by Mary McHugh
“You got it,” he said.
The waiter brought my wine and omelet, and Ken ordered a beer.
“Tell me about the people in your band and Monsieur Fouchet and Suzette and Madame Fouchet.” I said. “Is there a little ‘je ne sais quoi’ going on with Monsieur and Suzette, or is my imagination working overtime?”
“No, your imagination is right on target. Henri is fooling around with Suzette. I think Madame Fouchet knows it and ignores it. They seem to have a whole different attitude toward cheating here. They don’t take it as seriously as we do. It’s just sex. As long as he doesn’t screw her in public, Madame puts up with a little fooling around on the side. Besides, she’s no angel either.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Who is she getting it on with?”
“Jean. You know, the trumpet player. I think she’s more serious about him than he is about her, though. He told me she talked about leaving her husband for him.”
“Isn’t he a little young for her?”
“They don’t care about that over here,” Ken said. “Did you see that Catherine Deneuve movie? On My Way, I think it’s called. She sleeps with a really young guy, and he says to her the next morning, ‘You must have been really something when you were young.’ She wasn’t offended at all. I mean, it’s a whole different way of looking at sex over here.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty-five,” he said. “You?”
“Older,” I said.
He raised his glass. “Here’s to older,” he said.
“Is Suzette in love with Monsieur Fouchet?” I asked.
“I think Suzette is in love with Suzette,” Ken said.
“So we have stumbled into a romantic intrigue,” I said. “Fascinating.”
“Can’t wait to see you Hoofers dance tonight. You were really terrific this morning at the rehearsal.”
“Thanks,” I said. I looked at my watch. “I’d better go, Ken. I’ve got to dress and put on a ton of makeup and get back to the bateau by seven. I’m glad you followed me. Maybe you can show me your Paris.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said.
I paid and left my keyboard guy people watching at the café and took the Metro back to our apartment.
Everyone was there except Gini, who tends to lose track of time when she’s taking photos.
Mary Louise and Tina showed me what they bought on the Champs-Élysées. A black silk blouse with tiny gold buttons for Mary Louise and, for Tina, a gorgeous blue and green scarf that looked fantastic with her bluer-than-blue eyes. They were the first thing you noticed when you met her.
“Can you believe this is a Dior scarf!” she said. “It was marked down to half its original price. Even in euros, it’s a bargain.”
“Oh, Tina, it’s gorgeous,” I said. “I want one. How long is the sale going on?”
“Till the end of July, but you’d better hurry. The store was packed with shoppers. Lots of Parisians as well as tourists.”
Pat was already in the shower. A good thing, since all five of us had to use that one shower.
“Are we wearing black tonight?” I asked Tina.
“Yes. The skinny, clinging long dresses that are cut down to our navels in front and up to our thighs on the sides.
“How do we get back to the boat in those things?” I asked. “Not the Metro, I hope?”
“No, no, Jan. Monsieur Fouchet is sending a car for us. Hurry up and get ready.”
Pat came out wrapped in a towel and scooted into her room to get dressed.
We all managed to grab a quick shower and squeeze into our black slinky dresses, high-heeled tap shoes, and rhinestone drop earrings by the time Gini appeared, fifteen minutes before the car was due to pick us up.
“Sorry, Tina,” she said. “I meant to get back sooner.” She looked so happy, it was hard to believe she was even a little bit sorry.
“Fifteen minutes, Gini,” Tina said. “There’s a car coming for us.”
“Piece of cake,” Gini said and shed her clothes and camera on the way to the shower. Twelve minutes later she was clean, made up, and dressed. I could never do that.
On the dot of six forty-five, a long black limo appeared and whisked us off to the Pont de l’Alma and our bateau. The French don’t fool around with time. Once Derek and I were five minutes late for a bus tour full of French people, seated and waiting to start the tour. When we got on the bus, they all made a small disapproving noise—sort of a “Tsk, tsk.” We were never late again.
