A Star for Mrs. Blake (37 page)

The chief sat behind his desk and folded his hands on an empty blotter. The knuckles were rash-red, as if he had weak circulation or had just come in from the cold. He stared at the American commander without a trace of humility. Had he been, as the ambassador suggested, a lawman of the Wild West, his smug expression would have been saying,
Just try it
. Pitiful, really, from a bureaucrat who, by the looks of him, had never fired a gun.

“Washington wants the remains on the next boat back to the United States,” Perkins said, getting off the opening shot in rapid French.

“Without question,” answered the chief. “Once we have determined this was not a homicide.”

“It was not a homicide.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Heart failure.”

There was a rumble of thunder and fat drops of rain began to slap against the dirty windows.

“You know this, how?”

“She had heart trouble.”

“You don’t mind if we do an autopsy?”

“No skin off my ass.”

The chief opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. Then he unscrewed a fountain pen, very slowly. The general was finding the splotchy, hairy red knuckles more repulsive by the minute.

“How long will this take?”

“We are a small city with only one coroner on loan, and he has to travel from Orléans. At this moment he is working on a domestic murder case in Auxerre that will take several days. Once the coroner
performs the autopsy, he will send the results to the police laboratory in Lyon. By then we will have run into the summer holidays … So … assuming no undue complications … you can have the body back in four to six weeks.”

The general flashed a dismissive smile.

“Let’s save ourselves the trouble.”

“Please?”

“The lady had a heart condition. Sign the papers and get on with it.”

“You say there’s a condition, but show me no proof. Do you have proof?”

General Perkins tapped his stars. “Proof.”

The chief set his pen down. “I understand that Madame Olsen had friends in high places. Even so, nothing can proceed without a proper investigation.”

“Sure it can. You’re in charge of this burg, you can do anything you damn well want.”

“We are trying to do something here,” the police chief said sternly. “We are rebuilding this city. I must authorize the closing of certain roads, review permits, meet with council members and the mayor ad nauseam. Now, as you can see, we are overrun with tourists, and the pickpockets that come with them. I have other things on my mind, General, besides your troubles.”

Perkins stood, infuriated. “Do you think I personally visit the local police on every case that involves an American citizen? I hoped I didn’t need to spell it out, but the United States government expects you to cooperate.”

“We have laws when it comes to releasing bodies, especially to a foreign power. I am sure it’s the same in your country.”

“In my country, we go out of our way to help our allies.”

“What can I do? I’m just a local policeman,” the chief said mournfully. “I can’t just skip the rules.”

“We didn’t skip over horse crap when it came to pulling you people out of the war.”

The chief stood also. “With proper authorization we will send Madame Olsen on her sad journey home.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

Heads shorter, the chief appraised the general with a superior stare. His little red fists were clenched.

“The Americans think they have the right to run the world. Well, not everyone agrees,” he said, adding for emphasis,
“Salaud arrogant.”

The general laughed. “Let’s see who’s left standing next time around,” he said, putting on his cap.

After the aides-de-camp had finished interviewing each of the pilgrims, the ban was lifted on staying at the hotel, but by then the summer cloudburst had turned to steady rain. The best plan Hammond could come up with to keep the mothers occupied was a hastily arranged visit to a local produce market that was housed in an indoor arcade a few blocks away. Crazy with cabin fever, Cora was eager to go anywhere, but nobody else was interested except Minnie. Katie said she’d seen enough vegetables to last a lifetime, and as they drew closer to departure, Wilhelmina had become more deluded. She now believed that every day was the last, and kept packing and unpacking her suitcase. The night before she had put on her clothes three times between the hours of 12:30 a.m. and 4:00 a.m., and today, thanks to a double bromide, she was sleeping it off, with Lily watching over her.

Equipped with big black umbrellas provided by the hotel, Minnie and Cora tramped through the downpour.

“Have you heard from home?” Cora asked, remembering the difficulties Minnie had faced over leaving despite her husband’s objections.

Minnie shook her head. “I told them not to bother to write. I said I’m on vacation. Not such a vacation, but—”

“Good for you,” Cora said heartily.

