by Mary McHugh
I didn’t really care where Alan was. Once we stepped inside this house it felt like Monet used the same method of bringing light and tranquillity into the rooms that he used in his paintings. Everywhere there were floor-to-ceiling windows filling the rooms with sunlight.
The dining room, especially, was an ode to peace and beauty. The cabinets, a pale yellow, brightened one side of the room. A long table with a white cloth, flowers, and candles filled the center of the room. Windows looking out onto the garden were on the other side. You could easily imagine Monet and his friends Cezanne, Renoir, Pissarro, Sisley, Manet, and other Impressionists sharing this table, talking about art and music, travel and food, wines, everything. It was a room made for friendship and beauty.
Tina tugged at me to come into the kitchen.
“Look at this,” she said. “Wouldn’t you love to cook in here?”
Actually, there’s no place anywhere I’d love to cook in, but I didn’t remind her of that. Cooking just isn’t one of my favorite things. However, it was a kitchen that even I might want to hang out in. Hung on hooks along one side of this blue, cheerful kitchen was a long line of bright, shiny copper pots of all sizes and shapes. Under them was an incredible coal and wood stove that served up feasts the whole thirty-three years Claude and Alice lived there.
Mary Louise joined us, and I didn’t think she would ever leave this room. “I want that stove,” she said. “You can’t cook anything properly on a gas stove. With this one I could do miracles.”
“I’m sure George would love a bunch of coal in the basement,” I said. I managed to drag her out of the kitchen into the living room, where paintings by Monet and the other Impressionists hung side by side. One particularly lovely one was of Monet’s wife sewing in the garden with her little daughter nearby, both of them in blue dresses, flowers all around them, sunshine and serenity reigning.
There were more paintings by his friends on the narrow stairway leading to the bedrooms upstairs. One small room had exquisite black-and-white Japanese prints on the wall. The furniture was made of light wood, and large windows brightened each room. It was a house that fostered creativity and happiness. No wonder Monet kept painting into his seventies and eighties, even after the death of Alice, whom he adored.
I was admiring a sweet little lavabo with a basin and flowered pitcher in one of the bedrooms when Pat joined me.
“Isn’t this house amazing?” I asked her.
“It really is,” she said. “I’m getting hungry, though. Could we find Alan and take him up on that lunch offer?”
I wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t eat all day. I wanted to stay here in this house and these gardens that were the essence of Monet’s mission of bringing light and joy into a gloomy world. But Pat lives more in the other side of her brain. The practical, scientific, let’s-face-reality side. I have one of those sides to my brain too, but I always find it annoying. I forced myself to put myself in Pat’s place. She was hungry. She needed food. I had to find Alan and feed her.
I rounded up the rest of the Hoofers, and we squeezed down the narrow stairway and out the front door. Alan was standing there smiling at us.
“How was it?” he asked. “Are you glad you came?”
We all talked at once as we tried to tell him how much we loved this experience.
“Thank you, Alan,” I said. “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
“You can thank me properly later,” he said, hugging me. “Now how about some lunch, ladies? There’s a lovely little restaurant right across the street called Nympheas where you feel like you’re eating in Monet’s garden. And the food is superb. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect,” Pat said. The rest of us agreed, and we walked the short distance to the restaurant.
The host was waiting for us at the entrance. He greeted Alan warmly. Why did I have this feeling that Alan knew everybody everywhere?
“Ah, bonjour, Monsieur Anderson,” the host said as we walked through the rose-covered archway into the airy restaurant. “I have a table waiting for you and your très jolies guests out on the patio. Please follow me.”
The patio was a cool oasis with a table set up just for us. Thick branches of flowers bloomed around us on all sides. There was a perfect little arrangement of roses and lilies of the valley in a crystal vase at each place setting. The china was Limoges (I peeked), the silver exquisite. There were no other people on the patio. I felt like I was still in Monet’s house as one of his honored guests.
