. Woody said it’s been in his family for as long as he can remember. But here’s where it gets weird. The woman who hosted us on our home visit has a needlepoint piece, embroidered by her grandmother, that has the very same motif.”
“Why is that weird?”
“Because the embroidery replicates a design created by a metalsmith who lived in the grandmother’s village. He fabricated all kinds of brass jewelry, but he made only one ring, and it’s on Woody Jolly’s finger.”
“I still don’t understand why that’s weird. Stuff gets auctioned off and bought everywhere in the world now. Craigslist, Amazon, eBay. People can shop internationally from their laptops or iPads.”
“So how did a one-of-a-kind ring that was made prior to World War II become an heirloom in the Jolly family?”
Jackie tucked in her lips. “Okay, that’s a little weird. The timing’s a bit off.”
“Way off. I was told the metalsmith never removed the ring from his finger, so he was apparently wearing it the day he died.”
“Which was when?”
“The morning of D-Day.”
“So his family removed the ring before they buried him and some greedy relative later sold it, which makes Woody all mixed up about the heirloom business.”
“But no one ever found the ring.”
“If Woody’s wearing it, someone must have found it.”
“Here’s the thing. Five members of the French Resistance undertook a mission the night before the invasion. Four of them were killed. In the Allied bombing raid the following morning, their bodies were burned beyond recognition. One of them was identified by the fragments of two gold teeth, but there was no brass ring to help identify the metalsmith.”
“Could the brass have melted in the bombing?”
“If it did, how did the fully intact ring leap onto Woody’s finger?”
She studied me with a one-eyed squint. “So if Woody is wearing a ring that was reputed never to have left the metalsmith’s finger, either the metalsmith wasn’t wearing it when he died or—”
We exchanged a long look.
“Or the metalsmith didn’t die,” I finished for her.
“But if he lived through the mission, why would he want people to think he was dead?”
“Because the fifth member of the team was rumored to have been an enemy collaborator who betrayed the mission to the Nazis. To reward his cooperation, they might have allowed him to escape with both his life and his ring. And if he were smart, he would have run far, far away, where he’d never be recognized again.”
“Wait a sec, Emily. Are you suggesting that good old Woody ‘I Love Ketchup’ Jolly was a former French metalsmith who betrayed his countrymen to the Nazis and has been living in self-imposed exile in the United States ever since, disguised as a funeral director?”
In my mind’s eye I saw the excruciating pain in Solange Ducat’s face as she’d peered at the old man standing before her. I heard the agony in her voice as she’d screamed her accusations. C’est toi. C’est toi. But she hadn’t recognized Woody by his physical appearance. She’d recognized him from the ring on his finger—the one whose likeness she had fashioned in embroidery thread and framed. The one she hadn’t seen since before D-Day. The one that had belonged to Pierre Lefevre, the metalsmith whose betrayal had resulted in the death of her only brother.
“Yup.” I stared Jackie straight in the eye. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
fourteen
“As many of you might have heard by now, the guest who died in the tragic accident at Étretat yesterday suffered a brain hemorrhage that led to her death.”
We were packed in like sardines as Rob addressed us from the square of parquet flooring in the center of the lounge. The evening’s discount cocktail was a supersized Bloody Mary with extra olives and celery, so while guests squeezed together on the cushy furniture, Patrice worked the room by taking drink orders, then dashing back to the bar to mix them, which shattered a misconception I had about river cruise companies.
They didn’t earn the bulk of their income from tour packages.
They earned it from alcohol.
“What you might not have heard,” Rob continued, “is that the hemorrhage may have been induced by the introduction of a foreign substance into her system.”
Shock. Gasps. Whispers.
“What kind of foreign substance?” asked Dick Teig.
“The police are withholding that information until they’re further along in their investigation.”
“Did shee order the entrée that the kisshen tried to palm off as fish the other night?” Irv called out. “The menu didn’t shay fish. It said poizon.”
“A misprint,” said Rob. “The kitchen does not serve poison.”
“Tell that to the blonde,” Irv taunted.
“I ordered the poison the other night and it didn’t cause my brain to hemorrhage,” said Tilly.
“I’ve got three words for you, shweetheart,” slurred Irv.
“Let me guess,” challenged Tilly in her professor’s voice. “You. Don’t. Care.”
“Shtay away from cliffs.”
“That’s four words,” said Nana.
Irv swayed slightly forward in his chair. “Closhe enough.”
