Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities (A Happy Hoofers Mystery)

by McHugh, Mary

  Gini and I unpacked in the bedroom we would share. I plopped down on one of the beds to test it. It had the kind of firm mattress I like. There was no dresser, just a stack of baskets to keep our things in. No closet either. We would have to hang our clothes in the closet by the entrance door to the apartment. The mirror was weird—sort of wavy and distorted—but I checked and there was a good one in the bathroom and a full-length mirror in the living room. Not great, but you can’t have everything.

  I was grateful that I would be sharing a room with Gini. I like her. She always says what she means. That can be like a kick in the stomach at times, but I prefer her directness to Mary Louise’s attempt to find sunshine in every disaster that comes our way. I love Mary Louise dearly, just like I love our whole gang, but I need a rest from her sometimes.

  Tina and Pat shared the other bedroom. It was almost as bare bones as ours, but there was a dresser and a mirror that you could actually see yourself in. Tina gets along with everybody. That’s why she’s our leader. She’s travel editor at a bridal magazine and is the most organized of all of us. She’s the best one to deal with Pat’s never-ending search for flaws in every situation. Pat’s philosophy is that if you find things that need to be fixed ahead of time and fix them, you’ll never have any problems. I don’t think life works like that. Half the time disasters that you think are going to happen don’t happen, and even if they do, they’re never what you expected. They just land on you with a thump and you figure out what to do then. You improvise. Maybe because I’m an actress, I’m pretty good at improvising.

  It was ten in the morning in Paris, but my body clock was still back in New Jersey set at four A.M. I was jet lagged. I conked out on the twin bed in the room I shared with Gini. The last thing I saw before I drifted into sleep was the framed historic map of Paris hanging on the opposite wall. Oh, you beautiful city, I thought. For one week you are mine.

  We woke up ravenously hungry and headed across the street to The Select café for omelets and coffee or tea or hot chocolate for me. Paris bustled by us on this glorious morning in July. There’s something about sitting at an outdoor table at a café in Paris that is totally different from doing the same thing in New York. It’s more relaxed somehow. The other people at tables near us were sipping coffee in a leisurely way, talking to each other, reading the newspaper. None of them looked as if they were eating as fast as they could so they could get back to work before anyone noticed they were gone the way they do back home. It was my kind of place.

  “What time do we dance tonight, Tina?” I asked.

  “At 8:30, but we have to check in at our bateau this morning and find out who’s in charge, what kind of music system they have, what else we have to do,” she said.

  Well-fed and fairly presentable looking, we headed for the nearest metro. “Let’s get a carnet,” Gini said.

  My French is limited to “oui,” “non,” “bonjour”, “combien?” and “ou est la toilette?” so I asked Gini what a carnet was.

  “A booklet of metro tickets instead of one ticket at a time,” she said. “It’s much cheaper.”

  We checked the map for the nearest stop to our boat, bought a carnet, and jumped on the next metro. It was a lot cleaner than the subways in New York, but then, what isn’t? It was also a lot easier to find your stop because of the easy-to-follow maps everywhere in the system. I love New York, but their subway system could use a lot of help.

  Our Bateau Mouche was anchored a short distance from our metro stop. It was a long, sleek boat with glass windows all around the lower portion and an open deck at the top. Several other Bateaux Mouches were anchored in front of it. The river teemed with other sight-seeing boats sailing by during the holiday week in Paris.

  “Bonjour,” the woman behind the ticket desk said. “Je regrette, mais il n’y a pas un bateau cette apres-midi.”

  Even those of us who don’t speak much French understood that she was telling us there was no tour that afternoon.

  Gini explained to her in French that we were looking for Henri Fouchet, the person in charge of the bateau. That we were the Happy Hoofers, the entertainment on the dinner cruises for the coming week.

  The woman pointed to the ramp leading to the boat and told us to ask for Monsieur Fouchet when we boarded.

