Fleur De Lies

by Maddy Hunter

We’d set sail at midnight and were scheduled to arrive in Vernon, pronounced VerNON, in a couple of hours, where we’d board a bus to tour Claude Monet’s famous lily pond and gardens in the tiny village of Giverny. I’d slept only sporadically last night, so I’d opened up the restaurant this morning, hoping to load up on enough caffeine to keep me functional throughout the day. The last person I’d expected to see at this early hour was Nana, but I was tickled for her company. She always had a way of making things seem less troubling than they actually were.

  “I read it, all right,” I said as she seated herself in the chair opposite me. “But that’s not even half the story.”

  The leaflet informed us in a nutshell about the unfortunate departure of Victor Martin and his wife from the tour, but soft-pedaled the hard facts so as not to implicate Victor more than they had to. “Although Mr. Martin is expected to recover fully from the hemorrhage he suffered in the restaurant last night,” the notice read, “he will remain in the hospital for observation until an undetermined date. We will keep you updated about the investigation into Ms. Krystal Cake’s death as new information is released.”

  “What’s the other half of the story?” Nana asked as she consulted the menu.

  “I wish I could tell you, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy until such time as the information becomes public knowledge.”

  “Don’t you fret none about it, dear. Better you keep your word. That way you don’t gotta rassle with a guilty conscience.” She stabbed an item on the menu with her finger. “I’m gonna order the waffle. I wouldn’t mind toodlin’ around the buffet, but we’re gonna be doin’ a lot of walkin’ in them gardens this mornin’, so I’m gonna pace myself.”

  “I’m doing the buffet. I haven’t eaten anything since the soup course last night.”

  “Speakin’ about last night”—Nana lowered her voice—“have you heard the latest?”

  “Tell me what you’ve heard, and I’ll tell you if I know.”

  “Victor might not be who he says he is on account of no one can find no information on him ’til a few years after World War II.”

  My mouth fell open. “Whotoldyouthat?” I leaned over the table, my words running into each other. “WasitJackie? Shewassupposedtokeepitquiet. Ican’tbelievethis!”

  “I run into Bernice in the corridor. She knew a lot of stuff that wasn’t on the leaflet.”

  “How did she find out? I was assured that no one knew about Victor’s identity problem other than Rob and Jackie.” I bobbed my head. “And Woody. And Cal. And me.”

  “She was in a rush to get to the lounge to reserve a seat for this afternoon’s watercolor lesson, so she didn’t have no time to waste on a long chat. It was more like a hit and run.”

  “Never ask Jackie Thum to keep a secret,” I warned, “unless you’re okay with it showing up on CNN as breaking news.”

  “Bernice got it right then?” asked Nana.

  I heaved a sigh. “According to what Rob reported to Jackie, yes, Victor’s origins before 1950 seem to be in question.”

  Nana gave me a blank look. “So what’s all the fuss about?”

  I frowned. “You don’t find that troubling?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s even older than I am, and folks back then did things different. There weren’t no records in duplicate or triplicate. If the court buildin’ or the local church burned, a fella might have a heck of a time provin’ he was ever born. Stuff got misfiled. Clerks mighta had bad handwritin’, so names got copied wrong and accidentally changed. And don’t get me started on what happened to them folks what come through Ellis Island. Their names don’t look nuthin’ like the names they started out with before they crossed the ocean.”

  “So you think the French police have come up empty because of a filing error?”

  “There wasn’t hardly no government buildin’s left standin’ in Europe after the war, Emily, so the last people in the world what should be surprised by gaps in a fella’s personal records are the French police.”

  “Did Bernice tell you that Victor has actually been arrested for murder?”

  “Yup.”

  “Does it make sense to you that Victor would kill the woman who was probably the top sales rep in his company?”

  “Nope.”

  “So can you understand why the police would want to delve into his background to look for clues that might explain why he might have wanted to kill the goose that laid the golden egg?”

