Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

“Oh right, with Billy and Wayne. What are they up to?”

  “They got married in Massachusetts last year.” Francie turned to Merle. “I would love to get some drag queens to do a benefit. There’s one next year, can’t remember exactly what for, some charity. Can you help me? Do you have her number?”

  Merle shook her head. “Ask Pascal.”

  Francie looked thoughtful. “I’ve seen pictures of Bosom Drearie. Is she, like, too out there? Really campy? Chubby?”

  “She’s not fat,” Annie said.

  Callum laughed. “You try pullin’ her outa that dip. Damn near threw my back out.”

  Six

  The train rolled out of Grand Central with a wheeze, a fog blowing up in the cold afternoon wind. Merle’s feet ached and she kicked off her shoes as soon as she’d settled into the seat. Pascal crossed his arms and closed his eyes. They were both tired.

  After two hours battling the holiday crowds Merle had returned to the Hilton. Pascal hadn’t answered her call after brunch so she plowed forward, duties to be done. Like most busy women she did much of her buying online over coffee breaks but there were a few last minute items to buy in person. She wasn’t an extravagant gifter; she hadn’t been brought up that way. Her parents were New Englanders, thrifty and sensible, never lavishing gifts on anyone. Her mother Bernadette was from Massachusetts and often told stories of getting an apple and a small chocolate bar for Christmas. Her five daughters fared better and her grandchildren better still. But Merle had to remind herself sometimes to not be such a Yankee tightwad. She thought France had changed her in ways large and small, but maybe not.

  Pascal had met her in the lobby with his suitcase, no shopping bags evident. She hoped that if he had a gift for her it was from France, not Bloomingdales. She eased back in her seat on the train, wondering what he might have brought her, smiling to herself as she pulled out her phone. She worked through her voicemail. Troy Lester, the partner in Harry’s old law firm, was next to last. She hadn’t heard from him for months and was glad of it. What could he want now?

  “Merle.” Lester cleared his throat dramatically. They hadn’t gotten along well when Lester’s firm administered Harry’s will and its decrees. A small matter of gambled life insurance funds and that Other Woman. “Sorry to bother you but there’s been a… an inquiry here. I thought you should know. The French consulate sent over an envoy and a policeman this afternoon, to look at Strachie senior’s, Weston’s, files. Something about that wine that never got delivered. Can’t see how it’s anything after this time, what— fifty years, my god. Ridiculous and yet, they were here.”

  He paused. “We had to cooperate, give them what we had. They had a court order. Mostly the stuff you saw last year, business invoices. So… happy holidays.”

  Merle shut down her phone and stared out the window. Happy holidays to you, Troy Lester. The land was blue in the dying light, patches of dirty snow and glistening puddles dotted the streets and hillsides. The French consulate. An envoy and a policeman. She glanced at Pascal, his mouth ajar, eyes shut. A French policeman? Of course. Who else to look at the ancient invoices of a wine distributor but a French policeman who specialized in wine fraud?

  Full dark had fallen by the time they got to the house. No lights welcomed them up the driveway. Merle tried to clear her mind of worries about the investigation and showed Pascal through the house. He was suitably impressed by its American size (huge!) and gravitas (lovely wood!) She had already decided to put him in the guest room for Tristan’s sake. Tris was crazy about Pascal but she wasn’t sure how he’d react to them sharing a bed right down the hall from his room.

  The television blared in Tristan’s room. Merle knocked, told him they were home, and went to the kitchen to rustle up something for dinner. Pascal took a shower then helped her throw together a salad. He and Tristan gossiped about his new school and basketball then went off to watch something on MTV.

  The kitchen was quiet except for the dishwasher’s hum. Merle sat at the table by the window. Frost etched the night scene as snow began to fall. She pulled her sweater tighter and stared at her cell phone. She had Troy Lester’s number from last year. But it was late on a Saturday. She called Annie instead.

  Her oldest sister was also her closest. Annie answered immediately, concern in her voice. “Is everything all right? Did you get home?”