  We could hear the music as we walked onto the boat. Waiters were setting up the tables lining both sides of the boat, each one next to a floor-to-ceiling glass window so the passengers could see the monuments in Paris during the evening cruise that night. Each table had red, white, and blue flowers. Stuck in the middle of the bouquet was a little French flag with its wide blue vertical stripe on the left, a white band in the middle, and the red one on the right. There was a stairway leading from this enclosed part of the ship to the open deck on top.

  “Bonjour,” one of waiters said to us as we twirled a couple of times in time to the music playing at the prow of the bateau. You couldn’t help it. I couldn’t anyway. It was an Edith Piaf song, “Padam, Padam,” the beat so strong you had to move your body along with it. I was really getting into it, when Tina put her arm around my waist and led me toward the prow. “Save it for later, Jan,” she said.

  Four men were sitting on simple wooden chairs. One played a trumpet, one a cello, one was on keyboard, and the other on drums. They segued into a lively version of “New York, New York” and played even louder when they saw us. We linked arms and swung into a tap routine that showed off our bodies to their best advantage. Dancing is one of the best ways to stay in shape and we were definitely toned. We were wearing halter tops and jeans and sandals in the summertime heat. It was our kind of music.

  The men played faster and faster and we kept up with them. Finally with a triumphant blast of sound they ended the song and applauded us as we bowed to them.

  “Bonjour,” the man on trumpet said to us. “Vous êtes les Happy Hoofers de New York, n’est-ce pas?” He was in his forties, his hair rumpled, a stubble of beard on his chin making him sexy.

  “Oui,” Gini said. “Do you speak English? I speak French, but my friends only speak English.”

  “Of course,” he said. “We have to know English because a lot of our passengers are from America. Welcome. I’m Jean.”

  The other musicians introduced themselves. The drummer was young, in his twenties, his eyes bleary. His name was Yves. “Hey,” he said.

  Claude, the cellist, was the cleanest, with neatly combed, long brown hair, clean-shaven, and dark brown eyes that looked us all over and came back to me. He saluted me and said, “Later.”

  While the cellist and I were looking each other over, the keyboard guy grinned and said, “Where you from?” He was a little overweight but cute anyway. He had a mischievous smile and twinkly eyes, longish hair. Something about him made me think he wasn’t French.

  “New Jersey,” Gini said. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  “How’d you guess?” he said. “I was born in Brooklyn. I’m Ken.”

  “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  “A couple of years,” he said. “I’ll go home one of these days. But not yet.”

  Looking at him, I knew he’d never go back. Once Paris gets a hold on you, you never want to leave.

  “Is Monsieur Fouchet around?” Tina asked.

  “He should be back any minute,” Jean said. “You want to give us an idea of what kind of music you need? They just told us you tap dance.”

  “We thought we’d dance to the music made famous by a different French entertainer each of the five nights we’ll be here. Edith Piaf, Yves Montand, Charles Trenet, Maurice Chevalier, and Charles Aznavour.”

  “You’re really going back there, aren’t you?” Jean said.

  “Too far back for you?” Tina asked.

  “No, most of the people who can afford this dinner cruise are old and rich,” Jean said. “They come here for the music they remember from the two weeks they came to Paris when they were young. We can play that music wit
h our eyes closed.”

  “Allo,” a husky woman’s voice called to us. “You must be the Happy Hoofers,” she said with an adorable French accent.

  We turned around to see a slim, brown-skinned woman with short, dark hair and large brown eyes that dominated her face. She reminded me a little of Rihanna. She was wearing a sleeveless, flowery dress, carrying a blond shih-tzu with black ears. It was impossible to guess her age. She could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. She looked so French, I expected the band to strike up “The Marseillaise.”

  “Bonjour,” Tina said. “We are the Happy Hoofers. You must be Suzette Millet. You’re going to sing while we dance, right?”

  “Oui,” she said. “I will do the French songs from the fifties. First night, Edith Piaf? Ça va?”

  “Trés bien,” Tina said. “Will you do ‘Les Feuilles Mortes’? That’s my absolute favorite.”

