French Fried

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Even Albertine was tempted by my dessert and shared it while berating me for being a bad influence. I explained that I had subjected myself and my family all summer to salads and felt that I deserved a reward for now being able to fit into my size-10 clothes after a gluttonous spring cruise. Albertine said that sensible eating at all times was the key to keeping one’s figure. I didn’t pay her much mind since she ate as much chocolate fondue as I did. Charles de Gaulle sat on the floor looking hopeful, but we saved his life by refusing him chocolate.

  After lunch we drove by the Church of St. Martial, part of what had once been a Benedictine monastery. I particularly liked the ruins of the cloister, which housed worn statues in the arches and looked ready to tumble down—very scenic. I took a picture. Then we viewed Gallo-Roman foundations, part of a monument in Avignon’s Roman Forum, and finally we visited two museums, the Musée Lapidaire and the Musée Calvet, to see finds from local archeological digs.

  My favorites were a third-millennium stela in the Calvet, rather human, with a rough nose and long hair, two holes for eyes, a hole above the nose for goodness knows what, and eight chiseled lines radiating from another hole in the lower right section. There was no mouth.

  In the Lapidaire were a bust of Jupiter with frizzy hair and beard, as if someone had taken a curling iron to him and, best of all, a stone carving of a boat with a man and two large barrels being towed down the Durance river by two very gnomish peasants. Peasants are always depicted as short and stocky. I wonder if they were that short in real life, perhaps as a result of poor diet, or if they were depicted that way as a class distinction. At any rate, I’d enjoyed the lunch and the afternoon. I do love to sightsee, although doing it with my foot in an orthopedic boot destroyed some of the joy. Then from the museum to the hotel, Charles de Gaulle pushed his head over the front seat and rested it on my shoulder—shades of Sorrento, but this time he didn’t drool on my blouse. I was glad to be dropped off at the hotel, where I could prop up my leg and rest before dressing for dinner.

  Inspector Roux interrupted my nap by calling to tell me their antiterrorism unit knew of a suspect in Lyon with ties to a violent Indonesian organization, but that the man seemed to have left the city. I sighed. That certainly fit with the chief steward on the cruise, now incarcerated. He’d claimed to be Indian, but he was from Indonesia. His designated assassin was probably in Avignon, looking for another chance to kill us.

  “I’ve faxed a picture to your hotel. It’s blurry, but it will give you something to look out for. And I called Inspector Villon with the news, but unfortunately, he still thinks you shot the young woman at the palais.”

  “But haven’t they finished the gunpowder test.”

  “He says you probably washed the residue off. They’re still looking for the gun, which was a target pistol. He imagines you bought it as a souvenir and then had it fixed by a gunsmith so that it would shoot.”

  “Who’d want a souvenir pistol?” I asked irritably. “I have another suspect who actually is known to have used target pistols. But I haven’t any evidence against her beyond that and a bit of scientific information that can, according to my husband, be interpreted in a wholly unincriminating way.”

  “You think a woman is the culprit?” The inspector obviously, chauvinist that he was, considered a female assassin a peculiar idea, goodness knows why. Women have even gone into the suicide bombing profession in the Middle East. “Villon will never believe you unless there is jealousy involved,” said Inspector Roux. “Is she, too, in love with your husband?”

  “I don’t know why you’d say that, as if three women could not possibly be in love with my husband. Jason is very attractive. But no, she isn’t in love with him.”

  “Well, keep the eyes open for the man whose picture I send.”

  I agreed and called Albertine to tell her. “In that case, I must bring Charles de Gaulle tonight,” she replied. “You’re crippled, I certainly can’t overpower a terrorist by myself if we should see him in the restaurant, and the men will never listen to us.”

  I had to agree with that and with bringing the dog, although Sylvie would be furious. They’d had an agreement. I went downstairs for the fax, a dim likeness of a small man with a beard and a large nose.

  When Jason got home, I showed him the picture. He was pleased, thinking that the new lead meant Catherine was no longer suspect and he could talk to her about her fascinating research. I had to remind him that he couldn’t for Martin’s sake.

