Fleur De Lies (13 page)

“If I’d known the weather was going to be this foul, I wouldn’t have come,” Virginia Martin complained to Madeleine. “You should cancel these walking tours when storms are predicted. Everyone is miserable. Why don’t you just take us back to the boat and be done with it?”

Madeleine shrugged, palms skyward. “The rain starts, and then it stops. If you go back, there is so much you will miss.”

“How many people demand to be taken back to the boat?” asked Virginia. “Show of hands.”

“Hey, she’s not authorized to do that,” protested Bernice, apparently incensed on Osmond’s behalf.

“You’re overstepping your authority, my pet,” Victor warned in a tight voice.

Virginia shot a defiant hand into the air. “Anyone else?”

“According to the weather radar, this thing should blow over in about five minutes.” A man standing near Cal held up his cell phone. “Did anyone else download a local weather app?”

“Five minutes is not so long, yes?” said Madeleine. “I will tell you about the Cathédrale of Notre-Dame while we wait.” She gestured toward the behemoth across the walkway. “The first cathedral on this site was consecrated in 1063, but a fire in 1200—”

“I thought Notre Dame was in Paris,” a woman called out.

“The very famous Notre Dame cathedral, with its storied gargoyles and hunchback,
is
in Paris,” said Madeleine, “but throughout France, there are many, many churches dedicated to Our Lady, and they are all called Notre Dame. Rouen’s cathedral was rebuilt after the fire and completed in 1250, but it underwent an expansion that lasted for three centuries, and even now—”

BONG
bongbongbongbong
BONGBONG
bongbong
BONGBONGBONG!

Madeleine spoke more loudly into her transmitter, channeling her
voice with absolute clarity into the uncomfortable earbuds that ev
eryone had removed from their ears. I caught a few informative phrases
blasting through the wires dangling around my neck, but mostly,
I heard the unrelenting clash and clang of bells.

…
bongbongbong
… “… painted by Monet…” BONGBONG …
“… tomb of Richard the Lionheart …”
bong
BONG BONG
bong
…
“heavily damaged in World War II …”
BONG BONGBONG
…

“This is a good time for you to look at my pictures,” said Bernice as she sidled up to me.

“But—” I pointed in Madeleine’s direction and leaned close to Bernice’s ear. “I’m trying to listen.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that working out for you?” She hit the power button on her camera and stuck the screen in front of my face. “Here I am in front of the china cabinet while Osmond was reminiscing with that old broad on our home visit.”

I blinked to refocus my eyes. “Bernice, how would you feel if someone referred to
you
as an old—”

“Here I am by the sofa. Osmond’s head completely ruins the shot,
but I should be able to Photoshop him out of the picture.”

She looked absolutely dazzling in the screen image, her smile engaging, her complexion youthful. Even her wiry tangle of hair looked sleek and elegant. How did she
do
that?

“The lighting was great by the east window, so this one really show
cases my high cheekbones and expressive eyes. Cindy Crawford used to look like this before she went to seed.”

“I don’t think Cindy Crawford has to worry about going to seed for a very long ti—”

“Here I am in the doorway”—
zzzzzt
—“beside a floor lamp”—
zzzzzt
—“under one of the ugly paintings they had on the wall”—
zzzzzt
—“in front of the sideboard with the gazillion picture frames.” She frowned at the image. “That clutter is really distracting.” She pressed a lever that caused the camera to
whir
and the picture to supersize her face. “There. More of my bone structure and less of the other stuff. I won’t even have to zap the background.” She pursed her lips. “Other than this thing that looks like a cookie sheet growing out of my head.”

I eyed the “thing” to discover that it was neither kitchenware nor photo, but an intricate piece of needlepoint displayed in a small, ornate frame. The zoom function had blown it up to a size where the details were clearly visible, but the realization of what I was looking at left me a bit baffled. Was I seeing it correctly?

“Can you tell what’s in the picture frame?” I asked Bernice.

“Looks like some ratty piece of embroidery.”

