French Fried

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Jason called first and admitted that Mercedes had apologized for threatening him. When he said that he had accepted her apology, I was ready to hang up, but he added that he still insisted on her finding a new research director, after which she threatened him again. Dreadful girl! I wondered if there was any way to have her calls to him switched over here to me. I’d love to talk to her.

  Before I could explore that possibility, Jason detailed the rest of their conversation: the imminent arrival of her parents, who would punish him for the way he had treated her; Jason’s retort that she must be an embarrassment to her family; Mercedes hanging up on him; and his request that no more of her calls be put through. He was sure the whole conference would have heard and be laughing at his expense.

  “You poor dear,” I replied. “I’m so proud of you. If her father tries anything, I’ll be happy to tell him off. In fact, I’ll be happy to tell her off. In fact, I could stop by the hospital on my way to shop with Albertine.” Poor Jason. He was horrified at my plans to visit Mercedes and go shopping.

  “But, Jason, I intend to get a refund on the heels that broke and the dress that got torn because the heels broke.”

  “Good luck with that,” said my husband dryly.

  “Then, when I have my money back, I hope to find a shoe of the proper height, some capri pants to wear with my boot, and if not those, tights. The doctor wasn’t very happy with the idea of strapping the boot on over slacks.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, Carolyn, do what he tells you, and you shouldn’t be out shopping.”

  “He told me to walk, and I’m walking. It’s not too bad, but I need a shoe so I don’t limp and dislocate my hip.”

  “Good lord. Is that a possibility?”

  “I hope not, but Albertine mentioned it. And then if the shoe works, I’m going to the impromptu cathedral tour.”

  “Carolyn!”

  “Albertine’s driving.” I didn’t tell him about the papal gardens and the city walls. “And Bridget’s sending up food, so I’m not starving.”

  “Sweetheart, will you please be careful, and don’t try to do too much?” I promised and hung up. If my ankle hurt much, obviously I’d stop walking.

  I then called Lyon and asked for Inspector Roux. He was interested to hear about the bullet that had, happily, missed us, but saddened to hear about my broken ankle. “So you are back in the hospital? You are having many unlucky events, but you must not think that France is a—”

  “Goodness, Inspector. Don’t tell me how safe France is. Look what’s happening in Paris. They’re torching cars and nursery schools. I’d say that France is exceptionally dangerous. I hope you aren’t having problems in Lyon.”

  “No, no. Our minority youths are well treated and happier than those in Paris, and we keep our eyes open, as we do for whoever stalks you, although that person must now be in Avignon, so perhaps there is no need—”

  “That reminds me, Inspector. Another suspect has come to mind.” And I told him the story of the Bountiful Feast, the hijacking, and the hijacker who might be a terrorist and have sent his friends after us. The inspector was astonished at my ill luck and promised to consult with colleagues who tracked terrorists.

  Satisfied with his response, but not with the fact that the Avignon police had never contacted him, I watched a few more burning cars and buildings on TV and answered my door to receive a lunch of soup and a tuna-salad-filled croissant. Then I lay down and was awakened at one by the telephone. Bridget’s replacement informed me that a huge man named Monsieur Le Blanc was in the lobby asking to talk to me. What should she do with him?

  Martin was sweet to come by, but I couldn’t invite him to my room. I offered to come downstairs. After all, the French were given to thinking that everyone had affairs. No doubt, they thought that about my husband and Mercedes. I certainly didn’t want to give cause for gossip about Martin and me.

  When I stepped off the elevator, he was standing in the lobby holding a small bouquet of flowers and a large manila envelope. “I did not mean for you to meet me, madam. I would have been happy to talk on the telephone and leave these for you.” He was shifting from foot to foot and holding out the two gifts. “I just wanted to know that you were better and to give you my wishes for a speedy recovery. I should have gone with you to the hospital, and then to find—you will have heard—that a student of your husband had been shot and that I could not tell your husband of your accident so that he could be with you. Did he find you there, I hope?”

