Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

  “Merle, darling, you know better,” she admonished. “A lady needs some warning.”

  Nine-thirty, well past time most people were dressed for the day. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Next time I’ll call first.”

  “Is your husband at home, Mrs. Gillespie?” Pascal asked.

  Amanda blinked. “No one calls me that. We only —” She pinched her lips together. “He ran an errand.”

  “Gone to the ‘Y’ again?” Merle asked.

  “Yes! I believe that was on his list.” Amanda folded her hands demurely while smiling suspiciously at Pascal. “Did you want to speak to him?”

  “Does he have a mobile phone?” Pascal asked.

  He did not.

  “Will he be back soon?”

  She certainly hoped so. But she couldn’t predict.

  Merle and Pascal sat on the sofa, crouched forward as if ready to pounce. There was a pause. Pascal was looking around the room curiously. Amanda followed his gaze, blinking. “This was your brother’s house, I’m told. Weston Strachie,” he said. She nodded. “Did he leave you anything in the house that was valuable, when he died?”

  “Oh, they weren’t very well off. No one was back then,” she said. “Like what?”

  Merle set a hand on Pascal’s knee. “Like wine, Amanda. Did he leave some wine behind? Because you gave Annie and Callum a very valuable bottle of wine for their engagement and we didn’t think you and Clifton were even wine drinkers.”

  Amanda went still as if processing, then melted a little. “I see, that’s all this is. That bottle of wine? We got that as a wedding gift. Dear me, was it valuable? I had no idea.”

  Pascal opened his mouth to protest but Merle cut him off. “It was a gift then. From who?”

  “I have no idea. You know how people just bring bottles of wine for parties. Someone brought it to our wedding reception at the yacht club. We don’t drink wine. Never developed a taste for it, either of us. So we gave it to Annie.”

  Merle stood up. “Sorry to barge in on you, Amanda. We just had questions.”

  “You can call me any time, honey. You know that.” Amanda rose awkwardly from the armchair.

  Pascal stood too. “Could your husband call me when he gets home? Maybe he will remember who gave you the wine.” He handed her a card. “There’s my number.”

  Amanda’s lip curled as she took it but she tried to cover it with a smile. “Of course, Pascal,” she said sweetly as she ushered them out.

  In the car Merle held the keys in the ignition. “Well, that was a bust.”

  “She’s lying,” Pascal said.

  She turned to him. “How can you be sure?”

  Pascal was hunched over his phone again, scrolling through something. “Because I requested her phone records last night, from here and from their home in Florida, through the consulate and the French government. And his cell phone. Yes, he does have a mobile, she lied about that too.

  “Now that we have a connection between them and the Frères Celice vintage we have— what do you call it? Probable cause. It was expedited because of a French national’s involvement. And here it is.”

  He held out his phone. “She or the husband talked to Denis Toulemonde nine times in the last four months.”

  Twenty-Two

  When they returned to Merle’s house Francie’s car, a hot little Mercedes she drove anywhere on a whim, sat in the driveway. She was sitting in it, music playing. She stepped out as Merle pulled into the garage.

  “Didn’t you get my messages?” Francie called out as a starter.

  Merle shut the van door and eyed Pascal over the roof. The trip back had been tense. She didn’t want to believe Amanda was involved in anything illegal. Just because they had dealings with Denis Toulemonde didn’t mean they’d done anything wrong. Maybe they were buying wine, she argued. That went nowhere with Pascal. Toulemonde only dealt with high tier clients, millionaires, movie stars, CEOs, investment bankers — not retirees from Levittown. Either they were selling wine they probably stole, or counterfeiting it with the wine consultant. He was their fence either way.

  Pascal had tried to call Toulemonde a dozen times on the drive. He wasn’t answering and his voicemail was off. Pascal was itching to confront him but they still had no address for him. They dropped the wine bottle off at a private lab on the northern outskirts of the city for analysis. Finding someone to look at the bottle and label at all had been a struggle. Pascal’s mood was dark despite the breakthrough. He was afraid the bottle was genuine, he said. Then where would they be?