Inside, the boat was decorated with red, white, and blue French flags everywhere on and around the white cloth-covered tables. The waiters stopped what they were doing to admire us as we stepped onto the boat. I must admit we were pretty gorgeous that night. I love it when people, mostly men, look at us like that, as if we were the most desirable women anywhere, anytime, anyplace.
At the front of the bateau, the musicians, wearing white jackets and pants, looked almost respectable. Suzette was fluttering around, flipping through the music sheets, humming a little, practically coming out of her thin-strapped, red, very short dress. She waved to us as we approached.
Madame Fouchet was talking to a man we hadn’t seen before. He was tall, good-looking in an American kind of way—you know, toned and tanned, dark-haired, gray at the temples. Somewhere in his early fifties, I’d say.
She motioned to us to join them.”The Americans have arrived, I see,” she said. “Allo, Hoofers. This is Alan Anderson, who owns a nightclub in New York, which he calls the Bateau Mouche. It’s a succès fou with Americans. He wants to make it even more French by stealing away our Suzette to sing there. I just told him he couldn’t have her. We need her here.”
“Looking fine there, Hoofers,” Anderson said, shaking hands with each of us as Madame Fouchet introduced us. “I’ve heard good things about you.”
Tina smiled at him. “Thanks, Alan,” she said.
“Madame,” Tina said to Fouchet’s wife, “where is your husband?”
“He’s up on deck, making sure everything is ready for viewing the fireworks at eleven o’clock when we anchor near the Eiffel Tower. All the guests go up there and watch. It’s magnifique.”
“Yeah,” Jean said. “Where is Henri? He’s been up there a long time. I thought he’d be back down here by now. He was supposed to OK the program.”
“Oh, you know Henri,” his wife said. “He’s a perfectionist. He wants every detail on deck to be perfect. That’s so important tonight, on this holiday.”
“Maybe I should go up there and see if he needs some help,” Jean said.
“No, no,” Madame Fouchet said. “He likes to do it all himself. I tried to help him earlier, but he shooed me away. Just leave him alone. He’ll be down here soon.” She turned away from Jean and the rest of us. “I’ll check the tables.”
She walked back to the main part of the boat, where guests were beginning to arrive and take their seats. Mostly older people—the women dressed in long gowns and the men in dinner jackets, people who could afford this expensive evening—were escorted to their tables. Everyone seemed primed to enjoy this holiday celebration, and I was thrilled to be a part of it. I sneaked a peek at the menu for the night.
The appetizers were a choice of foie gras with a balsamic reduction and sea salt; avocado tartare with citrus and vitelotte potato chips; smoked Atlantic salmon with lemon and heavy cream; beef carpaccio, parmesan shavings, and bouquet of mesclun; and albacore tuna steak with sautéed roseval potatoes drizzled with vinegar.
For the main course you could have fillet of French sea bream with roasted peaches and seasonal vegetables; prawns marinated in espelette chilies, and a vegetable trio; slow-cooked lamb roast with a rosemary sauce; stuffed poultry tournedos with tomato mozzarella gratin; or zucchini cannelloni with vegetables, tomato, and pesto sauce.
Next you had a “duet of seasonal cheeses.”
Then, for dessert, you were offered a dark chocolate tart (always my choice); iced strawbe
rry meringue “vacherin”; yuzu cheesecake with berries; raspberry chocolate dome with passion fruit coulis; or chocolate speculoos cookies. I had no idea what half these things were—especially the yuzu cheesecake. I asked one of the waiters who spoke English what yuzu was, and even though he was rushing around making sure everything was perfect, he said, “It’s a cross between a grapefruit and an orange—it’s from Asia somewhere.”
To accompany all this, they gave you a bottle of wine for two people, with a choice of blanquette de Limoux AOC Castel Mouche; Vieilles vignes de l’Amiral; Lussac-Saint-Émilion AOC; or Bourgogne Aligoté La Chablisienne.
I definitely planned to come back here as a passenger.