  “Bernice told me the only evidence them police officers got against Victor is that he had a big honkin’ bottle of them blood-thinner pills in his cabin.”

  “Right. Enough to take out a whole host of people.”

  “Well, I got a little story for you. Your grampa spent so much time sittin’ on his duff ice fishin’ one year, he got a big ole clot in his leg, and what they give him to dissolve it was a blood thinner. Called it Warfarin. It come in a big bottle, filled to the brim, on account of the dosage changed from week to week accordin’ to how much was in his bloodstream. So some weeks he took two or three tablets every day, and other weeks he took only one. But they didn’t want him to run out, so that’s why they give him so much. So if Victor was like your grampa, the only reason he mighta had so dang many pills in his bottle was simply because his doctor mighta wanted to make sure he had enough.”

  I eyed her skeptically. “You don’t think he was hoarding them so he could use them to kill people?”

  “If he was hoardin’, it’s on account of that’s what the druggist give him.”

  “But why would the French police arrest him if they weren’t sure of his guilt?”

  “You ever seen them Peter Sellers movies where he played a bumblin’ police inspector by the name of Clouseau?”

  “Years ago. But Peter Sellers didn’t portray a typical police inspector, Nana. His role was way over the top. An exaggeration.”

  “Don’t matter. He was French. ’Nuf said.”

  “Bonjour, ladies.” Ivandro greeted us with carafes of regular coffee in one hand and English breakfast tea in the other. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Tea,” Nana and I said in unison.

  “Have you made your breakfast selections?”

  “Buffet for me,” I said as he filled our cups, “and the waffle for my grandmother.”

  “Very good.” He lingered by the table, smiling. “I hope breakfast this morning will be more peaceful than dinner last night. The gentleman is still in the hospital, yes?”

  I nodded. “He may be there for a while.”

  “And his wife also? The maid removed their belongings from their cabin this morning, so I assume they will not be returning?”

  “Apparently not.” I glanced at Nana. “If they’re staying behind in Rouen, they obviously can’t have their stuff continuing on to Paris without them.”

  He leaned in over the table. “You have heard the rumor about the gentleman?”

  “Which one?” asked Nana.

  “That he may not be who he says he is?”

  I gasped. “Does the whole ship know? I can’t believe this! Who told you?”

  “I do not know the names yet, madame.”

  “Six-foot brunette? Huge designer bag? Sucks all the oxygen out of the room?”

  “She was five-feet tall. Sandpaper voice. Wire-whisk hair.”

  “Bernice,” I hissed.

  “I’m sorry, madame. Please do not take offense. I was only making conversation. When I come to work here, Patrice says to me, ‘Ivandro, you may grow bored with this job, because nothing ever happens.’ But since I’m here, everything happens. A lady dies. A gentleman is rushed to hospital. I would welcome to be bored.”

  “I assume you haven’t been working on the Renoir long?” I asked.

  “I have been here as many days as you.
The kitchen staff was short one waiter, so Patrice put in a good word for me, and here I am. He and I cycle together on the same team, so we are what you call, good buddies.”

  “Are you and him trainin’ for that big race where them fellas wear yellow jerseys and take dope?” asked Nana.

  He laughed. “The Tour de France? Non, madame. We may travel the same roads, but we are not in the same class.” He brandished his coffee carafe toward the ship’s bow. “I scold him last night because I am serving the gentleman who is rushed to hospital while he is serving drinks to the man who has decided to camp out next to the bar. I tell him I would like his work schedule so I can find time to be bored. Now I place your breakfast order, madame.” He tipped his head at Nana. “Please excuse.”

  I cupped my hand around my mouth. “He was talking about Irv Orr,” I whispered. “I don’t think he’s had a sober moment since he boarded.”

  “I seen him in the lounge all day yesterday knockin’ back cocktails,” said Nana. “I don’t rightly know if he’s even stepped off the boat to see nuthin’ yet. How come the bartender don’t cut him off ?”