  “Well, he shouldn’t be passing around his professor’s work,” said my husband. “If I were the sort, I could publish it myself.”

  “Anyone would know, Jason, that you’d never steal a colleague’s research,” I said soothingly. “Martin was just worried about us. Give the paper back to me, and I’ll see that he returns it discreetly. Then she won’t know, and he won’t get in trouble.” Of course, that wasn’t what I had in mind. That paper might well be evidence if I could discover any other clues to implicate Catherine. I was finding it extremely hard to protect the two of us when Jason poohpoohed my hypotheses.

  49

  A Terrorist at Large?

  Jason

  Why the Guillots brought their huge dog I couldn’t imagine, but the poodle sat between us in the backseat and stared wistfully at Carolyn. Bad enough to have Pierre and Martin mooning over her, but the dog was the last straw. And she complained about Mercedes! If I was lucky, Mercedes was already on her way to Mexico City, that is if she and her parents hadn’t been held up by rioting in Lyon and Paris. This wasn’t the most felicitous time to hold a meeting in France, but then my colleagues couldn’t have predicted a sudden onset of car and school burnings. The scenes on TV before we left the hotel were upsetting, especially since we, too, had to pass through Lyon and Paris to get home.

  The restaurant was a stone building with an interior courtyard furnished with a pool, palms, tables, chairs, and brightly colored lanterns, none of which we could enjoy because the weather was cold and blustery. On one side of the courtyard was a green plastic bar with white leather chairs and low tables, under which one obviously couldn’t fit one’s knees. I fervently hoped no one wanted a drink before dinner.

  Happily, we were shown to a long room on the other side. It looked out through Roman arched windows on the courtyard. Inside it was rather dark, but not so dark that Sylvie didn’t immediately spot the dog and complain that Albertine had broken some agreement.

  “Charles de Gaulle is here to protect Carolyn and Jason against a terrorist from Lyon,” Albertine retorted.

  “Who followed them to this restaurant?” demanded Sylvie, who obviously didn’t believe a word of it. Adrien and Raymond both chuckled.

  Carolyn’s explanation was delayed when a tall waitress, who looked and dressed like a gypsy, accosted us at our table, and we had to try to read our lengthy menus in the dark.

  My wife ordered something called Cocotte des Legumes, which irritated Sylvie. “I found this place so that you could have Japanese food. Aren’t you going to order any?” she demanded. Then when Carolyn looked mutinous and insisted on her legumes, Sylvie added that Madam Blue would also have sushi. The gypsy asked what kind, and Sylvie said, “How should I know? I don’t eat Japanese food. Just bring her some.” Carolyn went on to order lamb chops, which brought more grumbles from Sylvie. I assumed that Raymond’s wife was still angry at being fingered by mine as the staircase mugger.

  The rest of us ordered without disagreement until Carolyn realized that I’d chosen a steak from a “fighting bull.” “You’re going to eat some poor creature that was stabbed in a bull ring?” she exclaimed.

  “In southern France we don’t kill the bulls in the ring,” said Raymond. “They’re sent in with a white cockade fastened between the horns and thoroughly irritated by men trying to steal the cockade with hooks.”

  “If you can get beans in black truffle sauce,” I retorted, “I don’t see why I can’t try bull with truffle slices.”

 
As soon as she heard that the bull came with truffles, she relented and informed me that Provence produced more and better truffles than any place in the world. “Did you know that the Romans ate them like sweets at theater performances, and opera goers in the eighteenth century ate them between acts?” I hadn’t, and I must say that her legumes looked and tasted wonderful. She gave me a bite. During the first course, Raymond bemoaned the fact that he could have become an aeronautical engineer in Toulouse and made big money.

  “You don’t like chemistry?” Carolyn asked, as she lifted a truffle-bedewed snow pea to her mouth.

  “I love chemistry. However, I have a wife who loves expensive, dagger-toed, high-heeled shoes and boots. No young chemistry professor can afford a wardrobe of such high-priced footwear.”

