by Linda Kepner
“After I got my degree in hand, I flew from Logan Airport to Orly … ”
Bishou looked up to see Bettina standing at the door, upset. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, please, Madame, you have a visitor.”
“Who is it, Bettina?”
The housekeeper’s face looked almost tragic as she brought in a calling card and handed it to Bishou. She read: ADRIENNE BOURJOIS.
Chapter 10
It took a moment to register. A calling card, a very Parisian affectation. Who was this? Bishou knew that Celie, the mail-order bride who was murdered on her way to La Reunion to marry Louis, was named Bourjois — and Bishou had now heard from several people about a vengeful sister who felt that Louis’ seven years at hard labor had not been payment enough for his part in that crime. “Adrienne Bourjois. Oh, Lord.” Bishou stood. Her face grew stern. “Thank you, Bettina, I will handle this. Where is she?”
“I showed her to the salon, Madame,” said Bettina anxiously. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did right. Return to the kitchen. I may ring for coffee in a while, or not.”
“Oui, Madame.”
Bishou climbed down the stairs, letting her heels clack, while Bettina stepped softly behind her. At the bottom, Bettina hurried to the kitchen while Bishou walked to the front room.
In a straight-backed chair sat a Parisian woman perhaps ten years older than Bishou, dressed in black. Her sharp-featured but nonetheless pretty face was directed at the entryway to the salon, and at Bishou. Her disapproval of everything about Bishou was palpable.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bourjois,” said Bishou, sitting in the chair near her. “What may I do for you?”
“Do for me!” she exclaimed angrily, pulling a newspaper clipping from her purse and flapping it at Bishou. “How can you contribute to such a disgrace?”
Bishou didn’t need to see the clipping. She knew what it was, the announcement of their marriage in the Parisian newspaper. There had been a larger article in the Journal de l’ Île, more of a feature, rehashing the scandal of Louis’s first marriage yet somehow kindly done. There had been a nice photograph in both. The Paris Gazette, loving its little bit of scandal, had picked up Louis’s name for a wedding announcement — probably just to see what it would stir up. Well, here was what they stirred up.
“Are you such a fool that you don’t know that you have married a murderer, or do you believe somehow that he is innocent of all the atrocities of which he was accused?”
“Neither. But I do believe he was as much a victim of Carola Alese as your poor sister.”
The noise she made was one of disbelief and fury. “My sister Celie is dead because of him!”
“He did not murder your sister.”
“He found out how she died — and he condoned it! He and I were supposed to share all costs in finding the criminal when she killed my sister and absconded with his money. He found her first, and killed our detective so he would not report to me! And then he took the murderess back, and treated her as his wife.”
“And she finished ruining him,” said Bishou steadily, “and left him for dead.”
“And he forgave her and ran away with her again!” Mlle. Bourjois almost screamed.
“He was a fool,” said Bishou. “You know he paid for that foolishness.”
“He did not pay enough,” Adrienne Bourjois said furiously. “Seven years, and they let him go! I testified against him. Again and again I wrote the Ministry of Justice, insisting that they make him pay for his crimes. And they released him! And now, you marry him, as if nothing ever happened!”
“Not true. Neither he nor I believe that.”
“You are mad to marry him! He will find some way to kill you, you fool, and make it look like an accident! Don’t tell me you love him. I have Celie’s letters, where he speaks of love, and how many ideas they have in common. How he was looking forward to meeting her, what dress size did she wear and he would order the dress! Send a ring size, please! How he would meet her at the ferry, and he even had her photograph! Where did she end up? Over a ship’s rail! What an accident! What makes you think you will be any different?”
“I can try to persuade you,” said Bishou. “Will you have coffee with me?”
The true offended Parisian look. “Nothing in this house passes my lips. It would be poison.”