“I can’t think what it will be like to be back.”

“Very different,” Cora said.

“I’m dreading it.”

“Who wants to go back to work?”

“They won’t understand.”

“Nobody can unless you’ve done it. We’ve seen so many unusual things—”

“Like that lady in Paris?”

“The stripper?”

Minnie nodded and they began to giggle together. High-pitched silly laughter.

“That lady had a lot of nerve taking off her clothes!” Minnie said. “With everything hanging out …”

“You don’t think Abraham would go for that?”

Minnie guffawed until her eyes ran with tears. “Her or me?”

“Oh my Lord,” Cora said, catching her breath, “how can you begin to tell about Paris?”

Minnie was wearing a green cloth coat with a tattered fox collar, the only coat she owned, which had to do for four seasons and was never right for any single one. The coat was too warm for the summer rain in France, but in her mind, “better than freezing.” The needlepoint handbag, lent by a neighbor in the chicken farm cooperative, hung over one wrist and with the other hand she managed the man-sized dripping black umbrella. Dwarfed beneath it, she made a shambling figure, one that had traveled across continents and back, pursued, liberated, harnessed, terrorized, and freed again, bone-weary except for her large, lively operatic Russian eyes.

“When we were in Paris,” she reflected, “I was thinking to myself, Minnie, this is the place you could have been happy.”

They’d reached the big glass doors to the market, where a man in a black-and-white striped chef’s uniform was maneuvering a cart loaded with crates of strawberries.

He held the door open with one foot, balancing the cart as they passed. Inside the arcade it was chilly and smelled of refrigerated meat. There were aisles devoted to whole fish on ice or just sides of beef. Tables were laden with summer offerings on checkered cloths scattered with flowers. The cauliflowers were enormous. There were baskets of peaches, plums, tomatoes, squash, and melons. One stall had nothing but sausages in white casings, with names scratched on tiny blackboards like a cast of characters:
Noix de Jambon, Saucisson au Choix, Merguez, Andouillette
. Minnie went on to the postcard stall
while Cora entered the
pâtisserie
. They agreed to meet at a perfume store that looked enticing.

Ripe strawberries and the damp smell of sawdust brought Cora back to the Saturday market at the fairgrounds in the town of Blue Hill. In bad weather it would move inside the main building and the huge barn door would be open to curtains of rain, while all of them in heavy sweaters in the middle of summer—mother, sister Avis, and Cora—sold shortcakes. She remembered the way they worked, so easily, lovingly, almost without words, weaving in and out of one another’s way as they ladled sweet macerated berries from large mason jars onto tender homemade biscuits. And the spoonfuls of whipped cream they swiped on the side! Those first days in Paris Cora had been drawn to every bakery window, but now, looking at the whorls, tarts, puffs, and cones lined up in perfect rows, analyzing their construction no longer held her interest; and Cora knew it was time to go home.

The
pâtisserie
had a few small tables taken up by middle-aged women with shopping bags at their feet. There was only one man, huddled in a corner with his back to the door. Unlike the slight Europeans with ethereal builds, he was a robust male wearing a silk smoking jacket and slippers, incongruous in the inclement weather, and his dark hair had been flattened by rain. He seemed to be bent over, almost embracing, a gold-leafed notebook on the round marble table before him, in which he was writing deliberately, as if each word counted.

As she passed he didn’t look up. By now Cora was used to lively—or at least curious—glances from Frenchmen on the street, having discovered that the currency in Paris was not the franc but, as Bobbie put it, the
frisson
, and so she was feeling intentionally snubbed by this man, even a little put off, especially when she realized it was Griffin Reed.

“Hello, stranger,” she said, standing right in front of him. “Did you think I wouldn’t see you?”

He continued to write.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

At the same time, Minnie Seibert appeared in the doorway of the
pâtisserie
, calling out, “Mrs. Blake! Aren’t you coming to the perfume store?”

“In a sec,” Cora replied.

But instead of leaving, Minnie advanced through the door like a miniature Mark I tank.

“Are you getting something? I’ll keep you company,” she offered.