  “How could I not do ‘Autumn Leaves’?” Suzette said. She put her little dog on a chair nearby and started to sing the song that I had heard many times about two lovers who separate and their love fades away like footprints in the sand. It always makes me sad to hear that song. It did so now listening to that voice that was an echo of Piaf’s. Strong, rolling her r’s, passionate.

  When she finished, she said, “But that’s too slow for you to dance to. ‘Milord’ would be perfect.” She sang it, first full-voiced and Edith Pi-afian on the chorus, then slower and sadder for the verse. We linked arms and time stepped and mini-grapevined to this story-song of a lost gentleman, comforted by a French woman of very little virtue but much compassion, as she invites him into her room away from the cold and loneliness. Shuffling and step-stepping we told the story with our feet and our arms and our love of this song, so French, so Piaf.

  “Great song, Suzette,” Tina said,” But let’s do that one second. I’d rather start out with ‘Les Grands Boulevards,’ if that’s okay with you. I love Yves Montand—that was his song. Let’s work out a program and we’ll practice on this stage, which is small, but big enough, I think.”

  “ ‘Les Grands Boulevards’ is absolutely parfait ,” Suzette said. “One of my favorites.” She looked up and her whole face changed, became livelier when she saw the man who had just boarded the bateau.

  “Oh, Henri. Allo, mon cher,” she said. She greeted a man with dark hair and sexy eyes who kissed Suzette on both cheeks. “Ça va, cherie?” he said. He was casually dressed in a white shirt open at the neck and black pants. Except for a slight paunch, he was in excellent shape.

  “Ah, the Americans have arrived, I see,” he said when he could tear himself away from Suzette. “Bonjour.”

  “Monsieur Fouchet?” Tina said. “I’m Tina Powell, and these are the Happy Hoofers who are going to dance on your bateau this week.” She pointed first to Gini, who shook his hand and rattled off a long paragraph in French that seemed to please him.

  “Your French is excellent, Madame,” he said. “Where did you learn it?”

  “I studied here when I was young,” she said.

  His attention shifted to me. His eyes widened. “And who is this?” he asked. I detected a little too much interest in his eager expression.

  “Janice Rogers,” I said, moving back a few steps before he could welcome me to the boat with a kiss.

  “Enchanté,” he said, kissing my hand.

  Tina had to prod him gently to introduce him to Pat and Mary Louise, who were trying not to laugh. They’ve seen this happen a hundred times, and for some reason, they don’t resent me for it. Pat once said to me, “Your looks are a fact of life, and we get more jobs because of it. Anyway, we love you.”

  “We are very pleased to have you with us this week,” Henri said, addressing all of us. “As you know, your first performance will be tonight, le quatorze Juillet. One of our biggest holidays. We have fireworks, celebrations, songs, dancing, and we fill every seat on the Bateau Mouche on this night. You will be the perfect entertainment.” His eyes fastened on me again. I thought I saw Suzette frown. She looked away quickly and hugged her little dog closer to her.

  “Tiens, tiens, tiens,” a low, rather growly voice, said. We turned to see a woman with a face that could only be French. Her complexion was flawless, her make-up subtle but perfectly applied to show off her blue-green eyes. She had a longish nose, high cheekbones, thin lips, and an expression that said, “I am here now. Don’t mess with me.”

  “Ah, chérie,” Monsieur Fouchet said. “Come meet our Happy Hoofers who arrived today. Hoofers, this is my wife Madeleine.”

  She did not smile, just looked at each of us as if deciding whether she approved of us or not.

  Tina took over in her graceful, charming way, holding out her hand to Madame Fouchet. “We are so happy to be here, madame,” she said. “We love being in Paris, and we are grateful to have the chance to perform on this Bateau Mouche.”

  Madame Fouchet took Tina’s hand and her expression softened slightly. “I look forward to seeing you dance,” she said.

  Tina introduced her to the rest of us. She paused before she shook my hand, her eyes appraising me coldly. “You are quite beautiful,” she said, surprising me.

  “Thank you, madame,” I managed to say. “That’s very kind of you.”

  She walked over to Suzette, kissed her on both cheeks and patted the shih-tzu. “Bonjour, chou-chou ,” she said, moving on to greet her husband.

