by Mary McHugh
“There’s the Louvre,” Ken said, pointing to the right to the glass pyramid that served as the entrance to the massive museum. “The Tuileries are just behind it.”
“I wish we had time for the Louvre,” I said. “Two of my favorite paintings are there. Vermeer’s The Lacemaker and his The Astronomer.”
“You like Vermeer?”
“I adore him,” I said. “I love the way he uses light and shadow, the way he paints fur and velvet and lace. You can practically feel them when you look at his paintings. He painted only thirty-five paintings in his whole life, and I want to see every one of them before I’m through. That’s on my bucket list.”
“How many have you seen so far?” Ken asked.
“Not many. A couple in the Metropolitan Museum, one at the National Gallery in Washington. Three in the Frick Collection in New York. My favorite there is Mistress and Maid—I have a print of it in my bedroom at home. There’s a whole story in that painting. The maid is handing her mistress—she’s dressed in yellow velvet with ermine trim, and there are pearls winding through her chignon—a note from her lover, the music teacher. I’ve made up a whole thing about their love affair and . . .”
I stopped. Not everyone is as thrilled as I am about Vermeer’s paintings and the stories they hint at. I could tell that Ken’s attention was wandering, so I stopped.
“I once saw Girl with a Pearl Earring,” he said. “It was on tour, and I think I saw it at the Louvre. Not sure. Don’t worry, Jan. I’ll take you to see your Vermeers before you leave Paris. I promise. Oh, look, we’re at the Tuileries. Let’s go find the carousel.”
I followed Ken past the wide basin where children were sailing boats, past the flowers blooming on all sides of us, past the modern sculptures on exhibit next to the ancient ones of heroes slaying monsters and gods and goddesses, past people reading or dozing in the chairs around the basin. Then, there it was—the merry-go-round, circling, full of children, some laughing, some not so sure they liked it, while their mothers and nannies either stood beside them or waved to them from the side.
“Are you coming on with me?” I asked Ken.
“Of course I am,” he said. “Think I’d let you have all the fun?”
We bought tickets and climbed onto outside horses. As the accordion music played “Padam, Padam, Padam,” we circled round and round, the only adults on the horses.
I was reveling in the feeling of being a child again. It was my favorite way to stop time. As long as I was riding this painted horse, time was suspended. I was eight years old again, away from my quarreling parents, away from school, away from other children who didn’t understand me or my love of the theater, my wanting to be a part of it someday. No responsibility for raising a child or keeping a husband happy here on this joyful carousel. I turned and smiled at Ken riding the horse in back of me. I could see that he was caught up in this moment of long ago as much as I was. He was still a child at heart too.
He smiled back. “Yo, Jan!” he shouted. “Hang on.”
When the carousel slowed down and stopped, he came to help me off my horse and kissed my forehead when we were back on the ground again.
“Nice, huh?” he said. He was like a big, old, loved teddy bear. I couldn’t resist the urge to hug him.
“Nothing better,” I said. “Now where do we go?”
“Let’s go over to the Place de la Concorde,” he said. “It’s just across from the Tuileries. You can see the fountain and the obelisk from here.”
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand and heading for the exit gates from the Jardin des Tuileries, pulling him to the fountain that marked one end of the Champs Élysées. I took a couple of pictures of Ken with my iPhone, and he took some of me.
“What time is it getting to be?” I asked reluctantly. I didn’t want to leave.
“It’s almost five,” he said. “We’d better get back. “Metro or walk?”
“Definitely walk,” I said. “Is it far?”
“We can make it in half an hour,” he said. “We take the Concorde bridge and walk down Boulevard Raspail to your apartment on Montparnasse.”
It was hard not to stop in the shops along the way. There was an open-air market selling the most beautiful fruits and vegetables, the freshest meats, the most gorgeous flowers. Ken had to drag me away from them because he knew I had to be back by five-thirty.
He was a little off in his estimate of half an hour. My forays into the market didn’t help, but at quarter of six I was back at our apartment.
“See you soon,” I said. “Thanks, Ken. You’re a great guide.”
He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “And you’re a great everything,” he said. “À bientôt.”
I found my Hoofers in various stages of dressing for our performance that night. Clothes were thrown everywhere, and there were sounds of tap shoes as one of my fellow dancers moved around the main room.
“Oh, Jan, there you are,” Tina said. “Glad you’re back. Everyone else has showered. It’s all yours.”
I shed my clothes and jumped into the narrow shower, reveling in the hot water that washed away the dust of the day. It felt great.
I wrapped myself in a thick towel and ran into the bedroom, where Gini was just fastening the buckles on her tap shoes. She looked sensational in the white, tight-fitting, all-lace dress like the ones we all were wearing that night. She had on onyx and silver art deco earrings that were perfect with the dress.
“Sorry I didn’t get to the carousel this afternoon, Jan,” she said to me. “It took me a while to climb to the top of Notre-Dame, and when I finally got there I couldn’t stop taking pictures. It was just spectacular. You should go up there before we leave Paris.”
I knew I never would, but I made some vague sounds and squeezed into my own lace dress, which seemed to fit better than when I’d bought it. I must have lost weight with all the walking we were doing in Paris. What a great way to lose some pounds!