  “Probably because he’s not attempting to drive a vehicle. Oh, before I forget.” I pulled the note with Solange’s contact information out of my shoulder bag. “Could you text this to Osmond at your earliest possible convenience? He specifically asked that you do it because he appreciates your discretion and knows you won’t blab to everyone.”

  “You bet.” She studied the note. “Is this the lady what he met durin’ the war?”

  “Yup. I tried to hand him the note yesterday, but he wouldn’t take it.”

  “’Course he wouldn’t take it.” She yanked her cell phone out of her pocketbook. “He’s gone paperless.”

  As I watched her thumbs fly over the screen, I mulled over what she’d said about Victor and the mysterious gap in his background. Was it as innocent as she suggested it might be? Or had Victor Martin deliberately tried to hide something in his past? Something that might explain why he’d want Krystal dead.

  My mind drifted back to Virginia Martin, who had every reason in the world to want Krystal dead, but who was under no suspicion from the police. She would have had just as much access to Victor’s blood thinner as he had, wouldn’t she? At least, that was my thinking, but I wasn’t a member of the French police force.

  Maybe the incompetency of Inspector Clouseau was closer to the truth than I realized.

  eighteen

  From our moorage on the river, Vernon appeared less historic than Rouen, less quaint than Caudebec, and less picturesque than Étretat. Nondescript apartment buildings and public parking lots fronted the river. A busy highway ran parallel to its banks, and speeding along this artery were drivers who seemed to delight in revving their engines, squealing their tires, blaring their horns, and boasting their faulty mufflers. We boarded our coach at promptly nine o’clock and, after crossing the long bridge that spanned the Seine, headed down the narrow, two-lane road that would take us to Giverny.

  The countryside was similar to what we’d encountered on our way to Étretat—open fields that sloped down to the river. Shrubs giving way to a few trees. Trees weaving themselves into forests. Houses popped up alongside the road at varying intervals—houses made of stone or stucco, with steep roofs and painted shutters, sheltered behind hedges, masonry walls, split-rail fences, or decorative gates.

  I sat at the back of the bus, where I could keep an eye on what was happening in front of me, because like it or not, I felt as if I needed to keep my guard up. Victor might be in the hospital, but Krystal’s killer could still be among us, targeting his or her next victim. I just hoped my guys were off the killer’s radar.

  “We’ll be arriving at the parking lot in a few minutes,” Rob announced over the mike, “so I’m handing out maps to give you a chance to study them before we leave the bus.” He proceeded down the center aisle, distributing sheets of white paper while he talked. “We’ll be here for a total of three hours, which should give you plenty of time to tour the gardens and house, buy souvenirs in the gift shop, and pick up a cup of coffee in one of the cafés. At twelve thirty we’ll meet in front of the museum on Main Street, which is marked on your maps, and walk back to the bus together. The path back to the parking lot is a little tricky, so I don’t want anyone to get lost. Any questions?”

  “Could you send your map to us as an email attachment?” asked Osmond.

  “Sorry, folks. What you see is what you get.”

  “How about a photo?” inquired Alice. “If you send a picture of the map to my email address, I’ll be happy to forward it to everyone.”

  Rob guffawed as he handed me my copy. “Come on, people. What have you got against paper?”

  Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!

  “Check your inboxes,” announced Nana. “I sent it JPEG, but if the image don’t look clear, I can send it again as one a them PDF files.”

  “Mine didn’t come through in color,” fussed Margi.

  “That’s because the original is in black and white,” said Tilly.

  The size of a tourist attraction’s parking lot is usually a good indication of how popular the attraction is with the public. Given the size of Giverny’s, I steeled myself to expect crowds, which, considering our group might be playing host to a killer, could either be a blessing or a curse.

  “Our bus is number twenty-one,” Rob announced as our driver pulled into a space and cut the engine. “If you lose the group on your way back, don’t forget that number.”

