French Fried

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “Poor Catherine,” said Albertine. “She’ll be very upset to hear that she’s been robbed, probably of family treasures brought to Lyon from Florence. We’d better call her right away with the news.”

  I couldn’t believe Albertine was more worried about Catherine’s possessions than my wife’s well-being. “Where did the ambulance take Carolyn?”

  “The woman doesn’t know,” Adrien replied. “I think we’d better call the police.”

  The woman said something else, and Albertine translated: “She called the police herself when she found Catherine’s door unlocked, but they said they doubted that they’d find the teens who committed robberies, that the stolen items had probably already been sold for a fraction of their value. What a shame!”

  “As if I care,” I snapped. “Obviously Carolyn’s right about someone being out to get us. There’s an Inspector Theodore Roux who’s looking into Robert’s death and the attempt to run me down. Maybe we can get hold of him. Ask the woman if we can use her phone.”

  Madam Ravelier refused and slammed the door.

  Instead we went to the police station, where I demanded that they find out to what hospital my wife had been taken and also that they get in touch with Inspector Roux and ask him to call back on Adrien’s cell phone. However, the local police felt they should ask me thousands of questions about our problems in Lyon; to most answers they expressed astonishment and said that the city was very peaceable, even their district. A few burglaries and robberies certainly, but very little violence. My wife must have fallen down the stairs, after which some boy had happened upon her and taken her handbag, or perhaps it had gone with her in the ambulance.

  And through all the questions Albertine was complaining that they’d never get another reservation if they didn’t keep the one they had.

  I wanted to strangle her.

  24

  Only One Visitor at a Time, Please

  Carolyn

  Why was he still in my room, saying, “Yes, I’m with her now,” and giving the name of a hospital. “She has the concussion, but her doctor says she will recover.” It occurred to me that the man who was after us, who probably thought he’d killed me, was in league with Inspector Roux. Now that he knew I was alive and where I’d been taken, he’d try again, and the promised guard would never arrive to watch my door. I opened my eyes and stammered, “How could you betray me?”

  Closing his cell phone, the inspector looked at me curiously. “Betray you, Madam Blue?” he asked. “That was your husband, who has been searching for you. You do not wish to see your husband? He is on his way and is most relieved to know that you are alive.”

  “Jason?” My voice wobbled. Was the inspector telling the truth? “You’re sure it was Jason?”

  “He said so. Who else would be looking for you, madam?”

  “The murderer,” I replied and burst into tears. My nurse bustled into the room and reprimanded Inspector Roux, who announced that he had to leave so I could rest and he could continue his investigation.

  “Is the guard outside?” I whispered to her, and she nodded. I was so relieved that I drifted immediately into sleep.

  The next voice to awaken me was Jason’s. “Sweetheart, how are you?” he asked, sounding very worried.

  “I hurt all over, my head and everywhere else, and if you say, ‘I told you so,’ because I went to Catherine’s, I’ll never forgive you.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

  “Mon dieu, Carolyn, there is no reason to weep. I have just questioned your doctor, and you will recover, although perhaps not in time that we can drive you and Jason to Avignon.”

  I couldn’t believe my ill luck. It was Albertine Guillot, right here in my room. She’d probably brought Charles de Gaulle with her. “Where’s the dog?” I asked.

  “If you mean my dog,” she said stiffly, “he is at home. Poor Charles de Gaulle has had a difficult year and is much subdued after being harassed by the police, taken to court, and sentenced to death. It was terrible.”

  “What color is your car?” I was not about to be diverted from the possibility that she was our attacker. Obviously she still resented me.

  “My car? What has my car to do with anything? My car is green.”

  “What color is Adrien’s?” Jason had been smoothing the hair away from my brow. “Stop touching my head,” I said, angry that he had brought the Guillots when I felt so terrible.

  “My car is black,” said Adrien soothingly. “What color is your car, Carolyn?”

  “Ah ha! Black! I knew it.”