Rob motioned for silence. “Because of the unusual nature of Ms. Cake’s death, the French police have contacted the authorities in her hometown of Abilene, Texas, so a parallel investigation is being conducted there.”
I raised my hand. “Can you tell us if the police have ruled out accidental overdose?”
“Good question, and it’s one I can answer. They’ve determined that Ms. Cake was in no way responsible for her own death. There’s no evidence indicating that the substance that caused her hemorrhage was ever in her possession.”
“What kind of substance was it?” Dick Teig asked again.
Rob lifted his palms in a helpless gesture. “I told you. I don’t know. The police aren’t saying at the moment.”
Bobbi Benedict waved her Western hat in the air, drawing the attention of every eye in the room. “When you say ‘foreign�
� substance, hon, what’re you sayin’ exactly? Do you mean that whatever killed Krystal came from someplace like China? Or are you sayin’ that since she was in a country that was foreign to her, the substance that killed her was local?”
An awkward silence descended on the room.
“I don’t understand the question,” Margi piped up.
“She thinks Krystal was whacked by someone from China,” said Bernice.
“Is it any wonder?” mused George. “Everything is made in China now.”
Grace nodded. “I bet if stuff was still being manufactured in the USA, we’d be the first ones fingered for the crime.”
“Could someone repeat the question?” asked Dick Stolee.
“It wasn’t actually a question,” said Alice. “The young lady was simply saying that the woman who died didn’t know what country she was in.”
Oh, God.
“There’s no excuse for any guest to be that uninformed,” declared Lucille. “Not with the amount of literature the cruise company sent us.”
“Let me back up for a moment,” said Rob as he attempted to regain control of the conversation. He directed his comment at Bobbi. “Simply stated, Krystal either ate or drank something that was toxic to her health.”
I wondered how many times he’d have to repeat that before it finally sank in.
“Do you have any idea what?” asked Woody, who’d obviously been tuned out when Dick Teig had posed the same question twice before. Either that, or his hearing was being affected by the jingle of Virginia Martin’s jewelry and the whooshing from Victor’s oxygen. Maybe next time, he’d think twice before shoehorning himself between them on a sofa.
Choosing not to respond to Woody’s question, Rob continued. “So here’s what’s going to happen. While the police in Abilene conduct their investigation, the French police will question a few of you to see if you can provide any new information about Ms. Cake’s activities before she died.”
“But the police already questioned us,” protested Dawna.
Rob shot her a sympathetic look. “That’s before they reclassified Krystal’s death as a homicide.”
“Which lucky few get to be harassed?” cackled Bernice.
“They’re compiling the list now, so they should be ready to conduct interviews after dinner. To speed the process along, they’ve requested that all guests return to their cabins after they’ve finished dining this evening, so if you hear a knock on your cabin door, please answer it, because it’ll be the police.”
“How are they deciding who needs to be interviewed?” asked Cal.
“I can’t offer you any more information than I’ve already given you. All I can tell you is, be cooperative, and if all goes well, we should be able to leave for Vernon on schedule.” He glanced at his watch. “Any more questions before I cut you loose?”
Margi stuck her hand in the air. “Will we be issued refunds if we’re arrested for murder?”
KREEEooo! Bzzt … bzzzt … “Ladies and gentlemen, the dining room is now open.”
Rob swept his hand toward the door. “Bon appétit.”
I braced myself for the stampede, shocked when nothing happened. Guests continued to sit in their chairs, looking a bit rattled and not at all anxious to file into the dining room. I guess they figured the quicker they finished dinner, the sooner they’d be treated to an evening of scintillating dialogue with the French police. Even my guys were dragging their feet. They should have been long gone by now, but instead they were slowly easing themselves out of their chairs, chatting each other up, and being just plain pokey. All except Osmond, who spotted me and Jackie in the far corner and waved his arm over his head to indicate he was heading in our direction. I knew exactly what he wanted, and my heart ached knowing what I was going to have to tell him.
“Have you heard from Madeleine yet?” He inched close to me and cupped his hand around his mouth. “I didn’t want to ask in front of everyone earlier.”
“As a matter of fact, I have heard from her.”
“No kidding?”
I gave Jackie the eye. “Do you want to run ahead and find a table?”
She gave me a thumbs up. “I’ll save you a seat. And by the way, I checked into the ship’s seat-saving policy.” She cranked her mouth into a peevish slant. “There is no policy. Bobbi Benedict made it all up. So I hope she gives me flak again tonight, because I just happen to be packing something that’s going to shut her up forever.”
“Please tell me you’re not carrying pepper spray.”