As the waiters brought the guests Kir Royales to drink while they waited for their appetizers, the boat slipped out of the harbor, smoothly gliding along the Seine past the exquisitely illuminated Grand Palais, under the Pont des Invalides, the Pont Alexandre III, and the Pont de la Concorde, where there were gasps of delight at the sight of the obelisk, the fountain, and the ferris wheel, all golden on this warm summer night.
We came out and bowed to our audience as the bateau moved along past the Louvre. The band played the first strains of “Les Grands Boulevards,” and Suzette’s husky voice sang of the wide boulevards of Paris with their booths and bazaars, the street vendors, so much to see, people out late on summer nights enjoying the sights and noises and joys of the most beautiful city on earth.
As she sang, we did our own tap dance down the grand boulevards of Paris. Shuffling, shim-shamming, time-stepping, high kicking, and grapevining, with some ball changes thrown in, we made that bateau our own. The dance floor at the front of the boat was just big enough for us to move the way we wanted to. We really got into it, the way we always do when the music is good and the mood sublime. Suzette’s voice grew huskier and sexier as she repeated the first part of the song. Our legs kicked higher and our arms spread wider as we matched her love of Paris on this most festive of all nights of the year.
When we finished, the crowd applauded, cheered in several languages, clinked their knives against their glasses and cried, “Encore,” “More,” “Bravo.”
We backed away until we were standing next to the band. We discreetly mopped our faces and bodies, which were shiny from dancing in 78-degree heat in a small space. Suzette accepted a glass of champagne from Claude. He pulled her closer to him and whispered something in her ear. She closed her eyes and swayed a little. I thought she was going to faint, but she straightened up, shook her head, and picked up another sheet of music.
“Want to do ‘Padam’ after the fireworks, Hoofers?” she asked. “That will give you enough time to dry off and catch your breath.”
“That’s fine, Suzette,” Tina said. “But I really should check this with Monsieur Fouchet. I was sure he’d be here by now.”
“He’ll turn up soon,” Suzette said, exchanging a look with Madame Fouchet. “N’est-ce pas, Madeleine?”
“Of course,” Madame Fouchet said. “We won’t be going up on deck to see the fireworks until the guests have had their dinner. He’s probably just having a cigarette before he comes down. Don’t worry.”
The Bateau Mouche sailed slowly along the rest of the route, past the Hôtel de Ville, Notre-Dame, the Musée d’Orsay, the Palais Bourbon, and Les Invalides, all glowing golden against the night sky, as dinner was served. The waiters brought us a platter with a taste of all the courses, which were perfection.
Just as the guests were sipping the last of their coffee, the bateau stopped in front of the Eiffel Tower where the fireworks were about to begin.
Jean stepped forward, and the crowd stopped talking to listen to him.
“Monsieurs et mesdames,” he said, “it is time for the pièce de résistance of our holiday cruise. Please go up on deck and take the seats that we have provided for you. The fireworks will commence in fifteen minutes.”
The guests pushed back their chairs and started up the stairs leading to the open deck on top of the bateau.
When the first two people stepped onto the deck, there was a loud scream. An American woman with white hair started back down the steps. “There’s a man up there,” she said. “I think he’s dead. There’s blood all over.”
Jean pushed his way through the crowd on the stairs and said, “Will you return to your seats, please, ladies and gentlemen. You will be able to see the fireworks through the windows below.”
“You must be joking,” the woman said. “I don’t want to stay on this boat another moment. How can you talk about fireworks with a dead man lying there?” She turned to her companion, an elderly gentleman who didn’t seem to understand what was going on.
“What’s the matter, Elyse?” he said. “Why did you scream like that?”
“There’s a dead man up there, Andrew,” she said. “Let’s just get out of here.”
Madame Fouchet quickly reached the woman’s side, patted her arm, and said in a soothing voice, “Please sit down, madame. We will be back at the dock in a few minutes, and you will be able to leave the boat then.”
She clapped her hands together and said to the head waiter, “Paul, brandy for everyone, s’il vous plait.”
Elyse and her husband, Andrew, returned reluctantly to their seats, as did the other passengers. The cheerful mood of the evening had vanished. Even the free brandy didn’t help.