“Any more news about Monsieur Fouchet?” I asked her.
“I haven’t heard anything,” she said. “Maybe when we get to the bateau, we’ll find out more.”
Tina poked her nose in the door. “You both look incredible,” she said.
“You too, Tina,” Gini said. “Are we still dancing to ‘Sous le Ciel de Paris’?”
“Oui,” she said. “A tribute to Yves Montand and Edith Piaf.”
“Think there will be many people tonight?” I asked. “I mean, the murder has been in all the papers.”
“Alan told me they’re fully booked,” Tina said. “Go figure.”
“Maybe they think the body is still up on the top deck,” Gini said, “and they’ll get to see it.”
“Who knows?” Tina said. “I know nothing about the rest of show business. That’s your specialty, Jan.”
“If I ever figure out why people like some kind of entertainment, or some kind of music, or some kind of book better than others, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, let’s keep dancing.”
“The car will be here in twenty minutes, guys,” she said. “Finish dressing and we’ll go downstairs to wait for it.”
I pulled my hair back into a chignon, and Gini wove some fake pearls through it for me—a touch of Vermeer I couldn’t resist. Earrings, makeup, tap shoes, and I was ready.
Pat and Mary Louise were stunning in lace. In fact, we all looked like we were born to dance under the Paris sky, as the song says. Where lovers kiss, music enchants, and rainbows drive the clouds away.
Oh yeah, and someone gets murdered.
Janice’s Fashion Tip: Splurge on a lightweight cashmere sweater for those cool summer nights.
Chapter 8
Moonlight in Paris
When the five of us stepped aboard that boat in our skinny little lace dresses, our faces made up within an inch of their lives to look as if they were au naturel, our black-stockinged legs with sequins up the back completing the whole picture of gorgeous Happy Hoofers at their sexiest, every man in the band s
tood up and cheered. Even Yves managed a feeble “Ooh la la.”
The three women—Madame Fouchet, Suzette, and Captain Chantal—standing near them were more restrained.
“Bonjour, les Hookers,” Madame Fouchet said. “Très chic.”
“Are we doing ‘Sous le Ciel’?” Suzette asked.
“Yes,” Tina said. “Ça va?
“Ça va,” Suzette said. “I love that song.” She was stunning, her very sexiest, in a long, white silk dress, slit up the middle to show off her legs.
“I look forward to hearing you,” Captain Chantal said, unable to take her eyes off Pat. The captain was wearing a black lace mini that showed off a body her uniform hid almost entirely during the day.
“Anything new about Monsieur Fouchet?” Tina asked the captain.
“The investigation is still underway,” she said stiffly. “There are many people to interrogate.”
“She’s a bundle of laughs,” Gini muttered to us.
“She’s dealing with a murder, Gini,” Pat snapped at her. “What do you expect her to do—offer us a drink?”
Gini started to say something but stopped herself when she saw Pat’s face. It was obvious that she was genuinely offended by Gini’s remark. I realized I hadn’t asked Pat about her lunch with the police captain the day before. Must have been a lot more interesting than I thought.
As seven o’clock approached, people began to crowd onto the bateau, and by seven-thirty every seat was filled. There was an air of excitement, an expectation that this would be more than a tour of Paris’s buildings and monuments.
After the first course of foie gras and a glass of wine, Jean appeared, bowed to the audience and in English said, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are pleased to have with us this evening America’s Happy Hoofers, five beautiful women who will show you how much they love Paris in their dance. Mademoiselle Suzette Millet will sing ‘Sous le Ciel de Paris’—‘Under the Paris Sky’.”
We joined arms and stepped forward to smile at the people waiting to see us perform. The band started the first notes of “Sous le Ciel de Paris.” We moved around the stage, first slowly grapevining, then dancing the time step faster and faster, then shuffle-stepping single file down the aisle between the tables, while Suzette sang of a young man in love, a sailor’s accordion, a philosopher and a musician, of Notre-Dame, beggars sleeping under the bridges over the Seine, all beneath the Parisian sky. It was a love song to this City of Light. We felt it deep inside as we danced. You could hear it in Suzette’s voice. It was as if for those few minutes we were French. We turned and shuffle-stepped back to the stage, bowing as the crowd applauded and cheered our dancing and Suzette’s singing.
“And now, mesdames and messieurs,” Jean said. “Please join us on the top deck, where you will see Paris at her very best, her monuments illuminated, the sky alight with stars, the very air caressing you as our Bateau Mouche moves along the Seine.”
The passengers took a last bite of their main course and left their tables to climb the steps to the upper deck. I held my breath, half-expecting to hear a scream as the first person stepped outside. But it was all right. No screams.
“Come on, Jan. Let me show you Paris at night,” Ken said as he took my hand and led me to the stairway. We joined the crowd working its way up the narrow steps. When we got to the top, I breathed in the fresh night air and said, “Ohhhhhhh.” I couldn’t help it. The moon was full, and there, shining against the starlit sky, were the towers of Notre-Dame, the majestic, awe-inspiring, fourteenth- century Gothic cathedral we had seen that afternoon. But how different to see it at night, without people swarming around it, as if God held it in the palm of His hand. Tears came to my eyes, the way they always do when I see or hear or feel something so powerfully beautiful there are no words to describe it.
