Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets

by Mary McHugh

  He stopped and looked at me, not doing anything, just sitting on a bench in Paris at nine in the morning. “What are you doing here so early? Shouldn’t you be practicing your dance for tonight or something?”

  “I woke up early and something drew me to this park,” I said. “I’m glad I did. It’s so relaxing here.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked. “I was about to get one for myself.”

  I smiled. “Oh, please,” I said. “I was trying to get the energy to walk over there, but I didn’t want to move.”

  “Wait here,” he said and walked over to the booth. He even looked good from behind in those tight jeans.

  I liked this man. He looked like he could have been an actor.

  He was back in five minutes with coffee and a warm croissant for each of us.

  “How did you know I love croissants?” I asked.

  “I didn’t,” he said. “But I don’t know anybody who doesn’t love them. Especially here.”

  I took a bite of my croissant and flaky crumbs scattered all over my lap. I brushed them off.

  “Who do you think killed Monsieur Fouchet?” I asked him. I don’t know why I asked him that. I hadn’t been thinking about the murder at all, but it just popped into my mind, and I wanted to know what he thought.

  He looked startled at the abrupt change of subject. Then he said, “I have no idea. He had lots of enemies, though.”

  “Why is that?” I asked. “I thought everybody liked him.”

  “There are people who make their living selling stuff to the Bateaux Mouches, and he always refused to buy from the right people.”

  “What do you mean, the right people?” I asked.

  He looked at me as if trying to see if he could trust me. “People who expected him to pay more than the going rate. For protection.”

  “You mean, like the Mafia?” I asked.

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “I always make sure to pay them in New York. Otherwise, I wouldn’t last five minutes.”

  “You think someone killed him because he wouldn’t cooperate with them?”

  “I do,” Alan said. “Those guys don’t fool around.”

  Somehow he had managed to eat his croissant without being covered with crumbs. How do people do that? I felt messy and brushed at my skirt again.

  “We’re supposed to meet with the police captain at eleven,” I said. “Will you be there?”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But I have a meeting at ten, and I’m not sure if I’ll get back in time.”

  “That captain didn’t look like she would put up with a no-show,” I said.

  He smiled. “There’s always ways to get around a woman like that,” he said.

  “How do you do that?” I asked.

  “Can’t give away all my secrets,” he said, standing up. “I’d better go. If I don’t make it at eleven, I’ll be there to see you dance tonight. You guys are really good.”

  “À bientôt,” I said, pretty sure that meant “See you soon.” He hurried off toward the nearest Metro stop.

  I glanced at my watch. Almost ten o’clock. Time to get back to the apartment. I stood up reluctantly and started back to the open gate that led to the Rue Vavin.

  Back at the apartment my friends were in various states of dress or undress.

  “Jan,” Tina said, “where were you?”

  “Hi, Tina,” I said. “I woke up early and walked over to the Jardin du Luxembourg. I loved Gini’s pictures so much I had to go there.”

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Gini said, a towel wrapped around her, grabbing a blouse and skirt from her bag.

  “So peaceful,” I said. “Oh, Tina, guess who I saw while I was there?”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “Alan Anderson. You know, the guy who owns that nightclub in New York who wants to hire Suzette to sing there.”

  “I understand she really wants to go there.” Pat, who was already dressed and sipping a cup of coffee, said.

  “We didn’t talk about that,” I said. “I did ask him who he thought killed Fouchet, and he said the Mafia, because Henri wouldn’t pay the extra protection fee they demanded.”

  “The Mafia!” Gini exclaimed. “What did he mean, the Mafia? I didn’t think they existed anymore except on that TV series The Sopranos.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Gini,” Pat said. “They’re mostly Albanian Mafia in Paris. They’re all over the world. I was reading about them in the Wall Street Journal a couple of weeks ago. Very powerful.”

  “Didn’t that waiter say he saw a man up on deck with Fouchet who sounded as if he was from India?” Mary Louise asked. “Doesn’t sound very Albanian.”