Bishou sighed. “Mademoiselle Bourjois, I expected you to come here. I wanted to meet you. I hoped we could talk, and perhaps you could even find it in your heart to forgive Louis, just a little.” At her snort, Bishou said, “Yes, I understand there is no forgiveness in your heart. I hoped there would be. But if you think there is no justice in the sentence Louis served in prison, at hard labor, and his status now, as a convicted felon, I don’t know what would satisfy you. I will say, however, that God has been more merciful; Louis is completing his penance to be allowed back in the Catholic church.” Bishou’s voice gentled. “I understand that you and Celie were alone in the world — that this was an exciting, exotic adventure for her. It was for me, too; I understand what Celie must have felt. But I learned from her mistakes, I admit. I told no one where I was going, and I stayed away from low railings on the Mauritius Pride. But you were left alone.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Adrienne Bourjois snarled. “You married him for his money, the same as the others.”
“As a matter of fact, I did not,” Bishou replied. “I am a teacher and I make my own living.”
Mlle. Bourjois was saved the effort of replying to that statement by Bettina walking past the entryway to open the front door, and the sound of male voices. Bishou waited.
Andy and Gerry trooped in, kissed their sister, and sat on the couch. She could hear Bat dragging over a chair. She turned her head enough to see Louis from the corner of her eye. He walked into the room and took a good look at their guest. His knees gave out. He sank down on the nearest chair, white-faced, while Adrienne Bourjois glared at him.
They had come in boisterously, but Bat realized something was wrong. “Bonjour, Madame,” he said to the guest. “We are sorry to interrupt your conversation.” He glanced at Bishou interrogatively.
“Mademoiselle Bourjois, permit me to introduce my brother, Jean-Baptiste Howard,” she said woodenly. “Bat, this is Adrienne Bourjois, the sister of the first Mme. Dessant.”
“Carola’s — ?” Bat appeared puzzled.
“Non. Celie’s sister. Practically speaking, please remember, I am the third Mme. Dessant.”
“Ah,” was all Bat said. However, he did an odd thing before he sat down — he dragged his chair into line between the visitor and Louis.
Louis, pale and silent, sat on a chair beside the doorway. Bat glanced at him, then at Mlle. Bourjois.
“You criminal!” she hissed at Louis. Louis remained silent.
“Please explain to me what happened,” said Bat. Bishou recognized that tone — the tone of the Sergeant-Major with a new casualty washed ashore on his doorstep.
“My poor little sister, Celie, all excited with her correspondent, a man who worked for Dessant Cigarettes,” Adrienne Bourjois hissed. Her eyes narrowed. “Trading letters back and forth, hers I still have — from that man! That man, who lied about his position, and did not tell Celie he was the owner of the business. That man, who learned that my poor sister had been murdered — and let the murder stand!”
“Hadn’t I heard somewhere that he had been deceived and robbed, himself?” asked Bat, in the same neutral tone.
“He married the criminal — and then stayed faithful to her! Not to Celie, my sister! To the murderess and thief! He betrayed not only my sister, but me as well!” she raged. “I came here at his request — saw the photographs of the woman he married, saw it was not my sister. I saw Celie’s unopened trunk — unopened because the criminal had no key for it, and would not dared to have opened it, anyway! Then he pretended to hire a detective with me, and killed the detective, so that he would not report to me!”
/> The calm look on Bat’s face told Bishou that he had already discussed this with Louis. “What did you do then?” Bat asked.
“I notified the Sureté, through the Paris police,” she said righteously. “It took the police another year to find them — but they did, in the Ardennes. And that vicious, evil woman got her just reward, a bullet in her head, fired by her own hand, so that she would not face the crime of murder!” Louis’s gaze flashed up at those words, but he remained dumb.
“Why do you think Monsieur Dessant didn’t do the same?” asked Bat reasonably.
“He’s still alive, is he not? He has been given back his life and his money, has he not? Now he thinks he is free to live his life as if my little sister had not died for him!” The angry quaver in her voice was certainly genuine.
Suddenly, Andy interrupted. “Are we doing an intervention?”
Bishou stared at her adolescent brother. It had not even occurred to her. But she answered, even before Bat. “Yes, we are.”
Adrienne Bourjois glared at her. “What is that?”