  “Alors, Henri,” she said. “You are coming with me to arrange the flags on deck?” It was not a question.

  “Mais oui,” he said. “Mesdames,” he said to us, “You will be here by seven tonight? The guests board at 7:45, and our bateau sails at 8:30. We tour until eleven and then anchor near the Eiffel Tower to watch the fireworks on the top deck. Entendu?”

  “We will be here,” Tina said.

  Madame Fouchet glanced briefly at the musicians, I thought she looked a little longer at Jean the trumpet player, but I was probably wrong. She took her husband’s arm and headed for the stairway to the upper deck.

  “One more time,” Ken, the ex-pat keyboard guy said, smiling at me and swinging into “Aupres de ma Blonde.” Even I knew that meant “Next to My Blonde.” Things were looking up.

  Janice’s fashion tip: Unless you’re 16 with

  gorgeous legs, don’t wear shorts in Paris.

  Chapter 2

  Fireworks

  We worked out a routine with Suzette and the band and left the boat to explore Paris before we had to return to the apartment and dress for our performance that night.

  Mary Louise and Tina headed for the Champs-Élysées and shopping. “July is the best month of the year for sales,” Tina said. Gini wanted to take photos of the children riding the carousel in the Tuileries. Pat said she would find the nearest Jardin de café and watch the people go by. “Don’t worry, guys,” she said. “I’m only drinking lemonade.”

  Pat hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink for more than a year. We worried a little that Paris and all its wine would lure her back to drinking again, so we were relieved to hear the word “lemonade.”

  I wanted to go back to Montmartre to relive some of the memories of my honeymoon there with Derek. I hopped on a Metro, got off at Abbesses and walked up the steep, winding street that led to the Place du Tertres just below the Sacré Coeur.

  As I climbed up that hill, I remembered the day Derek and I made the same trek when we were in Paris on our honeymoon. It was a beautiful, warm day in June. We were holding hands and stopping to kiss every few yards. We were so in love. I met him when we worked together in a play off Broadway. He seemed to be fine with my having a little girl. It wasn’t until we got back home that he made it clear that he didn’t want her around.

  But on that day in Montmartre we were halfway up the hill, when some music drifted out of an open window. I think it was “April in Paris.” Derek took me in his arms and we danced right there in the middle of that little street. We felt like we were the stars of a romantic movie. I
thought we would be in love like this forever. I’ve learned that “forever” doesn’t exist in my life, no matter how much I think it’s going to.

  On this day, twenty-five years later, I was all alone. No one to dance with. No one to tell me I was the most wonderful woman in the world. No one to kiss me and dance with me in the middle of the street. I sat down at an outdoor table in one of the cafes and breathed in the feel of Paris. I missed being in love.

  “What would you like, madame?” the waiter said. He was a thin, dapper man with a carefully trimmed mustache.

  “A glass of white wine, please,” I said. “A sauvignon blanc.” And a mushroom omelet.”

  “Certainly, madame,” he said, smiling at me. “Right away.”

  I was totally absorbed in the scene in front of me. The square was surrounded by cafes and shops, with an outdoor art exhibit in the middle. I watched people poking around among the paintings, some pretty good, some not. Lots of pictures of the Sacré Coeur, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower. Souvenir paintings to take home. My table was close to the narrow path that circled the square so I could hear snatches of German, French, English, Italian. A man stopped at my table, blocking my view.

  “Want some company?” he said.

  It was Ken, the keyboard guy from the Bateau Mouche.

  “Oh hello,” I said, surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard you tell your friends that you were coming up here, so I decided to follow you. Do you mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” I said. And I really didn’t. He seemed like a good guy and I wanted somebody to talk to. “Come sit with me.” He pulled a chair over to my table and sat down next to me.

  “When I saw you from across the square just now, you looked sad,” he said. “Are you sad?”

  “Not seriously,” I said. “I was just remembering my honeymoon here.”

  He looked disappointed. “You’re married?” he asked.

  “Not anymore. I don’t have much luck with husbands. But the honeymoon was great.”