She began rooting around in the side pocket of her shoulder bag. “Too volatile. The slightest shift in the wind and your mascara gets relocated from your lashes to your cheeks.”
“Stun gun?”
“Ta-da!” She held up a small sheet of paper. I squinted at the nearly illegible scrawl.
“Gag order?”
“A note from the captain.” She hugged it to her chest like a child embracing her first doll. “I can hardly wait to see her reaction when she reads it.”
“What’s it say?” asked Osmond as he readjusted his cervical collar beneath his chin.
She beamed. “I believe the abridged version is, ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’’’
While Jackie snaked through the milling crowd toward the exit, I guided Osmond to the nearest settee and sat down next to him. “You should have joined us on the walking tour, Osmond. Can you guess who our local guide was?”
“A Joan of Arc impersonator?”
“Madeleine Saint-Sauveur.”
“Madeleine dressed up like Joan of Arc?”
“No, she was dressed in street clothes, but the important thing is, I was able to talk to her after the tour, and she gave me the contact information for Solange!”
His mouth rounded like a small planet. His eyes grew to twice their size. “REALLY?”
“Really.”
“Wow!” He fumbled to release his iPhone from its holster. “Can you text me the information?”
“Why don’t I give you the paper I wrote it down on?”
He hesitated. “I’ve kinda gone paperless. Can you tweet me?”
“C’mon, Osmond. You know I don’t tweet.”
“Email?”
I pulled my little memo pad out of my shoulder bag, tore off the relevant page, and held it out to him. “Here you go. Express mail.”
He stared at the paper with the distaste of a vegan eyeing a T-bone steak. “Could you give it to Marion and have her text it to me? She’s not one to blab other people’s business to everyone. And she’s probably got the fastest thumbs in the group, so I’ll get it quicker.”
“Right. Because my handing the information over to you this very instant is too slow.”
“Well, it’s not in the right format, so that can cause all kinds of technical delays.”
“Okey-dokey.” I stuffed the note back in my bag, wondering if, twenty years down the road, some scientist would become famous for his groundbreaking discovery of pen and paper.
He nodded toward my bag. “So what does the note say?”
“The usual contact stuff. Phone number. Address. Email.”
“Did Madeleine say Solange would be happy to hear from me?”
“Of course Solange is going to be happy to hear from you.”
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Did she give any hint that she might know why my name showed up in her family?”
“She mentioned that specifically. Solange named her firstborn Osmond to honor what you did for the family during the war. And every generation after that jumped on the bandwagon, so the family is rife with Osmonds.”
“That was real generous of them.” He scratched his jaw with a nervous hand. “Did she happen to say when the first Osmond made his way into the world?”
“Late winter. After the war.”
“Osmond—”
He seized my arm, punch drunk with excitement. “Emily, do you know what this means?”
“Her husband came back,” I said in a quiet voice, placing my hand over his.
He blinked as if he hadn’t heard, then went very still. “What?”
“Everyone thought he died in prison, but he didn’t. He escaped in a bombing raid, and three weeks after you left for England, he found his way back to his family.”
“He came back?” His voice was far away, his eyes distant. “But how could he come back? He was dead.”
“Nazi lies,” I soothed. “He returned to Solange and fathered a slew of children with famous American names. But none more famous than yours.”
Dazed, he sank back into the settee cushions and knuckled moisture away from the corners of his eyes. “So … I’m not a father after all?”
I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “No one can say with any authority whether you are or aren’t, Osmond. It boils down to hormones and timing. But Solange’s husband raised all the children as his own, and Madeleine made it quite clear that the family wants it left that way, no matter what might have happened during the war.”
Eyes downcast, he heaved a sigh. “Yup. That’s the way it should be. They don’t need any whippersnappers from America uprooting their family tree. Solange has lived through enough. Wouldn’t be right to make waves at this stage in everyone’s life. Besides, chances are the little guy wasn’t mine anyway. Probably one in a million.”
I breathed around a sudden lump in my throat. “But you can certainly catch up with each other through email. Madeleine is going to give Solange a crash course. Think of the decades of history you have to share, and the miracle of the information highway delivering your messages across the Atlantic in mere seconds. If you’re lucky, Madeleine might even show Solange how to text.”
“Yup. Well”—he struggled to keep his lips from quivering—“I guess I should be heading in to dinner.”
“Solange has outlived two husbands, Osmond. It’s your turn to be on the receiving end of her attention now. You’ll have her all to yourself, and in the months to come, I guarantee she’ll make you feel younger than you have for years.”