  “Please sit down, Martin. Aren’t you missing lunch at the palais?” He pulled a package out to show that he was not. “My husband did find me, but here at the hotel, and thank you for the flowers. They’re very pretty.”

  “I took them from a yard,” he confessed, and then blushed. A blush on a redheaded man his size was a sight to see, but I didn’t giggle. “The envelope, that is the important thing,” Martin added.

  “Oh?” I opened it and found a photocopy of a scientific paper not yet prepared for publication. The drawings of compounds had obviously been done by hand. “How lovely,” I said, wondering what he expected me to do with it. “Your research? I wish I could say that I’ll understand it, but at least I’ll cherish it for your thoughtfulness.”

  “Non. Your husband must read it. It is her research. He will understand when he sees it.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I replied, all the more puzzled. A bouquet for me and a photocopy for Jason? “Your professor’s research? How kind of her to send it.”

  Poor Martin now looked miserable. “She did not send it, but your husband will be—interested.”

  “I understand.” Of course, I didn’t. “I’ll give it to him tonight.”

  “That is good,” said Martin. “Do not forget.”

  I assured him that I wouldn’t.

  “You are walking. That is surely a miracle. Is it safe?”

  “The doctor advised it,” I replied. “I’m going shopping this afternoon and to the tour of the cathedral.” Martin looked so stunned at my plans that I couldn’t resist adding, “And then I hope to visit the gardens and the walls, which I so much want to see. I hear that the views of the river and the countryside are spectacular.”

  “You really must see these things?” he asked disapprovingly. “Then I must walk with you.”

  Obviously I’d gone too far. “You needn’t worry, Martin. I’m going with Albertine Guillot.”

  “I must go with you,” he insisted. “How would you climb the stairs? There are stairs. I will carry you, and you will not miss this important sightseeing.”

  “Well, Martin, what are you doing here?” Albertine asked, striding up to us.

  “I am going on your excursion, Madam Guillot. When Madam Blue cannot manage, I will carry her.”

  Albertine didn’t argue. She just said, “Well, it looks like we’ll be doing the whole tour.” She didn’t sound particularly happy about it. I had no plans to be carried about like a cripple, but accepted so she couldn’t back out. When I asked Martin to take the envelope and flowers to the desk for safekeeping until I returned, Albertine whispered, “I do believe that young Norman is in love.”

  “Not with me,” I replied without explaining my answer. Martin’s secrets were safe with me. I owed him, as my son would say.

  44

  A Perfect Afternoon

  Carolyn

  While Martin wandered around blinking at dresses and lingerie, I told the saleslady I wished to return the shoes and dress I had bought earlier. She examined them and pointed out the damage, which made them nonreturnable.

  “Ha!” cried Albertine. “You told her the heels would withstand stone streets, but look at them! The left one broke, causing Madam Blue’s ankle to break and her dress to be damaged when she fell.” Albertine then pulled the salesclerk aside for a conversation in French. Meanwhile Martin stopped inspecting ladies’ wear and towered over the combatants, scowling. At length the saleslady agreed to let me choose merchandise to repla
ce the value of the shoes and to put their seamstress to work repairing the dress.

  I was both pleased and puzzled until Albertine told me she had warned the woman about Americans, who loved lawsuits. She predicted that I would sue the establishment for the money I had paid, for my pain and suffering, and for my medical expenses, which were not covered by French health care.

  I’m not sure whether Martin’s immense, glowering presence or Albertine’s argument did the trick, but I was soon trying on shoes with heels of the proper height. I found one pair made of leather so soft they felt like bedroom slippers. And they were pretty. I wouldn’t mind wearing both when I had two free feet again. I also looked at cropped pants and had to settle for a pair with side lacings up over the knee. I’d probably never wear them at home, but at least I could pull them over my boot to try them on. And they had a matching top.

  My two-piece dress, at which the salesperson looked askance, my slip, one new shoe, and one old shoe were bundled into a shopping bag and deposited in Albertine’s trunk, the torn evening dress was left for remodeling, and we started toward another shop Albertine wished to visit. However, Martin objected and made me sit down to rest.