“Oh, Alan, this is divine,” I said.
“Wait till you taste the food. Josef,” he said to the waiter, “a bottle of cabernet and one of chardonnay, please.”
“Good choices for our food, sir,” the waiter said.
“The cooking here is Norman,” Alan said. “Very rich. Very delicious. Hope you’re all hungry.”
“Rich and delicious sounds exactly what I’m looking for,” Pat said, opening the menu, which was in French. “My French is a little rusty. Alan, would you translate?”
“I just tell them to bring me whatever is good,” he said. “I think this is a job for Gini. Janice tells me your French is so good even the French compliment you. They don’t do that often.”
“I thought it was pretty good,” Gini said, “until the other day in a shop I asked for something in French. The owner told me I spoke the language well and was I from Belgium. I lived in France long enough to know that wasn’t a compliment. Having a Belgian accent is like having a Jersey accent at home.”
“So translate for us, Miss Belgium,” Pat said.
“Here we go,” Gini said. “Our choice is a salad with smoked salmon and crabmeat, a salad with ham and magret of duck, fillets of pork with Camembert and ceps, or veal cutlet Vallée d’Auge. I think we need our waiter to tell us about these.”
Alan motioned to the waiter, who spoke perfect English.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“S’il vous plait,” Gini said. “Could you tell us what’s in these dishes? What’s a magret of duck, for instance? What are ceps? How do you make the veal?”
“These are Norman dishes, mademoiselle, which is probably why you’re not familiar with them. Magret of duck is breast of duck, but it’s not like the duck breasts you’re used to in the United States. These are breasts of the mulard ducks, which are much richer and browner than your duck breasts. They are excellent. The ceps with the pork fillets are a kind of mushroom. The veal cutlet Vallée d’Auge is also very rich. It’s made with calvados, apples, mushrooms, and sour cream. Delicious, but perhaps a bit heavy for a July day. Depends on how hungry you are.”
“Everything sounds delicious,” Tina said, “but I think the smoked salmon and crabmeat salad with a glass of chardonnay would be just right for today.”
We all chose either salads or open sandwiches to go with the wine, and I leaned back in my chair, totally relaxed and happy. How often can I say that? I thought. Usually there’s something nagging at me. I have to learn that new dance step. Will I be able to work with my daughter, Sandy, on the book about the Gypsy Robe without our fighting with each other? Do I really want to get married again? And if I do, do I want to marry Tom Carson? Should I go back to that club—and possibly that room upstairs—with Alan Anderson? Why do I have reservations about him? He’s generous and interesting, and he seems to like me a lot. He’s probably a skilled, exciting lover. What’s bothering me?
But right now, at this minute, in this lovely restaurant with my best friends all around me, there was nothing to worry about. I was content. I took a deep breath and exhaled contentment.
Tina was sitting next to me, and as usual, she noticed. Tina always notices. “Feeling that good, huh, Jan?” she said in a low voice while the others raved about their lunches.
“I’ll take this day home with me to bring out and enjoy when things get tough,” I said. “What is it about this place?”
“It’s as if Monet hovers over it all, including this restaurant, to
bring his vision of happiness to everyone who comes here. It’s in the air,” Tina said. “Did you notice they have a copy of a menu that features dishes Monet served to his friends? Things like rabbit pie, duck terrine, banana ice cream with lemon madeleines, tarte tatin?”
Alan heard her. “Wait till you taste the tarte tatin,” he said. “Then you’ll know true happiness. You’ll think you’re having lunch with Monet.”
As if this conversation, all light and joy, needed an antidote, Pat, our practical, face-reality, non-drinking Pat said, “So, Alan, who do you think killed Monsieur Fouchet?”
Gini, who had just taken a sip of her cabarnet, coughed, and a few drops of the red wine fell on the white tablecloth. “Pat!” she said.
“Well, it’s on all our minds,” she said. “And, Alan, you know these people better than we do. I just thought I’d ask. But if you . . .”