  “And high heels are dangerous,” Carolyn agreed. “Were you named after one of the famous Raymonds in the history of Toulouse?”

  “I certainly hope not. One of them gave up Toulouse to the French king without a fight. I once asked my father if he’d been named after the man who let Paris take us over, but he wouldn’t talk about it.”

  Everyone had to sample the plate of sushi because Carolyn ate only one piece. She was too delighted with her truffled beans and vegetables to be diverted by something she could get in El Paso. The sushi did look like some I’d had at a place not far from our house.

  A busboy arrived and snatched up our plates, while our gypsy swished over to serve the entrees. The meat of a fighting bull, in case you’ve never had it, is very different from ordinary beef. I can’t quite describe it and am not sure to this day that I really liked it, but it was certainly unusual, and the truffles and vegetable flan were excellent. In fact, the menu and our table were full of vegetables and fruits.

  We were all eating healthfully when I spotted a new diner being led to a table. He was by himself and looked familiar in the dusk of the dining room. I squinted, and just then, as he picked up his menu, he turned his head and looked back at me. Good lord! I dropped my eyes and asked my wife in a whisper if she’d brought the fax. Speechless and wide-eyed, she fumbled in her purse, and we studied the bleary picture while I told her to glance discreetly toward the man at the next table.

  Carolyn’s eyes went back and forth between diner and picture, after which she exclaimed, “It’s him.” Then in a whisper, “Albertine, look. It’s him.” She passed the fax to Albertine, who studied it, turned to study the diner, and then passed it to Adrien with a whisper.

  “Perhaps,” said Adrien.

  “I think it is,” said his wife.

  “So do I,” said Carolyn. “Look at the beard and the nose.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sylvie demanded. Just then the man looked over at our table again and scowled. Albertine narrowed her eyes and snapped her fingers; Charles de Gaulle popped up from his resting place half under the table; then Albertine whispered in French and pointed straight at the man. The only word I understood was “Carolyn,” but the dog launched himself at the man, knocked him off his chair, and, growling, planted two paws on his chest.

  Bedlam ensued.

  50

  The Terrorist, the Police, and Martin

  Carolyn

  Charles de Gaulle let out a deep, hoarse growl and bared his teeth, while I watched the little man anxiously to see if he was going to pull a gun. Instead he shouted for help, restaurant employees converged on the scene, and the maitre d’ demanded that the “wretched” dog be removed from both Monsieur Dubois and the restaurant. Albertine thrust her face into the maitre d’s and declared that her dog was not wretched, and that he had just captured an Indonesian terrorist who was here to assassinate two members of her party.

  “Monsieur Dubois is a wealthy industrialist from Toulouse who dines here frequently,” said the gypsy.

  “Show them the picture, Carolyn.” I obeyed, but without taking my eyes off our captive. He was still pinned down by Charles de Gaulle and shouting in French—something that evidently upset the restaurant staff. “He says he will never come here again. He will sue the restaurant and all of us. He is a man of great importance in France and unused to being treated like a criminal,” Albertine translated. Then she turned to the maitre d’ and demanded that he call the police.

  Having studied the fax and the valued customer, the maitre d’ shrugged. He didn’t see a resemblance. The little man, still flat on his back, insisted that the police be summoned to arrest us. That call was made, and Charles de Gaulle removed from the chest of the furious diner. I was beginning to think we might have made a mistake.

  Then, worse luck, Inspector Villon arrived. He actually knew the industrialist and scoffed at the idea that Monsieur Dubois could also be a terrorist with Indonesian connections. “If there is a criminal here, it is you, madam, my chief suspect,” the inspector said to me. “Gunshot residue can be washed off. I have applied for permission to search your hotel room and your luggage. You are under surveillance so that you cannot dispose of the pistol, and you may not leave Avignon until the case is solved.”

  “I have been subjected to this indignity at the word of a criminal?” cried Monsieur Dubois, trying to brush black dog hair off his gray suit.