  We filed off the bus into the parking lot, where we began following after Rob like rats after the Pied Piper. As we passed through a pedestrian tunnel, I noticed Bernice a few paces ahead of me, and hurried to catch up.

  “So, Bernice, what’s the latest on Victor’s condition?”

  “Why’re you asking me?”

  “Because you seem to be the person who’s dispersing all the behind-the-scenes information even before the official announcements can be made.”

  “I pay attention. You should try it sometime.”

  “Who told you? No one was privy to that information except for two people … or three. Okay, maybe five, but none of them was you, so how did you find out?”

  She regarded me sourly. “A good newsperson never reveals her sources.”

  “You’re not a newsperson.”

  She waggled her eyebrows. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not telling you anyway.” That said, she fired up the famous afterburners that kept her a Senior Olympic five-yard sprint champ and left me in the dust.

  Regardless of my opinion of Bernice, I grudgingly admired one thing about her: she’d never say anything behind my back that she wouldn’t say directly to my face, no matter how rude the comment.

  We followed a circuitous path to the group entrance, where we lined up like school children and filed through the turnstile without pushing or shoving. But once on the property, we faced a nearly impossible decision. What to tour first? Claude Monet’s famous flower garden and house? Or his water garden and even more famous lily pond?

  “I don’t wanna step on no one’s toes,” Nana said as the gang gathered off to one side of the path, “but we’re facin’ one a them momentous decisions. Flower garden or water garden? So we’re gonna have to vote.”

  All eyes flew to Osmond, who was leaning against a nearby fence, captivated by a message he was texting.

  “I don’t think he heard you,” whispered Alice. “Maybe you should say it louder.”

  “CHELSVIG!” yelled Dick Teig. “I’M TAKING A VOTE!”

  We watched. We waited.

  Osmond continued texting.

  “I still don’t think he heard you,” fretted Alice.

  “Then he’s the only one on the planet who didn’t,” snapped Helen. She fired a sharp look at her husband. “QUIET! This is a sacred place. Show some r
espect.”

  “This place is not sacred,” scoffed Dick, who’d won the cervical collar lottery today and was wrapped in foam like a sausage in butcher’s paper.

  “It is so,” she challenged. “Do you hear anyone else yelling?”

  “I can’t hear anyone other than you, Helen.”

  Unh-oh. This wasn’t good.

  “This place might not be sacred,” soothed Lucille, “but it sure feels sacred. It’s like we’re inside a church … where everything is quiet … and hushed.”

  “Feels more like a library to me,” said Dick Stolee, who was sporting the second cervical collar. “Without the stale book smell.”

  “Shhhh.” Lucille spread her hands wide and closed her eyes in her best imitation of a Hindi guru. “Listen to the silence.”

  “You better hurry before Helen starts talking again,” razzed Dick.

  “Do you hear that?” enthused Alice, her hand cupped around her ear. “I can hear the buzz of hundreds of honeybees.”

  “That’s not bees,” said Nana. “That’s Osmond hummin’ off-key.”

  All eyes darted back to the fence. Alice gasped. “What’s he doing with his mouth?”

  “Looks like he’s smiling,” observed George.

  “He hasn’t smiled for days,” said Tilly. “Why do you suppose he’s smiling now?”

  “He’s probably smiling because he’s happy he’s not married to Helen,” Dick Teig wisecracked.

  “Please ignore Richard,” instructed Helen in a dismissive tone. “We’re having a disagreement over funeral planning and, as usual, he’s contributing to the discussion by acting like a dickhead.”

  “Eww, big surprise there,” droned Bernice. “Like he knows how to be anything but.”

  “I know exactly what the disagreement is about,” said Grace. “He wants to be cremated and stuffed in a jar because it’s cheaper. But you want an open casket with all the trimmings. Right?”

  “Hey! We’re not talking about Christmas dinner here,” groused Dick Teig. “I’m talking about trying to prevent thousands of dollars from being poured down a six-foot hole where the return on my investment is zilch!”