by Mary McHugh
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he said.
Janice’s Fashion Tip: No tank tops!
Chapter 9
Another Glass of Veuve Clicquot?
A black limo was waiting for Alan on the pier. He opened the door for me, and I climbed into the car. A man in uniform at the wheel turned briefly to nod at me. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he said. I stammered out my own version of “good evening.” Alan sat down beside me, put his arms around me, and kissed me as if I belonged to him. I didn’t want him to stop—ever. Few men have kissed me as expertly, as masterfully as he did.
“You are so beautiful, Janice,” he said. “I’m taking you to my private club off Saint-Germain. We’ll drink champagne, listen to music from long ago, and get to know each other.”
I would have gone anywhere, done anything this man asked me.
The car glided smoothly through the streets of the Left Bank until we arrived at a building away from the noise of nearby cafés. The chauffeur opened the door for me, and Alan rang the bell. A window opened in the door, and a dark-faced man immediately opened it for us. He was wearing a Nehru-type jacket with a white flower pinned to his shoulder, and one gold earring gleamed against his brown skin.
“Ah, Monsieur Anderson,” he said, with a slight Indian accent. “Bienvenue.”
“Bonsoir, Ahmet,” Alan said. “My regular table, please.”
Ahmet led us into the club, where each table was nestled into a nook away from the other customers. Only two other tables were occupied. There was a dance floor in the middle. The lighting was dim, the music soft, soothing, from another era. Tony Bennett’s voice was singing “I Do Not Know a Day I Did Not Love You” as we sat down on a soft, black-leather banquette in one corner of the room.
“Champagne, please, Ahmet,” Alan said. “Veuve Clicquot. Brut.” He took my hand and kissed it. “I could look at you forever.” He reached behind me and loosened the pins in my chignon. My hair fell down around my shoulders. He handed me the pearls that had wound around it. “You should have diamonds in your hair.”
I pulled away from him. Enchanted as I was by this fascinating man, I realized I knew nothing about him. Why wasn’t he with Suzette instead of me? Wasn’t he trying to persuade her to go to New York and appear in his nightclub? Was he having an affair with her?
“Alan,” I said, “tell me more about your nightclub in New York. What’s it like? Where is it? I want to go there when I get back.”
“It’s in the West Village,” he said, “on a little street hidden away from the main streets. We play a lot of music from other countries, especially France. It’s intimate, romantic, and we’re full every night.”
“So that’s why you want Suzette to go there?” I said.
His face closed up. He looked away from me. “Yes, she would be perfect at my club.”
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“Le Bateau Mouche,” he said.
“Can’t wait to go there,” I said. “I heard there were problems with Suzette leaving the boat here.”
“Yes. Henri tried to keep her from leaving. He knows people in the government, and he tried to get them to confiscate her passport. Now that is no longer a problem.” He lit a cigarette and greeted Ahmet, who appeared with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“Ah, bon,” he said.
When Ahmet filled a glass for each of us, Alan raised his in a toast to me. “To your beauty,” he said.
“To your choice of clubs,” I said, taking a sip of the excellent champagne.
“They call them boîtes here,” he said.
“I thought Madame Fouchet was against your taking Suzette away too,” I said. “I mean, she’s so perfect for the bateau.”
“Oh, my lovely Janice, let’s not get into all that. It will be resolved. Do not worry.” He stubbed out the cigarette and poured himself another glass of champagne.
It was clear that we weren’t going to talk about anything too serious tonight, so I shut up about Suzette and New York and Madame Fouchet. But I had a lot of questions. I wanted to ask him if he still thought it was someone in the Mafia who had killed Fouchet. It was obvious that he didn’t want to discuss it.
Alan stood up and reached for my hand. “Come dance with me,” he said.