  “All fine. Pascal and Tris are bonding over Jersey Shore.” They laughed then Merle lowered her voice, serious. “Troy Lester left me a message. He says the French are investigating Harry’s father’s wine business.”

  “After fifty years? What the hell.”

  “They sent a consulate official and a French policeman over to the law firm.”

  “Pascal?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. He said he had something to do this morning. Should I say something or just let it go?”

  “Say something, of course. No, wait. You might be jumping to conclusions. You should talk to Troy first, find out if it was Pascal. And what the French think they’re going to find. Are they going after the money from the wine?”

  Merle’s stomach flipped. She’d found a stash of wine in the Strachie family house in the Dordogne last year, and sold it at auction. That money would send Tristan to college and give his half-sister a nest egg for her own education. In September Merle had set up the trust for little Sophie, now five years old. It wasn’t a lot of money but it would help. Would the French government take money from children?

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Merle stuttered. “Do you think they can? Do they have rights to it?”

  “If they try we’ll sue their asses. We’ll make Troy Lester lead the charge, that creep.”

  Annie made more conciliatory noises and they hung up. Callum needed her. They were still in Manhattan on a pre-honeymoon. Merle’s heart warmed to hear how much her sister was obviously in love. She took a deep breath. Everything would work out. It would all be okay.

  She was pouring herself another glass of wine when Pascal returned. He asked her to pour him one.

  “Who is this Jersey Shore?” His eyes were wide. “I am scarred for life.”

  Seven

  The sun was barely up when the phone rang in the kitchen. Merle pressed the button to start the coffeemaker. “Hello?”

  Aunt Amanda was on the line, voice high and tight. “Do you have a minute, dear?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry I haven’t —”

  “Merle. Can you come over?” The old woman interrupted. “Now, this morning?” She was whispering, like she didn’t want someone to hear her. Merle said she’d leave within the hour. Amanda lived on Long Island in the original part of Levittown. It wasn’t terribly far but would take more than an hour to drive there. Merle checked her watch, put milk in her coffee, and went to get dressed.

  The Sunday morning traffic was light. Pascal had insisted on going with her, and driving her ancient mini-van that Tristan called the ‘Mom Wagon.’ She always intended to get rid of the rusty thing but since she mostly drove it to the train station and back it was still serviceable. And yes, she was a Yankee tightwad.

  The weather was cold but the snow hadn’t stuck and the roads were dry. They talked little except about American drivers’ propensity for sloth and the hard morning light glinting off Long Island Sound. They crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge. Plunging into the Levittown neighborhoods they got lost soon after leaving the expressway. Pascal pulled over while Merle got directions on her phone.

  “You have been to your aunt’s house, yes?”

  “She was Harry’s aunt and they weren’t close. Mostly she came over to our house for holiday stuff.” Merle looked up, frowning. “I forgot to invite her this Christmas.”

  “Well, now’s your chance,” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  After fifteen minutes of wrong turns they found the house. Amanda’s Cape Cod cottage was one of the first group built in Levittown in the late forties. Tiny and plain she’d made a few altera
tions over the years, building dormers and finishing off the second floor. But the siding was still a dingy white and concrete lawn ornaments seemed to have sprouted in the yard. Merle wondered how a woman with enough flair to be a dress buyer for a major department store tolerated a painted duck on the lawn.

  The door opened before they could knock. Amanda wore stretchy black slacks and a ruffled blue blouse but her face was drawn, eyes worried. Her white hair was not in its usual perfect state. Merle introduced Pascal. Amanda glared at him then waved them into the living room. Somewhere a television game show was on. She poured them both coffee and made them sit on the sofa. No small talk today.

  Amanda returned, cradling her own cup in both hands. She stopped in front of a chair and stared down at them, blinking, her mouth tight.

  “Is everything all right?” Merle asked.

  Amanda squinted her eyes at Pascal. “He has to go.”