“No, no,” Alan said, “that’s all right, Pat. I’m sure it was someone from the Mafia—it’s the Albanian Mafia in Paris—who tried to get protection money from Henri, and when he wouldn’t give it to them, they killed him as a warning to whoever took over from him. Captain Chantal is looking into that.”
I felt the tension creeping back into my day of wine and roses. I wished they’d all shut up about the murder. I just wanted another sip of my chardonnay and another bite of my smoked salmon.
Alan stood up. “Excuse me, ladies, my phone is vibrating. I’ll be right back.” He left the table and went inside the restaurant to take his call.
The mood had changed at the table. Mary Louise tried to bring back the good feeling that existed when we sat down, but it was no use. Even the superb tartes tatin the waiter brought us didn’t work.
We ate in silence until Alan came back to the patio. His face was serious.
“We have to get back to the boat,” he said. “That was Captain Chantal. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, but she said we have to report to her right away.”
“Maybe she figured out who killed Fouchet,” Gini said.
“I don’t think so,” Alan said. “I got the feeling that there was something new. Some new development. Anyway, I’m sorry to drag you lovely ladies away from this place of serenity and peace, but the captain made it clear she wants us there as soon as we can get there.”
Alan asked the host for our bill. After paying, he led us outside to the limo, where François was waiting. We rode in silence back to Paris. How could this be happening to us again? I thought. All we wanted to do was go to wonderful places, dance a little, meet some neat people, eat some delicious food, and return home again, without any involvement with the police and serious crimes. Seems little enough to ask—but not for us, I guess.
Janice’s Fashion Tip: Knock ’em dead with your silver and onyx drop earrings at dinner.
Chapter 11
Speeding Through the Louvre
The traffic back to Paris was light, and we were at the boat by three o’clock. Captain Chantal was waiting for us in the main dining room. Suzette, Jean, Claude, Yves, and Ken were seated at a table in back of her. They were all subdued, quiet, except for Yves, who was drumming on the table with a couple of bread sticks. As usual, he didn’t seem to be part of this world.
The captain frowned at him, and he stopped.
“Please sit down,” she said to us. She was her usual pristine self in her police uniform, starched shirt, polished shoes. Gone was her glamorous image of the night before in black lace. I don’t know how she managed to look so cool in all those clothes in this July heat. Sheer willpower, I guessed. She nodded to Pat as we joined the others at their table.
“There has been another murder,” she said.
I gasped. Another murder? I thought she was going to tell us that they had found Henri Fouchet’s killer.
“Madame Fouchet was shot in the living room of her apartment this morning,” Captain Chantal said.
“My God!” Gini said. “I thought she was the one who killed her husband!”
“She still could be his killer,” Chantal said. “We don’t know who killed him. But it’s more likely that somebody wanted both Monsieur and Madame Fouchet out of the way.”
Captain Chantal opened her hand. She held a flat gold earring on her palm. It looked vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen it. Was Madame wearing it? Or maybe Suzette? Or one of the passengers? Where had I seen it before? It just wouldn’t come to me.
“We found this earring near the front door,” she said, holding it out so everyone could see it. “We’re not sure if it was Madame Fouchet’s or if the killer dropped it. Do any of you recognize it?”
No one said anything. Suzette bent down to pat her little shih tzu and fed him a couple of dog cookies.
The guys in the band looked numb. Finally, Jean spoke, his voice barely audible. “Captain, will this take much longer? I don’t feel well.”
“Not long, monsieur,” Geneviève said. “I know you have been through a terrible experience this morning. I just need to ask you a few questions because you were the one who found her. Did you talk to her before you went to her apartment? Did she say anything that might help us find her killer?”
“All I know is she was terrified that someone wanted to kill her,” he said. “You heard her yesterday. She thought there was poison in her drink. I asked her afterward why anyone would want to kill her. She said something vague about the same people who killed her husband would be after her now.”