He took me in his arms on the dance floor as Edith Piaf’s voice embraced us with “Les Feuilles Mortes,” one of my favorite songs in the world. “Autumn Leaves.” I closed my eyes. Alan danced with me as if he were making love to me. His body was close against mine, and he was an excellent dancer, so we moved together as if we were one person. Not many men can dance like that. At least not American men. I hummed along as we danced, and he whispered in my ear, “I have a room upstairs in this club,” he said. “Will you come there with me?”
I was under no illusion that this room was anything but a bedroom. Did I want to go? You bet. Should I go? Probably not. What a shame. He was probably really good at what we would be doing up there.
“I need more time, Alan,” I said. “Not tonight.”
The song ended. He kept holding me in his arms and kissed me. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I’d better be getting back to the apartment. This was wonderful, Alan. Thank you.”
“To be continued,” he said. We stopped at the table, and I picked up my purse and pearls and we left the club.
He held me close in the limo until we reached my door, kissed me again, and waited until the chauffeur opened the door.
“I adore you, Janice,” he said.
“Good night, Alan,” I said and went inside to join my friends.
It was after two when I got back to the apartment. When I crept in, Mary Louise was fast asleep on the sofa bed. There was a light under the door of the room I shared with Gini. When I opened it, she was in bed reading her Kindle.
“Well, well,” she said when she saw me. “I wasn’t sure whether you were coming back tonight or not.”
“Neither was I for a while there,” I said.
“So what happened with that gorgeous Alan?” she asked.
I told her about Alan and the club and the conversation about Suzette. “He changed the subject fast,” I said.
“All he said when you brought up Fouchet was that he wasn’t a problem anymore?” Gini asked.
“Yeah, that seemed strange to me too. But he had his mind on other things. He was trying to lure me into a bedroom upstairs.”
“What kind of a nightclub is that?” Gini said too loudly.
I shushed her and said, “A private club. Very private. In fact, he owns it.”
“How come you didn’t go?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Something told me to find out more about him.”
“Good thinking, Jan.” Gini said. Ready as she always was to urge me on to whatever new adventure I had in mind, she was often the voice of reason when it looked like I was going too far. Like the dear and trusted friend she’s always been to me.
“Tell me what happened after I left,” I said.
“Madame Fouchet invited us, the guys in the band, Captain Chantal, and Suzette to a late supper on the boat. A couple of the waiters stuck around to bring it to us. Mucho wine and fine food.”
“Did you talk about Fouchet’s murder, or didn’t you want to talk about it in front of Madame?” I asked.
“Oddly enough, she brought it up,” Gini said. “We were all surprised.”
“What did she say?”
“After a little wine, there was a lull in the conversation, and she said to Captain Chantal—or Geneviève, as we call her now—‘Have you figured out who killed my husband yet?’
“You could tell Geneviève was startled by the question. She certainly wasn’t expecting it, but she’s a cool cat. She looked directly at Madame and said, ‘We’ve had a couple of breakthroughs, but I can’t talk about it yet.’
“Madame Fouchet—I just can’t call her Madeleine—said—
listen to this, Jan—she said, ‘You must find the murderer soon. I have a feeling I’m next.’ ”
“She really said that?”
“Can you believe it? Yeah, she really said that.”
“What did Chantal say?” I asked.
“She was stunned,” Gini said. “But she asked Madame Fouchet why she thought that. Madame said, ‘It’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just a feeling.’ You know how she always looks so self-assured and above the rest of us? Well, she didn’t look that way then. She really seemed scared.”
“So what did the captain say then?” I asked.
“She kept trying to pry out of her what was making her feel like that. Finally, Madame lost her cool and said, ‘When I got to the boat tonight, the waiter brought me a drink. I hadn’t ordered one, but I didn’t think much about it. I took a sip and there was definitely something not right about that drink. I threw it out. I’m sure someone is trying to poison me.’ ”
“You could tell the captain wasn’t buying this,” Gini said. “She said, ‘Did you ask the waiter why he brought you a drink you hadn’t ordered?’ Madame said, ‘By the time I thought of asking him that, he had disappeared. I looked for him, but there was so much to do before the customers arrived, I didn’t have time to keep searching. I’m not even sure which waiter it was. But I’m sure someone is trying to kill me.’ Jan, she was practically hysterical, and that’s not like her at all. You know how cool and above-it-all she always is.”