  Pascal stood immediately, followed by Merle. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you,” Amanda said. “But not him. Not the Frenchman.”

  Merle protested but Pascal shook his head. He disappeared out the front door. Merle sat down again, perplexed.

  “It’s the lawyers,” Amanda said. “Wes’s lawyers. They called me on Friday. They want to come over and talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “I have no idea.” Amanda stared at the ceiling. “He’s been gone so many years, Merle. It can’t be about Wes. Is it about Harry?”

  Was it? Merle had an idea thanks to Troy Lester’s phone message. “They called me too. It’s something to do with Weston’s business.”

  “What business? The imports?”

  “Did he have another one?” Merle hadn’t even had time to dig out the document copies that Troy had sent her last year. All she could remember was some kind of invoices for wine shipments. She didn’t like thinking about Weston Strachie who was a bastard several times over. He’d died in an auto accident when Harry was four.

  A clumping sound came from the stairs and a door opened. There stood Clifton, Amanda’s husband, in print boxer shorts and a yellow Florida State t-shirt, his long gray hair wild without the grease that normally held it in place. His face looked blurry with gray-haired jowls. He burped loudly as he came to rest, barefoot, in the hall.

  Amanda sat frozen, perfectly still. The living room drapes were drawn, shadowing the living room. Merle blinked, wondering if Clifton knew she was here. He called out: “Honey pie, can you make me some flapjacks?” Amanda caught Merle’s eye and shook her head. He disappeared into the back of the house.

  Amanda stood, whispering: “You should go now.”

  “But the lawyers —”

  “I’ll call you when they come over.” She grabbed Merle’s arm. “Go now.”

  Merle stood on the stoop. Christmas dinner, she’d forgotten to ask. She turned back to the door. Amanda was with Clifton now. Clifton would come to dinner too, that would be understood. Why weren’t they in Florida like last year? And why did Amanda want to hide Merle from Clifton? Was she afraid of him?

  She turned back to the street. Pascal sat in the mini-van, watching her. She took a breath, walked down the driveway and got in. They were silent as he turned the key and drove back toward the expressway.

  “Well, that was no big secret. I’m sorry she was so strange.” Merle stared at the Sound again, its glitter gone in the midday sun. “I can tell you —”

  Pascal held up his hand. “C’est privé. I understand.”

  He didn’t look upset or angry but she wasn’t sure if she could read him. If Merle discussed what Amanda had told her she would have to tell him what the lawyers told her, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She had to find out if he was the French policeman in question.

  *

  Tristan had a holiday program at school that afternoon where he dressed as a six-foot-three elf and grinned like a happy maniac. Pascal didn’t go, invoking the “Yule Rule:” Ask Me No Questions and I’ll Tell You No Lies. After dinner Merle invoked it herself and shut herself in Harry’s old office. She’d repainted it a sunny gold and put up new photographs of the Dordogne and Tristan. She’d blown up one she loved, the stone house with its blue shutters, the pear tree growing against it, its tiny green fruits like dollops of hope.

  She’d cleaned out the desk and filled it with her own supplies, found a silk flower arrangement for the corner, claiming it as her own. The file cabinets along the wall were another story. They were full of Harry’s secrets and deals and she had no idea what to do with them. Would they be important someday? Were they just trash? They sat, gathering dust.

  At eight o’clock she sat behind the large oak partners desk and made a few notes on a sheet of paper. Then she called Troy Lester’s cell phone. As it rang she asked herself if she really wanted to know this information. Before she could figure that out, he answered.

  “Merle. Good to hear from you,” Troy said, seemingly sincere.

  “I got your message.”

  “Yes, well, don’t worry about it. They were in and out. Not much to glean from those old files.”

  “What didn’t you send me last summer?”

  He hesitated and she knew she’d guessed correctly. “A few more invoices, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

  “You kept copies, I assume. So fax them to me.”

  He promised to fax them first thing tomorrow. Then realized the office would be closed. She said, “Just tell me what they said then. And who came from the consulate.”