Bat slid easily into the conversation. “I am a soldier, Mademoiselle, a veteran of the American wars in Vietnam. Soldiers or their families often come to my house with problems. The problems may be alcoholism, drug addiction, mental illness, or an unforgiven sin. Very often, there is an angry confrontation. Like this one. So we try to talk it out, find a common ground, and make a new start.”
“I don’t want a new start!” she said angrily.
“Very likely,” Bat agreed evenly. “But what I want is to keep you from shooting Louis Dessant with the gun you have in your purse.”
Quicker than thought, she reached into her purse and pulled out a gun. Bishou was as paralyzed as everyone else in the room.
Mlle. Bourjois stood suddenly and shot.
Bat spun in his seat as the bullet rushed past his ear. A glass vase exploded beside Louis as he flopped forward in his chair to avoid the bullet.
Gerry Howard, all of eleven years old, grabbed her elbow. She fought him off. Another shot hit the ceiling.
Bishou was there in an instant. She wrestled the gun from Mlle. Bourjois’s fingers, dropped it in the purse, and passed it to Gerry. He took off for somewhere, outside, like a linebacker heading for the goalposts.
“Do you think that’s a good idea, before the children?” Bat asked mildly.
Louis spoke, in a hoarse voice. “For God’s sake, Bat, if she is going to kill me, get out of the way. I don’t want you hurt.”
Just as evenly, Bat said, “Andy, keep Louis in his chair. Sit on his lap if you have to. You’re heavy enough.”
“Yes, sir,” said Andy, standing in front of Louis, facing him.
The two housekeepers stood in the archway, terrified. “Monsieur!” Bettina wailed. “What is happening?”
“Non, it’s under control,” said Bishou. “Bettina, Madeleine, return to the kitchen, please.”
“Non, non,” Madeleine protested. “If Monsieur Dessant is in danger, we stay here.” The two women moved to either side of Andy, effectively barricading Louis from the rest of the room.
Bishou’s voice was hard. “Don’t you think that I could fold up Adrienne Bourjois into a little pile if I wanted to? But I don’t want to. Now. Return to the kitchen, please. There will be no problem.”
“Oui, Madame Dessant,” said Bettina. They left reluctantly. Gerry reappeared in the doorway and came back to stand beside Mlle. Bourjois.
Gerry took her hand. “Please, madame. Sit down. I will stay here with you.” Bishou pulled over a chair, for Gerry to sit beside her. Gerry did not release her hand.
The woman’s gaze focused instead upon the boy beside her. Her anger faded. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”
“Non, madame. I will stay here with you.”
“Why?”
“Because Bat and Bishou both say that everyone needs a friend, no matter where they are. I will be yours.”
“Just like that?” Adrienne Bourjois’s voice quavered again. “Even though I almost killed your brother?”
“It didn’t happen, did it? Bat’s friends are all soldiers. They have all killed someone. You were just really angry.”
She sat down, Gerry beside her, still holding her hand. Bishou also sat.
“Will you — ” Bishou cleared her throat and tried again. “Would you care for some coffee, Madmoiselle Bourjois? If you truly think we are trying to poison you, Gerard will drink first from the cup, I promise.”
“Even though I hate coffee,” Gerry agreed.
Mlle. Bourjois’s lips trembled as she looked down at him. It might have been a smile. She might have been ready to weep.
Louis staggered to his feet. Andy tried to help him to the couch, but Louis shook him off. Instead, he came to stand at Bishou’s chair, within easy speaking distance of Adrienne Bourjois. In a tired voice, he told her, “You can see why I value them greater than gold. Adrienne, I am sorry. I can say so, now that the moment is past that you have tried to kill me. I didn’t want to die — but if your bullet had hit me, I could have accepted my death.” In alarm, Bishou rose from her chair as Louis sank down to the floor at Adrienne’s knees. “I did wrong. I am sorry. Please forgive me. Please, Adrienne.”
“That’s a categorical apology,” said Bat to her, neutrally. “Of course, if you really want to make him suffer, you can keep right on blaming him for everything that’s gone wrong. Keep him begging for mercy, and deny forgiveness to him. Not very Christian, but perhaps it would make you feel better.”