  “My poor love,” said my husband. “You’re so upset.” Actually, he looked as upset as I felt. “Maybe Adrien and Albertine can come back tomorrow to visit.” I saw him give them a look, as if to say, “She’s not herself, as you can see.”

  All Jason cared about was his research proposal with Adrien. He’d never believe that the Guillots wanted to kill us. “Which one of you came back from Paris in the black car?” I demanded.

  “We both did,” said Adrien. “Of course, we’re so sorry to have missed the opportunity to welcome you, but Albertine’s mother—”

  “Oh, yes. Her hospitalization for syphilis.”

  “What did you say about my mother?” Albertine snarled in a voice so loud it hurt my head.

  “Only one visitor at a time, please,” said the nurse, who had evidently heard Albertine shouting and come to my rescue.

  Adrien grabbed his wife’s arm and, murmuring over his shoulder, “We’ll say good night now and let you rest, Carolyn,” dragged her from the room.

  “Carolyn,” said my husband in a firm voice, “close your eyes and take a deep breath. Your head injury, about which I’ll have to talk to your doctor—”

  “I’m not crazy. Didn’t you hear what they said? They both drove back from Paris in the black car. Probably Albertine poisoned the pâté before they left, and when they heard that we weren’t dead, they drove back overnight, and Adrien tried to run you down the next day.”

  “They came back this afternoon,” said Jason, “and invited us to dinner. Albertine made reservations at a fancy restaurant as soon as they got here.”

  “She’s lying. You have to call days, maybe weeks ahead to get reservations at a good restaurant.”

  “And what’s this about syphilis? That’s a terrible thing to say about someone’s mother.”

  “Gabrielle told me. Evidently it’s common knowledge.”

  “She said that today? On the church tour? Carolyn, can you even remember what happened today?”

  “Oh, go back to the hotel, Jason. At least Inspector Roux believes me.”

  “But darling, I can’t leave. I feel terrible that you’ve been hurt, and that I didn’t take seriously enough the threat you perceived, although I did ask you not to—”

  “You’re saying ‘I told you so.’ I knew you would. And you don’t have to protect me. The inspector gave me a guard. I just want to be left alone. My head hurts.” I sniffled.

  “Monsieur,” said the nurse, who was still in the room.

  Jason sighed and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he whispered softly.

  25

  The Angry Suspects

  Jason

  The Guillots were gone when I left the hospital. And I—so tired, worried about my wife, and disheartened because she’d sent me away—didn’t feel like being frugal. I took a cab to the hotel and blackmailed food from Yvette by threatening to contact the manager and demand that she be fired if it wasn’t provided. Scowling ferociously, she led me to the kitchen and arranged for a tray I could take to my room—two sandwiches, a limp salad, and a glass of wine poured from an unlabeled bottle. The chef apologized in person for the fare.

  I went upstairs with my “dinner” and found the telephone registering four calls—the Girards, the Doignes, Martin le Blanc, and the Fourniers, all of whom had been questioned as suspects in the attack on my wife. All were confused and angry. All demanded that I call back.<
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  I dropped my head into my hands, no longer hungry, just wanting to sleep, but I called. Bertrand Fornier seemed to think that he had been accused because he recommended that Carolyn order the gratin potatoes with the fish in butter sauce. “I realize,” he said, “that both dishes contain milk or butter, but when she said she had not yet sampled our wonderful Gratin Lyonnais—well, what could I do but be sure she did not miss it? And I was not, I assure you, in Old Lyon this afternoon. I took the afternoon off so that Nicole and I could choose the best restaurants to visit in Avignon.” I calmed Bertrand by saying that my wife, having suffered a concussion, probably had no idea what she was saying to the inspector.

  Then I called Catherine’s student, who thought Carolyn had reported him to the police for objecting to her remark about William Rufus. “I admit that I am inclined to seek the company of men rather than women,” he said, sounding anxious, “and that I do not want that discussed in the department. There are prejudices. Such gossip could ruin my chances of a faculty position after I leave Lyon. Still, I would not push your wife down Professor de Firenze’s stairs to protect my . . . private life.” I sighed and assured Le Blanc that neither Carolyn nor I had anything against homosexuals, and that my wife had been astonished, not angry, to find that she had offended him because of her interest in medieval history.