  “They just said they wanted any documents. All we had were invoices with lists of wines he was importing. The envoy’s name was Girard, I think.”

  “What about the policeman? What was his name?”

  “Didn’t catch it, sorry.” She asked him to describe the policeman. “Ah, medium to tall. Dark hair. We didn’t chat.”

  “Was his name d’Onscon?”

  “I don’t remember. Is it important?”

  “What did you want with Amanda Wilson?”

  “She called you?” He sighed. “The old man thought it best. I didn’t want to upset her but he insisted.” Weston Strachie’s original attorney from the early fifties, Landon McGuinness III, was pushing ninety but still went into the office every day.

  “What do you want with her?” she repeated.

  “Weston was her brother. It’s possible he left her something that the French might want to look at. We just need to make sure.”

  “Something like what — invoices? Or something like the wine he imported?”

  “Who knows? It’s a wild goose chase. It’s been fifty years, for godssake. Don’t worry about Amanda. We’ll be gentle.”

  Merle looked at her palms, still searching for her future. “What about the wine I found in France, Troy? I told you about that. The auction.”

  “What about it?”

  “Can the French government lay claim to the proceeds somehow? Weston stashed that wine there, legally or illegally. Can they reach that far back?” It made her nauseous to think about it, the legal entanglements if France sued her, and the financial nightmare whether she won or not.

  “I don’t see how they could know about that, Merle. Even if they find out, the wine is gone.” He took a drink of something. If Pascal was involved in this, they did know. Troy continued: “I have a feeling somebody is behind this. That they’re doing the bidding of some powerful individuals or businesses. Wineries, for instance.”

  “So, it’s not the government for its own sake, like a criminal investigation?”

  “Would it be so casual as to send a low-level diplomat? It’s pretty bizarre. Anything is possible.” In the background someone began playing the piano and singing started. They listened to the squawking and wailing of a Christmas tune. Then Merle felt cold suddenly.

  “When will you be calling on Amanda?”

  “McGuinness has it on his agenda for tomorrow. Christmas Eve, can you believe it? I’ll try to stall him but
you know how he is. A stubborn old son of a bitch.”

  “Fax the documents as soon as possible, Troy.”

  Eight

  By ten o’clock the next morning — the day before Christmas — the kitchen was a disaster. Flour, icing, six pans, three mixing bowls: apparently it took a village of utensils to make a bûche de noël. If Merle wasn’t so wound up about the possibility of the French government making her pay back the hundreds of thousands of dollars she’d made on the wine from her house in the Dordogne she would have stopped. As it was making the mess was therapeutic.

  A bûche de noël, a cake shaped like the yule log that once fed every fire in France over the Christmas holidays, was simple in the books. A sheet cake, a ganache, almond icing, chocolate icing, cool it, roll it, slice it, make it look like a piece of a tree. The pictures in the cookbooks were amazing. When Merle found out Pascal was joining them for Christmas she’d decided to make one. She hadn’t thought it would take all day.

  She might have also counted on a little help. But Pascal and Tristan had hatched a plan the night before and left early to go back into the city to do what all men do on Christmas Eve: their shopping. Tristan was pink with excitement this morning, bubbling with secrets. Pascal had a good effect on the boy.

  Merle looked around her kitchen. She was definitely in avoidance mode. She would do anything, including clean her kitchen when this mad project was done, to avoid talking to Pascal about her suspicions. Last night she went to bed early while the men played video games into the night. She could hear them in Tristan’s room, whooping and hollering. Going to bed early wasn’t like her but there it was, avoidance at its finest. She’d made a long list of everything that needed to be done on Christmas eve. The list now stood at attention, getting splattered with gooey frosting.

  With all the parts, cake and its various icings, ready for construction, she washed her hands and took a break. When would the lawyers go to Amanda’s? McGuinness probably needed his afternoon nap. It was now nearly noon but Amanda hadn’t called. Merle poured herself another cup of coffee, dialed the number, and stared out into the backyard dusted with snow.