“This is really weird,” I said. “I thought all along she was the one who killed her husband, but now it looks like she might be a victim. What did the captain say then?”
“She was fantastic,” Gini said. “Really good at her job. She did her best to calm Madame down. She said she would assign a police officer to stay with her if she would like, but Madame said no, she didn’t want that. So the captain told Madame to call her anytime she had any suspicions that someone was trying to kill her. Even in the middle of the night. To be honest, Jan, none of us really believed her story. A drink tasted funny so she thought she was being poisoned? Come on. How come she didn’t have it tested?”
“It does sound a little crazy,” I said. “I just hope she doesn’t turn up dead. Speaking of dead, I need to sleep. Are you going to read much longer?”
“No, I’m through,” she said. “I was really just waiting for you to get home so I could tell you all this. Doesn’t it seem to you that we attract murderers and killing and mayhem wherever we go?”
“Nothing happened when we were in Atlantic City,” I said.
“What murderer wants to go there?” she asked. I fell asleep laughing.
Janice’s Fashion Tip: Forget your backpack. Take a cross-body purse to Paris.
Chapter 10
Water Lilies, Willow Trees, and What’s New
I was still sleeping the next morning when my phone rang. I had forgotten to turn it off before I went to bed. I fumbled around until I dug it out of my purse on the floor by the bed.
“Mmpff” was the best I could do.
“Good morning, Jan,” a male voice said. I had no idea who it was.
“Who’s this?” I managed to mumble.
“Alan,” he said. “Alan Anderson. Remember me?”
“Oh, Alan, hi,” I said, still not fully awake.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I want to see you again. Get your gang together,” he said. “I’m taking you to Giverny to Monet’s house and gardens. They’re spectacular right now, and you can’t leave France without seeing them.”
“But . . . but . . . ,” I stammered. “What time is it?”
“It’s eight o’clock,” he said. “I know, I know. It’s early. But it will take us over an hour to get there—it’s sixty miles north of Paris. You can’t go back home without seeing the water lilies and the rest of his garden. Get dressed. I’ll pick you and your Hoofers up in an hour. Don’t worry about breakfast. There’ll be coffee, croissants, and hot chocolate in the car.”
“Oh, Alan, that’s so nice of you, but... ,” I said.
“No ‘buts,’ ” he said. “I’m not going to let you miss this. Wear something cool. It’s supposed to be eighty today. Be downstairs with your gang at nine o’clock.” He hung up.
Gini’s bed was empty, and I could hear noises from the living room. I still wasn’t fully awake. I stumbled out there, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My friends were munching on muffins and sipping coffee, still in their pajamas.
“Jan, welcome to the world,” Gini said. “I thought you’d sleep until noon after your late night with Alan.”
“Yeah, tell us about it,” Pat said. “Gini said he took you to some private club with a bed upstairs or something. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” I said. “But right now you have to get dressed.”
“What’s the rush?” Tina said. “I was going to relax and then go to the Pompidou. They’ve got a whole retrospective of Lichtenstein’s paintings—a hundred of them. That museum is fascinating. Lots of standing sculpture you can go inside of. Those escalators with glass arches over them. The whole place is unusual.”
“Yeah, and I’m getting my hair cut at this place Suzette told me about,” Mary Louise said. “She said there’s this young guy there from South Africa who makes you look like a whole new person. A French person. I want to go home looking French. George will go wild.”
“If he even notices,” Gini said.
“Come on, Gini,” Mary Louise said. “He’s not that bad. Why don’t you come with me? You could use a new look. Alex would notice. He notices everything.”