I grabbed Jean when he came back down the stairs. “What’s happened, Jean? Who is it?”
He pulled me over to the side. “It’s Henri. He’s dead. It looks like he was shot. I’ve got to call the police.”
He pulled out his phone and went to the front of the boat, where he told the other members of the band, my gang, and Suzette what had happened.
Suzette didn’t say anything. She just stood there looking stunned, clinging to the cellist, Claude.
Jean was dialing the police when Madame Fouchet ran over to him and took the phone away from him. She said something to him in French. He started to argue with her, but she prevailed and prevented him from dialing.
Since the whole conversation was in French, I had no idea what she was saying, or why she wouldn’t let Jean call the police. From the look on Gini’s face, I could tell there was something odd going on. Tina and I pulled her over to the side next to Pat and Mary Louise.
“What’s going on, Gini?” Tina said. “Could you hear what she said?”
“Yeah,” Gini said, speaking in a low voice. “It makes no sense. Madame Fouchet told Jean not to phone the police until all the passengers were off the boat. She didn’t want them to be questioned. She said it would be bad publicity for the bateau and nobody would sail on it again.”
“That’s crazy,” Pat said. “You mean, all these people are just going to disappear without the police talking to them to find out if they saw anything suspicious? One of them might even have killed him. It makes no sense.”
“Looks that way,” Gini said.
“If she’s not going to call the police, one of us should,” Tina said.
We all looked at Gini. “Hey, not me,” she said, shaking her head.
“You have to,” Tina said. “You’re the only one who speaks French well enough to explain what happened.”
“You’re right, Tina,” Gini said. “You’re always right.” She reached for her phone and dialed. “Allo,” she said, but before she could continue, a man’s hand took her phone away. “I’ve already called them, Gini,” Alan Anderson, the American nightclub owner, said.
I was surprised to see him because I hadn’t noticed him at any of the tables when we were dancing.
“Are you mad?” Madame Fouchet said to him when she realized what he had done. “You have ruined our business.”
“Madeleine,” Anderson said to her in low, carefully modulated tones, “they tell you your husband is lying up there on the deck, obviously murdered by someone on this boat, and you haven’t even gone up there to see if it’s really him. And you want to let everybody off t
he boat before anyone is questioned? Do you want everyone to think you put business before your husband? Or even that you might be the one who killed him?”
Madame Fouchet’s expression changed from angry to chastened.
“Oh, Alan, you’re right, of course. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Take me up there, will you, please? I can’t do it alone.”
He took her hand and led her up the stairs to the upper deck just as the bateau pulled into the dock where we could see the police waiting to board her.
Janice’s Fashion Tip: Wear those stiletto heels with attitude.
Chapter 3
We Are Not Amused
A woman with short blond hair wearing a police uniform was the first to enter the boat. She wore no makeup, but she didn’t need it. Her face was classically beautiful, her expression serious. Alan was waiting to greet her as she stepped on board.
“There’s been a murder,” he said. “The body is on the upper deck. May I speak to the police captain, please?”
“You are speaking to her,” she said, her tone of voice indicating her displeasure. “I am Captain Chantal,” she said. “And you are?”
Alan looked embarrassed. “Pardon, madame,” he said. “I am Alan Anderson, a business associate of Monsieur Fouchet, the man who was killed. My French is not very good. Do you speak English?”
The police captain gave him a look of such disdain it ricocheted off the walls.
“I studied at Oxford,” she said. “You must be an American.” It was obvious she did not think highly of Americans. She turned away from him and headed for the stairs to the upper deck. The other police officers followed her, and Alan was behind them. “Please make sure nobody leaves this bateau,” she said to one of her men.
“They have a woman police captain in Paris?” Pat said, obviously impressed. “Things are looking up. And she’s hot.”
“Cool it, honey,” Gini said. “She doesn’t look all that friendly.”
Pat gave her a wicked smile. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”
“What is it about us?” Mary Louise said. “One little dance and someone’s dead.”