  Off the hook, Merle thought.

  And your investigation would be over. And you will go home. Her heart fluttered. Did she want him to stay or to go?

  “What’s going on?” Francie called. “Where have you guys been?” She was wearing a down jacket with fur trim and puffy boots. Her cheeks were rosy with cold. “I’ve been calling you.”

  “Come in, you must be freezing.”

  In the warm kitchen Merle put the kettle on for tea and made sandwiches for all of them. Tristan was still upstairs, having slept through Francie’s doorbell ringing. Pascal disappeared, his face grim. When they were sitting down, hands wrapped around mugs of tea, Francie finally explained why she’d come.

  “When I couldn’t get you on the phone I figured you and Pascal were, you know.” She grinned. “Busy.”

  “We went to Long Island to talk to Aunt Amanda.”

  “Eeeuw. Not fun. She’s a cranky old biddy but you’re nice to her, Merle. You always were. Even after Clifton felt Annie up at the party. Double ick.”

  “He wasn’t there.” Merle had forgotten about that. Ick was right.

  “That was lucky.” Francie sipped her tea. “Anyway. Guess what? I found Bosom Drearie’s phone number. After the skating party I was too cold and jacked up, I just got on the phone and started calling all the gays I know from the old days. I called everyone I could think of. I was a maniac, seriously. I knew they’d be up late. Finally somebody knew somebody who had her number. One less thing for you to worry about.”

  Francie’s benefit wasn’t exactly at the top of her worry sheet. Merle set down her mug. Would this help them find Toulemonde? It must. “Good detective work, Sherlock. Did you call her?”

  “Yes, and left a message. I hope she’ll call back today. What could be better than a drag queen named Bosom at a breast cancer benefit? Dentures will fly!” Francie laughed, wriggling in anticipation and patting her cell phone on the table by her plate. “Ring, baby, ring.”

  Merle stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

  She found Pascal sequestered in Harry’s office, the door closed. She knocked and cracked open the door an inch. “Is it safe to enter?” she whispered.

  “Of course, chérie.”

  He was on her computer, staring at the monitor, clicking away on the keyboard. He glanced up. “If it’s okay that I use your internet. My phone is too slow.”

  “Of course, cheri,” she repeated, standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “What are you looking for?”

  “Something about that vintage. The 1948. The other bottles in the auctions were ’47 so I had not done a search for ’48.”

  “Find any?”

  “Yes, but not many. The Frères will not be happy to know that another vintage is on the loose, real or no.” He clicked on something and a wine merchant website appeared. “Here is one, you see. One bottle, long gone. Sold five years ago for $3,500.”

  “So the one we drank must be —”

  “Double that.”

  Where the hell had Amanda and Clifton gotten it? No one gives a bottle like that for a wedding gift, do they? “Do you think they have some millionaire friends in Florida?”

  “No, blackbird. I do not.”

  Sylvester, Amanda’s first husband, had certainly sold a lot of television sets but whatever he left her hadn’t set her up in that sort of style. Something was very fishy. The best outcome Merle could see was that the groper was the guilt
y party.

  “Pascal, I have something to tell you. Look up for a second.”

  He tapped another website then jerked his attention away. “What?”

  “Francie has Bosom Drearie’s phone number. She’s waiting for a call back right now. For a legitimate booking for a real charity benefit.” He searched her eyes. “Francie thinks she’s just a drag queen. She doesn’t know who Drearie really is.”

  He stood up, banging the desk chair against the wall. “Then we must tell her.”

  *

  Francie’s eyes widened as they told her the story of Bosom Drearie and Denis Toulemonde. Pascal kept it low-key, avoiding a mention of Amanda and Clifton’s possible involvement. Francie’s sense of the dramatic bubbled over anyway. Her freckles faded as her skin flushed with excitement. Her eyes shone. Of course she was game, she said, when he proposed a little subterfuge. More than game: ready, willing, and able, she said, batting her eyelashes.

  They waited all afternoon for the call. Tristan left to meet some friends. Pascal tapped away at the computer, searching deep into the internet. Merle and Francie built a fire in the fireplace and out of desperation baked cookies. Anything to keep their minds off the phone.