  Charles Doigne was very grumpy. He couldn’t understand what Carolyn might have against them, unless it was that they were Catholics. “Why would we push your wife down a flight of stairs? Especially Catherine’s stairs. We don’t even know where Catherine lives. She no longer socializes, and hasn’t since her husband’s death, after which she moved from their home to an apartment.” I apologized for the inconvenience they had suffered and began to wonder if any of these people would speak to us when we got to the meeting. If we got there. Obviously I couldn’t leave Carolyn in a French hospital by herself.

  Last I called the Girards. Sylvie answered, close to hysterics. “She thinks I poisoned the pâté?” she demanded in a high, trembling voice. “My pâté was delicious. I am not sick. Gabrielle is not sick. Even Winston Churchill is not sick. I gave him the slice with the fly stuck in it. Why would Carolyn think such a thing?

  “I have been driving her through Lyon for three days, taking pictures, which I am developing to make up an album so that she can remember her visit with pleasure. Of course the album is a surprise. You are not to tell her. Maybe I will not give it to her. I thought we were friends. Winston Churchill thinks he is her friend. If she felt ill and stumbled down some steps, it was not because of my pâté.”

  Thank God Raymond took the phone away from his wife and said, “Sylvie is upset.”

  “So I gathered. And Carolyn is in the hospital with a concussion and bruises and scrapes all over her body. I am sorry that Sylvie was distressed by the visit from the inspector, but perhaps you will understand that my wife is not herself when I tell you that she would not allow me to stay in her hospital room.”

  “She thinks you pushed her down the steps?” Raymond asked, amazed. “But I can testify that you were in the department. Poor woman. What does her doctor say?”

  “Nothing. He’d gone home before I left Carolyn’s hospital room. The thing is, Raymond, Robert died from eating pâté meant for us, according to the police. Their whole scenario sounds peculiar to me, but then the next day I just escaped being run down, and today—well, you can see that Carolyn might be seriously stressed at this point, and of course, she has a terrible headache.”

  “This is all very strange,” Raymond admitted, “but each happening could have been unrelated, not an incident pre-planned by someone who means you ill. Why would anyone? You didn’t know anyone here except the Guillots, who were in Paris. Has your wife accused them to the inspector, as well?”

  “God only knows,” I said wearily. “She and Albertine had words tonight when they came to the hospital with me.”

  “My friend, you need a snifter of cognac and a good night’s sleep. I do myself with my Sylvie in hysterics.”

  I’d have agreed, but I had no cognac, just the meal on the bed, whose salad looked even more pathetic than when the chef scraped it out of the bottom of a bowl. As I ate, it occurred to me that if Carolyn had been attacked, she might also have been robbed, in which case, there might be someone out there using our credit cards. I drained the last of my wine and called Inspector Roux, asleep after conducting an investigation that alienated everyone I knew in the city.

  “Monsieur, I do not investigate the snatching of purses,” he mumbled. “Call a local station if your wife—”

  “This is Jason Blue. I’m calling about Carolyn’s purse. The lady who sent you off to accuse everyone we know of attempted murder. Was her purse found at the scene of her fall? Or with her when she was brought to the hospital?”

  “No,” said the inspector. “Why are you worrying about her purse? The poor lady is suffering terribly, and without medication for her pain. Her handbag is hardly a matter for—”

  “It is if some thief has her credit card. Perhaps you can catch the person who attacked her by seeing if charges have been made on her card this evening.”

  “Ah, an excellent idea. My apologies, Professor. I was asleep.”