  “Yes, he did,” Tina said. “But there’s no use trying to figure this out ourselves. Let’s go over to the bateau and see what that police captain—what’s her name? Chantal? Has to say. Are we all ready to go?”

  “Let’s go, guys,” Gini said, picking up her camera.

  Janice’s Fashion Tip: Do not pack that T-shirt that says, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  Chapter 5

  Nothing Like a Well-Fed Shih Tzu

  When the five of us go anywhere together, people stare at us. We are a good-looking bunch. Well, it’s true. We carry energy with us wherever we go. It’s sort of contagious. People smile when they see us. I love that. The Happy Hoofers is a good name for us because we look like we’ve invented joy.

  A subway ride later, we were back at the bateau exactly at eleven. Captain Chantal was waiting for us. The members of the band, the waiters, Suzette, and Madame Fouchet were already there. I think to the French “on time” means half an hour early. They nodded to us as we boarded the boat. Alan Anderson had not yet arrived

  “Ah, Hoofers,” the captain said. “Please be seated. I’ll be with you tout de suite.”

  Without any makeup on her face, this woman looked as if she could star in a movie about a murder on a Bateau Mouche. There was a kind of radiance about her. One by one she called each of the band members to the back of the boat to question them, then the waiters.

  While the captain was talking to each of the waiters, Madame Fouchet and Suzette, holding her shih tzu, who was named Pierrot, were off on the side at the front of the boat talking to each other in low voices. Low or high didn’t matter to me since they were speaking in French. Madame was wearing a pristine white pants suit. How she managed to look so wrinkle-free on this broiling July day, I’ll never know. Some women just seem to do this without any effort at all. Madeleine was one of them.

  We Hoofers tried to find out what the captain had asked the band but Jean and Claude were speaking to each other in French with their backs to us. Yves was swaying to music from his iPhone and smoking a Gauloise, which smelled acrid and strong. Ken was the only one who paid any attention to us. He looked rumpled and unwashed, but cheerful.

  “Hi, Hoofers,” he said. “Why did you do it?”

  “Not funny, Brooklyn,” Gini said. “Did you hear anything interesting from Jean or Claude? I don’t really count Yves.”

  “Not really,” Ken said. “They don’t exactly confide in me because I’m an American. All they care about is whether I can play the keyboard. I did notice one interesting thing, though.”

  “What? Tell us, Ken,” I said.

  He lowered his voice and moved away from Madame Fouchet and Suzette. We backed up into the main part of the boat.

  “Madame Fouchet and Jean arrived together,” he said. “They never did that while Monsieur Fouchet was alive. Now she doesn’t seem to care whether they’re seen together or not.”

  “Big deal,” Gini said. “What if they are having an affair? That doesn’t prove anything. Nobody kills anybody here for fooling around with someone else when they’re married. It’s accepted. If she wants to appear with him openly, so what?”

  “It’s just that... ,” Ken said. “You’d think she’d wait a little while longer. Her husband has only been dead for one da
y. Murdered. Shouldn’t she be more broken up—or at least pretend to be? I mean, I’m divorced, but if someone killed my wife, I’d at least act sad.”

  “Oh, you’re so American, Ken,” Gini said, smiling at him.

  The police captain called each of us separately to the back of the boat for questioning. After Tina, Mary Louise, and Gini answered some routine questions, it was my turn. I went back to the stern, where there was a beautiful view of the Seine and I could view the sightseeing boats passing by through the wide glass windows.

  She looked me up and down. I hoped I had brushed off all the croissant flakes. I felt messy and sweaty.

  “Madame Rogers?” she said.

  “Yes. Janice Rogers,” I said, hoping to lay the groundwork for a more friendly relationship.

  She was not buying that friendship stuff. “How well did you know Monsieur Fouchet?” she asked.

  “Not at all well,” I said. “I met him yesterday. Tina handled all the negotiations for our appearance here.”

  “What did you think of him?” she asked.