  The light faded from the winter sky. Tristan returned, ravenous. Pascal searched the refrigerator, sliced potatoes, and put together a sausage-potato fry. Francie made a salad and they ate, tense and silent. Tristan looked from one to the other, wondering what was up. They laughed and said ‘nothing.’ He shrugged and grabbed a dozen cookies.

  Merle made up the guest room for Francie and put fresh towels in the bathroom. She found a pair of pajamas for her sister and a new toothbrush. Francie took a hot shower and got ready for bed. Still no call from Bosom Drearie or her manager.

  At eleven they decided to pack it in. “She’ll call tomorrow, I guess,” Francie said. “Dang it. Doesn’t she know we’re waiting?”

  Merle was reading in bed at midnight when Francie knocked and burst into the bedroom. Pascal was still in the study.

  “She called, Merle. It’s on.” Francie waved the phone around and stamped her feet. “We’re meeting for lunch in the city.”

  Twenty-Three

  Murray Hill was bustling. It was noon on New Years Eve and the partying had already begun in its quiet way. In between the Civil War-era townhouses and dry cleaners, the cheap ethnic restaurants and leathery business bistros, the occasional tiara twinkled and a cry of good cheer went up.

  Bosom Drearie insisted on meeting in a small Indian restaurant called Curry on Murray. Mostly a take-out place it had a tiny sitting area to one side, six tables by the front window. Francie had dressed with care, having to resort to something from Merle’s closet but satisfied with a conservative Greenwich look. Suit, boots, colorful scarf, dark coat, sunglasses. A socialite, if that’s what she was supposed to be, didn’t overdo it. Let Miss Drearie be the flash one.

  Merle and Pascal went casual in jeans. Merle felt cozy in Francie’s fur-trimmed jacket. They stood on the corner down the street from the curry shop, watching as Francie walked confidently toward the rendezvous. Pascal was looking at his phone like 90 percent of New Yorkers.

  “Is it working?” Merle asked.

  Pascal nodded. “Perfectly.”

  He had paired his and Francie’s phones so that they knew where the other was. It was an app mostly for parents and children or married couples, so they didn’t have to constantly text: where are you? Today, with luck, it would serve a greater good. Merle could see the little map on Pascal’s phone with the moving red dot that was Francie. It seemed safe, letting her sister do this. But after last summer Merle wasn’t sure what was safe any more. She didn’t want Francie in any more danger. She looked back up the street and saw an NYPD policeman talking to a man sweeping the sidewalk.

  Excellent. Cops are close. In case Bosom Drearie goes wild with a hat pin.

  Merle took a deep breath. It was the middle of the day, in a public place, with a very recognizable performer. Francie was a pro, she’d be fine.

  “Should we go to the coffee shop?”

  “Wait until the other shows up.”

  Francie disappeared inside Curry on Murray. They lost sight of her but her red dot assured them of her location. Ten minutes passed, then the hot pink figure in high heels began turning heads, coming toward them from the far corner.

  “Nice outfit,” Pascal muttered.

  She wore a tight pink sweater, fuchsia pencil skirt with matching scarf, and black heels with shiny silver nylons. No coat, just a large shiny handbag over one arm and a boatload of swagger. Her hair was less of a bird’s nest, but still platinum and huge. Something sparkly caught the sunshine and twinkled in the waves. She wiggled her fingers in black gloves as people greeted her. At the curry shop she paused, smiled at her admirers one last time, and went in.

  Pascal took Merle’s hand. They crossed the street, making their way to Greek coffee shop across from Curry on Murray. They kept their eyes forward, stepping into the cafe and finding a table near the window. They ordered coffee and baklava.

  The wait was draining. Merle sipped the bad coffee and nibbled the sticky pastry and wished she’d never sent her sister in for this. Francie was out of sight, out of view from the plate glass window which was half covered with posters anyway.

  Merle’s phone rang. She looked at the number: Aunt Amanda. She’d given the woman her cell number because Pascal wanted her to. And now, here she was.