  It was there that Sylvie and Winston Churchill found us. While the dog sniffed my gauze-wrapped toes, Sylvie sat down to tell me about a restaurant, La Compagnie des Comptoirs. “I know how much you’ve been craving Japanese food, Carolyn, and they have sushi.”

  I couldn’t very well say that it wasn’t Japanese food I yearned for, but I was saved from disappointing her when Albertine arrived, listened to the description of the restaurant, and decided that the six of us should meet for dinner the next night. “Oh, very well,” said Sylvie. “But neither of us can bring our dogs, Albertine. They’ll squabble over Carolyn. I’ll make reservations. Rue Joseph Vernet, number eighty-three. We’ll see you at eight.” Then she took a picture of me sitting on the bench with Martin, who was being sniffed suspiciously by Winston Churchill.

  We stopped at a bistro so that Albertine could have lunch. I had a tasty dish of glacé and two pain pills, after which we walked to Albertine’s car and headed for the cathedral. Unfortunately, having a car didn’t help much because there were many stairs to climb in order to reach Notre-Dame des Doms. The other wives stared when Martin carried me into the church at the head of our group. It was horribly embarrassing. I should probably have stayed home, but the church was interesting.

  It was built in the Romanesque style in three different periods during the twelfth century, and then changed inside in the seventeenth century. Still, for all the fiddling with the old Romanesque architecture, there were lovely things to see, two fine chapels, one with frescoed arches dedicated to the Holy Sacrament and another to St. Roch with statues and lush ornamentation, not to mention a bishop’s chair with red velvet drapes and a pretty baroque organ above. I was, however, disappointed to hear that the huge statue of the Virgin on top of the bell tower was actually gilded lead, not gold. Of course if it had been gold, some conqueror would have made off with it.

  From the cathedral we went into the gardens, with their shady trees, flowers, lakes with swans, and naked statues, also benches, on which Martin insisted that I rest, although he had been carrying me every time there was even one step to climb.

  I thought maybe he’d become discouraged when Winston Churchill, who joined the tour with Sylvie, tried to bite his ankle, but Martin simply lifted his leg with the dog attached and flung it gently away. After that, Sylvie carried the dog, and Martin continued to carry me. Albertine was snickering, and the other ladies still staring, while the guide seemed distressed over the interruptions to her talk.

  And, oh, the views of the Rhône, wide and gray-blue, and of Avignon and the town and fort across the river. The ramparts were built of thick stone with out-thrust ribs rising to the walkways and crenellated towers. No wonder the French king could only take the city by siege and starvation. We could have walked down the long flight of stairs where the walls descended from the Dom to the bridge of St. Benezet, but I decided against that. The stairs were narrow and steep, and large as my Norman knight was, I did not want to put him and myself at risk.

  After all, Albertine and I had already seen the bridge, and Martin, although willing, did not insist. Given all the whispering among the ladies when he picked me up, his fear of having his sexual orientation discovered was now no longer a problem. No doubt they thought he was having a fling with me. Was that why he was so insistent on not letting me attempt any stairs?

  45

  The Telltale Research

  Jason

  “What’s this I hear about my wife being repeatedly swept into the arms of Martin the Norman?” I asked. “Now the conferees think we’re both having affairs with graduate students.”

  “Martin was preventing me from going up and down stairs.” She’d been lying on the bed reading. “Actually, I wanted to try stairs to see if I could.”

  “Then I owe the young man my thanks. Why did you think you could climb stairs wearing that boot?”

  “I could have if there’d been railings, and what’s your excuse for Mercedes?”

  “She was trying to keep me from being shot. You should be grateful, too. What’s this?” Carolyn had just handed me a manila envelope.

  She rolled off the bed and walked over to the door that led to our cement-walled patio. “Look at the sky, Jason. More clouds are gathering. I got a wonderful picture of the cathedral with that same sky behind it. Positively menacing.”