“You can do all that stuff another day,” I said, beginning to come alive after a gulp of coffee. “Wait till you hear,” I said, my enthusiasm making me speak faster and faster. “Alan is taking us all in his limo to Giverny to see Monet’s house and his gardens. He’s picking us up at nine. It’s supposed to be gorgeous, and he says we can’t go home without going there, and he’s giving us breakfast in the car and . . .”
“Giverny!” Gini interrupted. “Oh, wow, you guys. It’s fantastic. I wanted to go there this week, but there were so many other things to see. I didn’t feel like taking the train all the way up there and then the shuttle, but this is incredible, Jan. You must have really impressed him last night.”
“If he was that impressed, he would have just asked me to go with him alone,” I said. “But he wants all of you to come too. Can’t imagine why. You’re such a boring group.” Mary Louise hit me with her pillow. “So what do you say, gang? I’m going, but it will be much more fun with all of you there too. Say you’ll go.”
“A limo, you say?” Tina said.
“A limo that comes with croissants and coffee and hot chocolate,” I said.
“You’re on,” Tina, our decision maker, leader, and official voice of the Happy Hoofers said. “Who wants the shower first?”
We managed to shower, dress in the lightest-weight tops and skirts we had, and appear at the door of the building just as Alan’s limo pulled up.
He jumped out, smiled broadly when he saw us standing there, and opened the door for us to get in.
“You’re all sensational,” he said. He kissed my cheek as I climbed into the car.
Amazingly, there was enough room in that limo for all of us to be seated comfortably. As promised, there were little trays with a croissant and a cup for each one of us. Alan introduced us to François, the chauffeur, and then said to him, “To Giverny, François, s’il vous plait.”
We crept through rush-hour traffic in Paris that’s ten times worse than New York because of the traffic circles, which slow everybody down. After we hit the open road, we sailed along in Alan’s limo, which rode so smoothly we could have been on a magic carpet.
When we arrived at Monet’s house an hour later, Alan told François he would call him when it was time to pick us up. He shepherded us into the garden, and the woman in the ticket booth waved us through. “Take good
care of these ladies,” Alan said. “They’re very special.”
The woman made it clear she would do anything Alan asked her to. He seems to have that effect on people.
“I have to make a couple of phone calls,” he said to us. “I’ll find you later and take you to lunch. Enjoy.”
It was as if we had stepped into another world. A world of flowers and trees, shrubs and archways, ponds and water lilies. Narrow paths wound in and out of tulips, irises, daffodils, daisies, hollyhocks, and poppies. No mingy little patches of impatiens and asters. Everywhere you looked there were flowering shrubs and overhead roses winding lushly around iron arches. Weeping willows bowed gracefully down to touch the pond, and there was an exquisite little Japanese bridge over it. When we stood on it we were surrounded by lilac trees blessing us with their perfumed flowers. Gini took a picture of all of us on the bridge.
We followed the path through a tunnel under the road to a pond filled with water lilies. Not just the skimpy little white lilies I was used to but three or four nestled together. Some pink, some salmon, some yellow mingling with the white ones. All around us more trees, shrubs, flowers, so thick you felt like you were in a scented forest. I wanted to stay there forever.
Gini hadn’t stopped photographing this wonderland from the moment we got there, but she stopped, looked up, focused on us, and said, “You have to see Monet’s house. Come on, I’ll take you there.”
I didn’t want to leave this flowery Eden, but I was also dying to see Monet’s house. We wound our way back through the tunnel, following the narrow paths to the pink brick house where Claude Monet and his second wife, Alice, lived from 1893 to 1926. One of the founders of the Impressionist school of painting, he has always been one of my favorites because of the light and sunshine pouring through his paintings, many of them done here in his own garden in Giverny.
Whenever there is a Monet exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, I sit there for hours basking in his sunlight. I was so grateful to Alan for bringing us here. Even if he was doing all this to get me into that bedroom at the club, at the moment it didn’t matter. I looked around for him when we got to the house, but he was nowhere in sight.