  I passed him the fax. “Don’t you think this looks like you? It’s the picture of a terrorist sent to me by an inspector in Lyon.”

  “We can’t stay in Avignon indefinitely,” protested my husband. “We have tickets home in a few days.”

  “You may leave, sir,” said the inspector. “Your wife may not.”

  Monsieur Dubois was staring at the fax. “How can this be? I am not a terrorist. What is the name of the inspector in Avignon? I insist that he does not spread my picture about under the guise of combating violence.”

  “At least you understand why we thought you were—”

  “I do not understand. I am an innocent industrialist with high political connections, and that lady—” He pointed accusingly at Albertine. “—instructed her dog to attack me.”

  “Ah ha!” snarled Inspector Villon. “We must confiscate the dog.”

  I thought Albertine was going to attack the inspector, but finally the multifaceted argument was settled, if not amicably, at least without anyone going to jail, including Charles de Gaulle, who, once removed from the industrialist’s chest, stood guard at my side while people shouted at one another. He evidently did consider himself my knight in shining—well, if not armor, then fur.

  Jason explained at length our trials here in France. Albertine explained that the dog loved me and wished to protect me. The inspector doubted that a dog could love more than one woman and wondered why that woman wasn’t his mistress. Sylvie said that I enthralled dogs by feeding them sausage under tables. I apologized to the industrialist and gave him Inspector Roux’s telephone number, although I explained that the inspector was busy with riots in Lyon.

  The industrialist muttered that rioting had come to Toulouse as well, which was why he was trying to have a peaceful dinner here in Avignon. Jason remarked that he thought Mercedes, for whose shooting the inspector blamed me, had already left the city. The industrialist left the restaurant in search of some quieter place, and the rest of us sat down, under the glowering eyes of the management, to finish our entrées and order dessert. My lamb chops were lovely, and I skimped on calories by ordering sorbet and fruit for dessert.

  This is a very tasty dish, and thyme is an interesting herb. It’s said to be good for the stomach, the digestion, and the lungs, to heal wounds and kill germs, not to mention its romantic effect. If a bunch of thyme is left on your doorstep, it means someone loves you, or so the girls in Provence believe. Ladies, you might mention that to your significant others to see if a thyme bouquet shows up at the door.

  Lemon-Thyme Lamb Chops

  • Put 8 single-rib ½-inch lamb chops into a shallow dish with 3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, 1½ teaspoons fresh chopped thyme leaves, and ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil. Cover and marinate for 30 minutes at room temperatur
e; turn over several times.

  • Preheat a heavy cast-iron skillet for 5 minutes, lower heat to moderate, add lamb chops and cook until browned, about 2 minutes on each side. Season each side with salt and pepper after cooking.

  • Pour remaining marinade over chops and serve.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Boston Telegraph

  In the hotel lobby, I was told I had a message, so I stayed to retrieve and read it while Jason went upstairs, completely exhausted by our traumatic dinner and worrying that we wouldn’t be able to leave France on time. The message, from Pierre, informed me that my own husband in 1990 had written a letter to the editor of JACS pointing out errors in the work of the French scientist Maurice Bellamee.

  Dropping onto one of the couches with the note in my hand, I considered the undeniable implication. Catherine, still in mourning for her husband and blaming his death on a critical American chemist, my husband, had reason to kill us. But there was so little hard evidence, at least evidence that the blockheaded Inspector Villon would accept: a research outline that didn’t have her name on it, recollections of her reaction to her husband’s death fifteen years ago, and the long time she’d held a grudge against someone she’d never met. Even Jason wouldn’t be convinced. He didn’t think chemists killed one another.

  I used the telephone in the lounge to call Martin at his hostel, which had only one phone. Once they found him, I told him about Jason’s letter to the editor and asked if he really thought his research director would have tried to poison us with her synthesized toxin. He did, but understood that there was not enough evidence to denounce her. “I have the key to her apartment,” he said. “We could search for clues while she is at the meeting.”