Even though he had resolutely not looked up, Cora knew that Reed was smiling over his notebook. Neither moved nor gave any sign that they were acquainted, a mutual reaction to the invasion of this other; an unstated agreement that they’d rather be left alone together. Besides, the fastest way of getting rid of Minnie was to eliminate any hint of gossip she might run back and share with Katie and the rest.

“I just can’t make up my mind,” Cora said of the array of cakes. “You go. I’ll meet you there.”

Minnie directed a sigh at the napoleons. “I get fat just looking.”

When Minnie had finally retreated, Reed gestured for Cora to join him. She pulled over a wire-back chair and sat with her elbows on the marble tabletop, gazing frankly at Reed. She now knew where to find him, beyond the glasses, in the deepest recess of his eyes, where there were no constraints.

“You were hoping I’d ignore you?” she asked.

“Then I wouldn’t have to talk to you.”

“I thought you liked talking to me.”

“I do and I don’t.”

She gave him a playful frown. “Why are you all wet?”

“It’s raining.”

“Why didn’t you take an umbrella?”

“Didn’t occur to me.”

“Why are you here?”

“Felt like a coffee.”

“I mean it, Grif. Why’d you come to Verdun?”

“Florence asked me to. She was all broken up about Bobbie.”

Cora had her doubts that Florence could be broken up about anyone. For a moment she wondered if he’d come to see her.

“What are you writing?” she asked. “Is it another article?”

He looked at the notebook. “This?” He shook his head. “No, it’s just for me. It’s almost impossible to get anyone to publish anything serious these days. The English-language rags keep folding. Not
enough Americans left to read them. As for the
Herald
, they don’t like me. Doesn’t matter, everybody’s getting out of Paris, it’s the end of days.”

“Don’t be morbid.”

“I was lucky to get
Le Matin
to take that story. Do you want a coffee?”

“No, thanks. They read it to us in English.”

He finished the dregs in his cup. “Then you know what I said about you.”

“Yes, and I’m happy you didn’t tell about Sammy’s father. You kept my secret.”

“I told you that I would. What’d you think of the rest of the article?”

“Honest? I was kind of embarrassed.”

“Really?”

“You made me sound like something I’m not.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’m a mother, Grif. I’m nothing special. I love my boy and I’m proud of his service to our country. Every war mother feels that way. It’s the pain that hurts, but the pride that stays with you.”

“Baloney. That’s not what you said on our walk.”

“Of course I did!”

“No, you didn’t.” He held up a hand to block her response. “I was listening! You said you had your doubts. It’s in the piece, I reported what you said. You said all this pomp and circumstance is a bunch of bull—okay, you didn’t put it that way—but it made you ask yourself what a war mother is really supposed to do. Wave the flag? Lie down under the wheels of a police car to prevent another war? It’s a damn hard proposition. You told me that you drive yourself crazy, even now, asking over and over if you could have stopped Sammy from going—”

“I couldn’t!” Cora cried.

“Of course you couldn’t.” Reed spoke soothingly and his eyes were soft. “There’s no way you could have stopped him. He would have left home eventually, or if he didn’t, resent it for the rest of his
life. My mother didn’t want me to leave California. She sure as hell isn’t happy I’m in France.”

“It must have been awful for her when you got hurt.”

Reed said, “She doesn’t know,” and rubbed his temples where the eyeglasses pressed over his ears. He gulped the last in his water glass. He found that he was thirsty all the time.

“Are you all right?” Cora asked.

“Tight, that’s all,” Reed said. “Need to get this thing replaced. Go on.”

“Your mom … she doesn’t know? What did you tell her when you were in the hospital?”

“I got the nurses to write cheery letters saying I had superficial wounds. When I was well enough, I kept up the story. Living in Paris. Writing for the paper. Life’s a bed of roses.”

“Even now … she still doesn’t know?”

He shook his head.

“But, Grif, you have to tell her sometime.”

“I’d rather spare her the suffering.”

“But when she sees you—?”

“She won’t be seeing me. I have no plans to go back.”

Cora was stunned. “You mean you’re never going home? What if she gets sick—”