“Are you crying?” Ken asked, his voice soft, concerned.
I nodded. “I love this city,” I said.
“It is wonderful, isn’t it?” Mary Louise said, joining us, giving me a quick hug when she saw the tears on my cheek. “I know just how you feel, Jan. It takes your breath away. I don’t know how anyone can deny that God exists when they’re in this city.”
Of all the Hoofers, Mary Louise is the one who could best understand the depth of my feeling. She is the only one in our group who was brought up a Catholic. Her religion is so deeply ingrained in her that she has never questioned her faith. She had her doubts about some of the practices of the Church, but never her belief in God. Whatever happened in her life, she believed it was God’s will, and she accepted it. Mary Louise was the embodiment of love. She could not look at another human being in trouble and not try to help. She was the soul of our group of dancers, just as Tina was our heart, Gini our creativity, and Pat our wisdom. I, perhaps, was our adventurer.
Another flash of white and Gini was beside us with her camera. “Can you believe this?” she said, not looking at us, just scanning the shore to get the best angle. She wouldn’t have noticed if my tears had flooded the deck and she was standing ankle-deep in them. I love Gini, but she’s not exactly the most empathetic person in the world. We’re all different, and to tell the truth, that’s what I treasure the most about us.
The ship moved along slowly, and a large building on the left side of the boat loomed up, illuminated to stand out from the other sights along the shore.
“Ken, what’s that?” I asked.
“It’s the Musée d’Orsay,” he said. “An art museum. I think I like it better than the Louvre. They have Impressionists. My favorites.”
“Mine too,” Gini said, putting down her camera briefly. “We have to go there tomorrow,” she said to me and Mary Louise. She hadn’t really looked at me until that moment.
“Jan,” she said, real concern on her face. “Are you all right? Are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine, Gini.” I said, smiling at her. “Just kind of carried away by this city.”
“I know,” she said. “I’d give anything to live here again.”
“Why don’t you?” Ken asked. “There’s an empty apartment in my building. In fact, why don’t all you Hoofers move here?” He looked over at me and brushed away the tear on my cheek. “OK, Jan?”
I nodded and smiled at him.
“Tempting,” Gini said. “But there’s too much at home that I don’t want to leave.”
“His name is Alex,” Tina said, popping up beside us. “Right, Gini? Have you called him since we’ve been here?”
“Sure. We talk all the time,” she said. “He loves Paris as much as I do.”
“I get it,” Ken said. “But if you ever change your mind . . .”
“Don’t you miss America?” I asked him.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Not often. I’m free here to do what I want.”
“And what is that exactly?” I asked.
“Play music,” he said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Can’t you do that at home?” Mary Louise asked.
“Not like here. At home there are always people pushing me to make more money, get married, be respectable. Here nobody cares what I do as long as I show up on time and play music.”
We were all silent. For my part, I wanted someone to care about what I did. Maybe Tom Carson was that someone. I still wasn’t sure.
Another monument rose up on the shoreline, its huge dome golden in the dark.
“That’s Les Invalides,” Gini said. “Napoleon is buried there. They have concerts. We have to go.” She turned her camera toward the building and snapped away.
As the bateau approached the Eiffel Tower, not just illuminated but flashing its own lights on and off, showy and spectacular, Pat and Captain Chantal came up on deck, talking to each other so intently, they didn’t notice us standing there at first. They made a great-looking couple—Pat in white lace, the captain in black lace. I wondered how far things had progressed with them. They certainly seemed to be more than just friends.
“Hey, Hoofers,” Pat said when she saw us all together. “Is this the best or what?”
“You’re just coming on deck now?” Gini asked. “You missed the best part.”
Pat exchanged glances with Captain Chantal, and we realized she hadn’t missed anything at all.
“Don’t worry, Gini,” she said. “Geneviève pointed out the batiments and told me all about them as we passed. You can see them downstairs through the windows too.”
I could not wait to get Pat alone to find out what was going on with her and the police captain.
The boat passed the Palais de Chaillot, turned around, and pulled up to the dock near the Pont d’ l’Alma. People went down the stairs, back to their tables, where chocolate mousse and coffee were waiting for them. When they finished, they left the boat, smiling, talking softly, obviously pleased with their evening.
I was too revved up to leave the deck and go back to the apartment. I wanted something more. Something exciting. For once I felt beautiful. Paris does that to you.
“You’re lovely,” a man’s voice said. I turned around to see Alan Anderson behind me. He looked dark and intriguing. He was wearing a charcoal gray, expertly tailored suit, a white shirt, and a blue-and-red-striped tie. His brown hair was cut perfectly, the way they do in Paris, framing a tanned face that reminded me of the French actor Alain Delon.
He held out his hand. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you my Paris at night.”
I was mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I would have followed him straight into the gates of hell if he’d led me there. I took his hand.
“Jan?” Tina said.
“I’ll be back later, Tina,” I said. “Don’t wait up.”
Alan took me down the stairs and off the boat.