Adrienne’s tears fell. She stroked Louis’s hand, resting on the seat of her chair. “I’m a researcher, you know. We both were. Celie was so thrilled when she discovered you in Business Biography. She said, ‘Now we will be happy. There will be money enough, and a husband, and children. You’ll always have a place with us, Adrienne, and you can come and visit us at La Réunion. They say it’s like paradise.’”
“Louis said that with Celie’s death — not Carola’s — he lost the dream. To marry, have a family, have a good life. It was all gone, turned to dust,” said Bishou quietly. “He chased after Carola with a gun — very like you, Adrienne. And she told him, ‘All right, shoot me, I don’t care.’ That was when he found out he couldn’t shoot her.”
Adrienne swallowed.
“I was in love with the girl I met in the letters,” said Louis quietly. “Yes, we did have so many things in common. And when I met her — and she was so beautiful — she told me the photograph I had seen was a picture of her sister. She had been too afraid to send me one. Well, that was like the girl in the letters. I hadn’t a clue. My friend Etien, too, a wiser man than I, he didn’t catch on, either. He had seen her walking around Saint-Denis in places she ought not to be. She had kept him at arm’s length, my best friend. He couldn’t put it into words, but he tried to keep me from giving her joint rights to all my accounts, everything I gave her because I loved her and she was my wife.”
“How did you first come to wonder if something was wrong?” Bat prompted quietly. It was his “intervention” tone; Andy had been right.
Louis Dessant looked up from his spot at Adrienne’s feet. “You mean, other than the wedding ring that didn’t fit, and the trunk with no key? I got a registered letter at work,” he replied with a smile.
Adrienne’s tears fell thick and fast. “From me. Threatening him with a lawyer if he didn’t tell me immediately that my sister was safe.” She clasped his hand.
“I telephoned the house and told her to telephone you that she was all right. She said of course, and told me that evening that she had telephoned you and you were so relieved.”
“And she lied, of course,” said Bat. “Because she wasn’t Celie. Celie was dead. She’d killed her and taken her place. Adrienne — forgive me for asking — but have you ever really grieved for Celie? I mean, is there a gravestone for her somewhere?”
“Non. She died in the Indian Ocean, between here and Mauritius. No body was ever found
. My only sister. I have had nothing but my rage.” She did not ask forgiveness, but she continued to stroke Louis’s hand. “I suppose I should put a marker in our family plot, in Ivry.”
“Don’t you think the marker should be here, in the Dessant plot?” Bishou asked softly. “It would help to keep the tale alive. After all, she is the first Madame Dessant.”
“I couldn’t afford to come here to visit it,” said Adrienne. “I sold everything I had to buy the ticket — and the gun.”
“You didn’t buy that gun,” said Bat. “It looked like an old Mauser. Your dad’s gun, maybe? Was he in the war?”
“My uncle’s gun,” Adrienne admitted.
“Well, you should decide where you want that marker,” said Bat, “and plant it there. And grieve over it, too. You’ve never finished the job.”
“No, I could not. Not with the trial, and Monsieur Dessant’s imprisonment, and his prison hearings. I was there. I fought his release.”
“You were living on your anger,” said Bat. “Now you need to let it go.”
“Stay here for a while, Adrienne,” Bishou urged gently. “Stay. You say you have no sister. Nor do I. Why don’t you stay until the boys leave for Orly, and all go back together, at least as far as Paris?”
Gerry brightened. “Yeah! You can show us the Eiffel Tower. I want to see it.”
“I have climbed the Eiffel Tower several times,” she said, looking down at him with a smile.
“You can tell him how to do it at dinner,” said Bishou. “He wants to go sometime. You’ll stay here, of course.”
“Where’s your luggage?” Bat asked, standing to get it.
“I have no luggage,” Adrienne replied.
“Talk about passion,” said Bishou. “You came here with a one-way ticket and a gun, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Adrienne admitted, “I did.”
“You really expected to be in jail tonight, for murder,” said Bishou.