  “He seemed very nice. A bit of a flirt, but nice. I wish I had had more of a chance to talk to him.”

  “Was he here before you performed last night?”

  “No,” I said. “Madame Fouchet said he was on deck supervising the seating for the fireworks.”

  “And he never came down from the deck while you were getting ready to perform?”

  “No. We assumed he had a lot of things to do up there since it was Bastille Day,” I said.

  “What do you think of Madame Fouchet?” she asked.

  “A little cold, maybe,” I said. “But I don’t really know her either.”

  The captain leaned in, alert. “Cold? How do you mean cold?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know,” I said. The captain’s intensity made me uncomfortable. I was just speculating about somebody I had met the day before. “She seemed only to care about the bad publicity after her husband was murdered. She didn’t seem terribly upset by his death.”

  “Was she always on this deck after you arrived?” the captain asked.

  “Yes. She was supervising the waiters, telling the band what to do, consulting Suzette.”

  “Consulting? What was she consulting her about?” Captain Chantal asked. She wrote something in French on her iPad.

  “Maybe consulting is the wrong word,” I said, a little flustered by this brusk captain. “I don’t speak French, but I assumed she was going over the songs Suzette would sing and that we would dance to.”

  “I see,” she said. “Was it your impression that Madame Fouchet and Suzette were friends. Or at least had a good relationship?”

  Friends didn’t seem the right word, but I wasn’t sure what their relationship was.

  “I’m not sure, Captain Chantal,” I said. “I haven’t known either of them long enough to know what kind of a relationship they had.”

  The captain made a couple of notes on her iPad and then said, “Thank you, Madame Rogers,” she said, standing up.

  I stood up too. “Anything else, Captain Chantal?” I asked.

  “No, that’s it for now,” she said. Then she moved closer to me and asked in a low voice, “Any chance we could see each other—alone—while you’re here?”

  This was so unexpected I nearly fell back in my chair. It seemed so totally unprofessional. Did she mean what I thought she meant? I never know when someone is coming on to me or just being friendly.

  “Captain, did I give you mixed signals?” I asked. “I mean, what are you asking me?”

  “I’m asking you if you’d like to go out with me,” she said calmly, as if this was no big deal. There are some things about the French that I will never understand.

  “I only get involved with guys romantically,” I said. “But you might want to talk to Pat Keeler. She already said how attractive you are.” Pat would have killed me if she heard me say that.

  The captain relaxed. “Merci bien,” she said. “Would you send Madame Keeler back here next, please?”

  I ran back to our group and grabbed Pat. “She wants to meet you,” I said. “And I don’t mean in an official way.”

  “She’s gay?” Pat said. “Really? Oh, this is very interesting. She’s gorgeous!”

  “What about Denise?” I asked, referring to the woman Pat was involved with at home. I had forgotten all about her when I started this ill-advised matchmaking. Someday I’ll learn to think first and talk later.

  “This has nothing to do with Denise,” Pat said. “This is completely apart from our relationship.”

  She hurried to the back of the boat.

  Suzette left Madame Fouchet and came over to our group. She looked stunning. How could she look so cool and beautifully put together on such a scorching day, I wondered.

  “What did she ask you, Janice?” Suzette said, pronouncing my name “Janeese,” which I liked. It sounded a lot classier than Janice.

  “Oh, she asked me how well I knew Fouchet, what was Madame doing while he was up on deck, things like that.”

  “Did she ask you anything about me?” she asked.

  “She just wanted to know what Madame was consulting you about,” I answered.

  “What made you think she was consulting me about anything?” Suzette said, patting her little dog, who was beginning to get restless.

  “I assumed she was talking to you about the songs you would sing. Since I don’t speak French, I didn’t really know, but I saw you showing her some sheet music.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what we were talking about,” Suzette said. “I had just talked to Henri . . . Monsieur Fouchet . . . about ‘Padam’ and he okayed it.”

  “Where did you talk to him?” Gini, who had been listening to us, asked.