  “That reminds me, Bertrand and Nicole Fournier want us to meet them at La Fourchette. They say a member of the Hiely-Lucullus family runs it, but it’s less expensive and close by. They have reservations, but the way the weather’s looking, maybe we should stay here.”

  “L’Horlage doesn’t serve dinner, and we have umbrellas.” She pulled the drapes across the door as if hiding the sky would change my mind.

  I mentioned the danger of falling on wet pavement, damage to the orthopedic boot, which was undoubtedly going to cost us something excessive, and damage to her new shoe. Arguing with Carolyn didn’t work; she had plastic boots to cover her shoe, called downstairs to get a plastic garbage bag to tie over the orthopedic boot—evidently they liked her, because they sent one up—and then she promised to cling to my arm so that she wouldn’t fall.

  While I was picturing both of us falling in a heavy rainstorm, I examined the manila envelope, which contained a chemistry paper in its early stages. The drawing of the compound on the second page was so interesting that I immediately sat down to read.

  When the garbage bag arrived, my wife gathered clothes for the evening and went into the bathroom to tie the bag around her knee, thus protecting the boot while she took a shower. The paper described the synthesis of the molecule pictured, plus notes on possible medical applications for a dilute solution of the stuff. It had a French name with which I was unfamiliar.

  When Carolyn limped out of the bathroom a half hour later, looking very pretty except for the boot under her skirt, she announced that the garbage bag had been a great success, and she felt much better for having had a shower. “Sponge baths are very unsatisfactory.”

  My wife is given to frequent bathing, changing of clothes, and washing said clothes. “This is a fascinating piece of work,” I told her. “A compound I’ve never seen before with excellent medical applications when dilute enough to be nontoxic.”

  “Toxic?”

  “Of course. Why would anyone send me a paper that wasn’t about toxins? Who did the work, by the way? There’s no name.”

  “Martin brought it over, but it’s Catherine’s experiment.” Instead of sitting down, or putting on the shoe that balanced her boot, she stared at me anxiously.

  “Catherine’s? Then I look forward to discussing it with her.”

  “Jason, you can’t do that. I don’t think Catherine knows he copied it and brought it to you. You’d get him in trouble. What’s the name of the compound?”

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p; “It’s something in French. I don’t recognize the word, but it’s very strange that her graduate student would bring you a stolen copy of her research. Maybe you misunderstood.”

  “Maybe,” said my wife, and reminded me that I should take my shower if we were to arrive on time at the restaurant. She was right, and I went in, only to find the floor as covered with water as the floor of that bathroom in Lyon had been. However, this one had never flooded before. Still, I made no complaint, imagining the difficulties of showering while wearing a garbage-bag-wrapped orthopedic boot.

  When I’d finished, I returned to the room to see Carolyn staring at the screen of her computer with the research papers in her hand. “Jason,” she said, looking up, “this compound is tetrodotoxin.”

  I laughed and began to dress.

  “No, really,” she continued, sounding peeved. “I compared the drawing I downloaded to my computer to the one in the paper. They match atom for atom.”

  “Well, the positioning and bonds could make it an entirely different—”

  “Will you look? She’s the person who tried to kill us. She didn’t have to find fugu. She made the toxin herself.”

  I looked, and the molecules did match, but the idea that Catherine put fish toxin in our pâté—well, I didn’t believe that for a minute. “Two points, my love,” I said. “Well, three. First, you’ve decided that it was a terrorist. Second, Catherine wasn’t in Avignon when you were pushed down those stairs, and third, that research is medical in nature. The compound in dilute solution holds promise to relieve all kinds of pain—that of recovering heroin addicts, and intractable arthritis pain, for instance.”

  “Fine, Jason. Just promise me that first, you’ll keep away from her; and second, you won’t get Martin in trouble by telling her that he stole the research—he was trying to help us—and third, I’ll never forgive you if you talk to her about this research no matter how wonderful you think it is. I—well, I need to check some things out.”