  “I wish I were.” I mumbled and gave him the information on the one card I let Carolyn carry when we are traveling. I carried our other card, and each of us had the numbers of the card we didn’t personally use. More cards than two, in my opinion, are too many, although Carolyn disagrees. She reads those endless offers and passes them on to me for consideration because of low interest rates or airline miles or money back at the end of the year. There’s usually something in the small print that makes them undesirable, even if I wanted another card.

  Having made what I hoped would be my second-to-last call, I then dialed the 800 number to report the loss of Carolyn’s card. Calling an 800 number from a foreign country is a problematic endeavor, but I did finally reach the Visa office and was able to cancel Carolyn’s card, which, it occurred to me, was not a bad idea. Without a card, she wouldn’t be able to make any shockingly expensive purchases when we got to Avignon—French shoes and clothing; expensive, heavy books on the history of the Avignon Papacy; shopping lunches in three-star Michelin restaurants she just had to visit for her column and which are, as she always points out, tax deductible.

  26

  Albertine, Bearing Flowers

  Carolyn

  Someone was in the room again. I kept my eyes closed, hoping they’d go away, trusting the guard would keep away nonhospital people. Not that I trusted the hospital. No wonder they kill so many patients. It’s not just the antibiotic-resistant bacteria. It’s the harassment. Here we are, ill and in pain, and they won’t let us rest.

  All night they’d been destroying what little relief I managed to find. Once they wheeled me out to x-ray my head, the results of which, beyond exposing me to painfully glaring overhead lights, I’d never know because no one thought to speak to me in my language. In the comforting darkness of my room, strangers would intrude to hold my eyes open and shine light at my pupils. No warning but the quiet voices, then the fingers on my face and the light that stabbed my brain and left colored circles behind my lids. Then came the blood-pressure takers, who strapped cuffs onto my scrapes and bruises and pumped in air until the tears leaked from eyes still afflicted with ghastly round and colored apparitions.

  Against the latest attack, I squeezed my eyes closed and hid my arms beneath the covers for protection, but this intruder spoke English and had a new errand. “Does madam need to vomit?” she asked. I said no. “Is madam just a bit afflicted with nausea?” she asked. What did she want? To stick her finger down my throat in an attempt to bring it on?

  “No? Then I have for you an omelet. Do you feel well enough to eat?”

  Without thinking it through, I opened my eyes, and then trembled with fear at what they might do to me upon seeing that I was awake and up to more tortures. But I
did her an injustice. She wore a kindly smile and behind her was not some frightening medical apparatus, but instead a cart from which wafted the odor of eggs, cheese, herbs, and perhaps mushrooms.

  “Come, let us see if you can sit,” she coaxed and slipped an arm behind my back. Sitting up was not so pleasant. My head whirled, and I did feel a bit queasy, but I wanted that omelet. I’d had nothing but sips of water since Sylvie’s picnic lunch. “Do you feel well enough to eat?” I nodded, a mistake. “You can have the killers for the pain now, as well as the omelet.”

  Oh, thank God, I thought and opened my mouth when she raised a fork full of golden eggs. Having borne children, I have been in hospitals where the food was disgusting enough to make you want to go home immediately. This omelet was so delicious that I could even forgive the nurses for speaking French, shining lights in my eyes, and bruising the bruises on my arms. The nurse fed me two more bites, and then, eager for more omelet faster, I took the fork myself.

  “Très bien,” said the nurse. “Can you swallow pills, do you think?” If they would drive away the pain in my head, which interfered with my enjoyment of the omelet, I would have swallowed pills the size of robin’s eggs. I accepted a pill, washed it down with water, and went back to breakfast. Ah the mushrooms, so earthy, and the cheese, which had melted in the most delightful way, flavorful and not stringy.

  “Do you think your chef would give me the recipe?” I asked, feeling so much better that I remembered my professional responsibilities.

  The nurse’s eyes twinkled, and she said, “If for me you will swallow one more pill, I will ask. No one has ever requested a recipe here. She will be amazed.”

  “No one has ever enjoyed an omelet here more than I,” I assured her and swallowed the pill so that I could continue eating while the dear, sweet nurse left to get me the recipe.