  “Up on deck. But he was too busy getting things ready up there to really talk to me,” Suzette said.

  “Was there a man from India with him?”

  “No, just some of the waiters helping him with the chairs.”

  “What time was this?” Gini asked.

  “Must have been around six,” Suzette said.

  “I’m not good with time, though.” Her little dog yipped at her. “Oh, tu as faim?” she cooed. “Excuse me. I’ve got to feed Pierrot. He has hunger.” Pierrot wagged his long silky tail and followed his mistress over to the other side of the boat away from us and the musicians. Suzette put some food in a dish and patted him again.

  Gini and I watched her. “Why don’t I trust that woman?” Gini asked me in a low voice.

  “I have the same feeling,” I said. “I don’t know why. She hasn’t really said anything that I can put my finger on. It’s just an instinct.”

  “Cool it,” Gini said, moving her head to indicate that Madame Fouchet, who had been talking to Jean, was coming over to us.

  “Bonjour, Hoofers. May I ask what the captain asked you, Janice?”

  “Of course. She just asked me about you and Suzette and the waiters,” I said. “General questions about where everybody was at the time of the murder.”

  “Ohh?” Madame said. “She asked you about me? What did you tell her?”

  “There wasn’t much I . . . ,” I began when Pat came toward us, a smile on her face, and told Madame that the captain wanted to talk to her next.

  After she left, we surrounded Pat.

  “Well,” Gini asked, “what happened? Did she come on to you?”

  Pat giggled. It is not like Pat to giggle. Ever. “Sort of,” she said. “She asked me if we could have lunch together after she finishes here.”

  “What did you say?” Mary Louise asked.

  “I said oui, oui,” Pat said, laughing again. It was good seeing her like this. She’s usually so intense, so serious. Of the five of us, Pat is the most private. Maybe it’s the result of having to hide an important fact about herself for most of her life.

  Mary Louise didn’t say anything, but we could tell from the expression on her face that she was thinking about Denise.


  Pat noticed it too. It was always pretty clear what Mary Louise had on her mind. She could never hide any of her feelings.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Pat said. “It’s just lunch. Nothing for Denise to be concerned about. I love her, and she knows it. She trusts me. Can’t you just let me have an innocent lunch with someone?”

  Mary Louise didn’t look convinced, but she sort of half-smiled.

  The mention of lunch reminded me that I was hungry. My friend, Ken, the keyboard guy, was standing nearby, and he obviously had the same thought. He said to me in a low voice, “Lunch sounds like a good idea. Can I take you to one of my favorite places on the Île Saint-Louis?”

  “I’d love it,” I said. “Wait a second. I have to ask Tina if we’re through here.”

  When I asked her, she said, “I think the captain is through with us. Wait a second till I find out what’s happening tonight.”

  She tapped Jean on the shoulder. “Do you know if there will be a show tonight?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he said. “Believe it or not, the boat is sold out in spite of what happened, so Madeleine decided not to cancel the tour. What do you want to dance to tonight, Tina?”

  “We planned on ‘Sous le Ciel de Paris’—‘Under the Paris Sky,’ for our first song,” she said. “How is that for you?”

  “Perfect,” he said. “And just right for this crowd. One of Juliette Gréco’s hits.”

  Tina turned to me. “We’re done, Jan. Go have fun.”

  “All clear, Ken,” I said to him. “Be with you in a minute.”

  Just then, Madame Fouchet came back to the front of the boat to join the rest of us, a worried look on her face. She pulled Suzette to the side to talk to her rapidly in French. Gini edged a little closer to them. I hoped she could hear their conversation. I started to ask her if she could hear them, but she put her finger to her lips for me to be quiet so she could listen.

  Madame Fouchet noticed her and moved farther away.

  “What did she say, Gini?” I whispered.

  “Let’s get off this boat, and I’ll tell you,” she said.

  “Ken and I are walking over to the Île Saint-Louis for lunch,” I said. “Want to come with us?”