“What people?” the captain asked.
“She said her husband got some threatening phone calls,” Jean said. “Something about the Albanian Mafia. I didn’t know what she was talking about. I thought the Mafia was Italian.”
“Not anymore,” the captain said. “One of the most powerful groups of criminals in the world today is the Albanian Mafia. They’re very powerful here in Paris. They deal in heroin and other drugs, prostitution, protection, everything.”
“She said they wanted her husband to pay them money every month or they would destroy him or the boat or both.” Jean said. “He didn’t take them seriously. He wouldn’t pay them. They killed him. She was afraid they would kill her next. And they did.” He bent over and covered his face with his hands.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Captain Chantal said. “We traced the calls that came in to Monsieur Fouchet’s cell phone, and all of them could be traced to legitimate sources. However, it’s unlikely that they would contact him by phone. They must have visited him in person. Didn’t any of you notice him talking to people you didn’t recognize?”
“He talks to people every day we’ve never seen before,” Claude said. “It’s part of his business. Salespeople. Tourists reserving the boat for weddings and bar mitzvahs. It could be anybody. I’m sure the Mafia doesn’t wear a label on their clothes identifying them.”
Captain Chantal glared at him. She was clearly skeptical of the whole idea of the Albanian Mafia killing both Monsieur and Madame Fouchet.
“And you, mademoiselle,” she said to Suzette. “You were a very—uh—close friend of Monsieur’s, n’est-ce pas?”
Suzette was obviously not someone who was thrown easily. “As I told you before,” she said, “he was my boss. I was a friend of both Monsieur and Madame Fouchet.”
“Then why did you want to leave those good friends to go to New York?” the captain asked.
“It is a great opportunity for me,” Suzette said. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York. Why is that so hard to understand? It has nothing to do with my feelings for Monsieur Fouchet. I liked working for him on this bateau. But it’s time for me to move on. To New York.”
“Did they try to prevent you from leaving to go with Monsieur Anderson?”
“Oh, you know. They asked me not to go. We were working it out.” She leaned over to give Pierrot some more cookies.
“Did they do more than ask you not to go?” the captain asked.
“There was something about my passport, I think.”
�
�What do you mean? Something about your passport?”
“I’m here on a visa from Algeria,” Suzette said. “And Monsieur Fouchet said he would prevent it from being renewed if I didn’t stay with him. That way I would have no papers to get to New York. But Alan was going to fix all that.”
The captain turned to Alan. “Monsieur Anderson, the Fouchets were opposed to you taking Suzette to New York with you to sing in your nightclub there. How did you persuade them to let her go?”
“It wasn’t easy, Captain,” Alan said. “I tried to make them understand how important this was for Suzette. They were both fond of her. They finally agreed just before they were killed. I’m grateful that I have a place for Suzette to go.”
“How fortunate for you that they agreed,” Captain Chantal said.
“Very,” Alan said. He was calm, composed, almost casual as he answered the police captain’s questions. What was it about him that bothered me? I couldn’t figure it out. He was the ideal man. Handsome, successful, dynamic, brilliant. Had I become so cynical about men that I couldn’t trust any of them anymore? No. Not really. I trusted Tom. I let it go.
“I will be in touch with you soon,” the captain said. “Monsieur Anderson, please do not leave the country until this matter is settled.”
“I was planning to leave at the end of the week,” Alan said. “I have plane reservations. I want Suzette to appear in my club as soon as possible. I’ve made all the arrangements. People are expecting her in New York.”
“I regret that I must ask you to stay,” the captain said, “until we have solved this crime.”
“Am I accused of anything, Captain?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “but I will probably have more questions for you.”
“You can’t keep me here. I’ve done nothing wrong.” Alan said.
Chantal’s faced changed, grew grimmer. “I think I can,” she said. As I said before—don’t mess with this woman.
Yves starting drumming on the table again until my friend Ken shook his head at him and he stopped.