  Merle showed her phone to Pascal. He nodded and mouthed: Outside.

  “Amanda,” she said. “How are you today?” She stepped onto the sidewalk.

  There was a strangled cry and a long pause, then: “Oh, Merle. Can you come over here?”

  Merle’s stomach dropped. “Um, of course. What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  “Me, yes, well, no.” Another sob. “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “Wait — I.” But the line went dead. Merle called her back but the line was busy now. She tried again, still busy. She punched her phone, groaning.

  What the hell. The woman was infuriating. Did she just like to wind people up?

  Inside Pascal was silent, watching his phone. He had said it would be fairly quick, ten or fifteen minutes he predicted. Merle sat down again and fretted about telling him about Amanda’s call. He seemed so focused.

  “Amanda wants me to come see her,” she said. “She seems upset.”

  He nodded, staring at the phone. “Call her back. Tell her you come later.”

  “The line is busy.”

  Merle called her three more times then gave up. The call the other day when Clifton went “missing” went through her mind. Amanda could create a scene out of almost nothing. Let her sit awhile with her phone off the hook or whatever. There were more pressing concerns. What was going on with Francie? Was she all right? Was she working her considerable charm? Was she eating curry? Was she inking a deal with the Drearie?

  Nearly thirty minutes passed. Then the red dot began to move.

  He tossed some bills on the table. “Allons-y,” he whispered. Let’s go.

  They stood on the sidewalk, dawdling for a moment, watching the curry shop out of the corner of their eyes. Had Francie been successful? Miss Drearie wasn’t wearing a coat so slipping the phone in her pocket was out. Where could she drop it?

  Francie and the drag queen came out of the cafe, talking and waving their hands. They laughed, gave a little hug of the socialite variety — a flick of fingertips on shoulders, and parted, walking off in different directions. Pascal stared at his phone.

  “She did it,” he whispered.

  As she rounded the corner Francie turned and gave them a thumbs up and a wave. Her instructions were to wait for them somewhere, Saks or Tiffany’s, somewhere in midtown, until they called her other cell, the one owned by the law firm.

  “All right,” Pascal said, taking her elbow. “Walk with me, chérie.”

  Bosom Drearie was out of sight, aroun
d the corner, as they began tailing her. There was no need for close work unless the signal failed. So far so good. Francie must have dropped it in that giant handbag that banged against Drearie’s hip. Merle worried they would never get it back, that Francie’s personal data would be compromised somehow, but Francie had no qualms. She could kill that phone and get a new one, she said. It would be worth it for the drama.

  Walking in high heels over cracked pavement and puddles of melted snow, stopping to pet dogs and swat gay men on the backside, all made Bosom Drearie’s progress slow. Pascal was sure she lived nearby, she knew too many people. He’d thought that about the bar on Avenue B too. Maybe folks just recognized her, Merle thought. Maybe she would jump into a cab. They kept about a half block behind, stopping wherever there was a shop window to let her stay ahead.

  She turned left again at the next corner. When Merle and Pascal reached it they looked for the hot pink figure. She was gone. Two cabs were stopped at the far intersection.

  “What does it say?” Merle asked. “Is she in a taxi?”

  Pascal held the phone close to his face, watching. “She’s still moving. Inside one of these buildings.”

  He began to walk down the sidewalk, pausing to watch the red dot, trying to figure out her location. Merle’s anxiety went up a notch. What were they going to do exactly when they found her? She didn’t think she wanted to be here.

  Her phone rang.

  “Amanda? I’ve been so worried. Are you okay?”

  “Are you coming?” Her voice was tiny and soft now.

  “I’ll be there soon. But tell me what’s going on. Talk to me, Amanda.”

  The old woman made a little mewling sound and blew her nose.

  “It’s Clifton.” She choked then, sniffling. “He — he had an accident. They think he had a heart attack. Oh, my lord, it’s just like Wes and Emilie. He hit a tree, Merle. He’s gone.”

  Twenty-Four

  Merle stared at the traffic, stunned. “What?”