“Of what?”

She studied the image. “Looks like a funny-shaped iris with a
broken petal. Or maybe a lily.”

Or a fleur-de-lis, imperfect and stylized—just like the one that graced the ring on Woody Jolly’s finger.

twelve

Why would Woody be
wearing a piece of jewelry whose embroi
dered likeness occupied a place of honor on Madeleine Saint-
Sauveur’s sideboard?

The question kept floating through my head as we soldiered on toward the site where St. Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake.

The rain had stopped abruptly, allowing us to scoot back onto the walkway without our umbrellas raised. We followed a shortcut through a walled courtyard on the side of the cathedral and arrived at a broad plaza fronting the west façade, where we discovered that
the pinnacled doorways and colonnades once immortalized by
Claude
Monet were now obscured by an Eiffel Tower of metal
staging.

“What a scam!” Bernice griped. “What are we supposed to take pictures of ? The scaffolding?”

“You will find some very nice souvenir shops along the Rue de Gros Horloge,” Madeleine announced, waggling her umbrella toward the pedestrian mall in front of us. “If you would like to see the cathedral without the scaffolding, you should purchase a postcard that shows what it looked like before the war. There are many selections to choose from.”

“Oh, sure,” whined Bernice. “And I suppose there are no kickbacks involved in that little deal. You can bet someone’s going to be reading about this on your evaluation.”

Madeleine shrugged. “
D’accord
.”

As we trekked down the cobblestoned mall, I wove my way forward through the group until I caught up with Woody.

“You’ll never guess what I just saw,” I exclaimed as I quickened my pace to keep up with his unexpectedly long stride.

He let out a burst of laughter. “Cal handing out business cards?”

“
Uhhh
—No.”

“Of course not. That was a trick question. Cal never hands out business cards. That would be too much like advertising.”

Talk about dog with bone. “I saw a picture of your fleur-de-lis ring.”

“Did you now?”

“In fact, you might have seen it, too. At Madeleine’s house on our home visit. On her sideboard. It was a needlepoint piece in a frame. Same fleur-de-lis. Same broken petal.”

“Never saw it.”

“Bernice has a picture of it among her photos. Isn’t that weird that the Saint-Sauveurs would have an embroidery of your ring?”

“Why is it weird? Look around. Everything over here has some kind of fleur-de-lis on it.”

“But they don’t have broken petals, which is what makes your ring and her embroidery rather unique.”

“So … what’s your point?”

“Well, I was thinking that if you’re curious about your ring’s history, Madeleine might have some insight into both the embroidery
and
the ring. Wouldn’t it be interesting to learn the story behind—”

“Why would I care?” His voice bristled with irritation. “I told you. It’s always been in the family, so why would I need to know its history? It’s mine. End of story.”

“I … I just thought—”

He fluttered his hand in annoyance, as if shooing me away. “No disrespect, Emily, but when I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Okay? Hell, you seem to be taking up where Cal left off, and I
don’t
appreciate it.”

I slowed my steps, allowing him to forge ahead of me.
Euw
. Cal was right. Woody’s temper really
was
kind of volatile. I just hoped his cantankerous outbursts turned out to be a passing phase and not an indication of a more serious mental health problem.

Halfway down the mall, we stopped before an ornately sculpted stone arch that acted like an entrance tunnel to the street beyond. A tower in the style of a French chateau sat atop the arch, and in the center of this was a giant clock face, housed in a frame of gold scrolls and fretwork, with a wreath of blue frills circling it like a medieval ruff. It was far more grand than Big Ben, but Big Ben probably kept better time, given that this clock only boasted one hand. As Madeleine began her spiel, we inched around her in tight formation, partially to be less of an obstruction to foot traffic, but mostly because
we’d all ditched our earbuds, so we were hoping to improve our chances
of hearing her.

“The Great Clock, known as Le Gros Horloge, was placed in its present location in 1527,” she told us, “but its inner mechanism dates from the 1300s, when it was first lodged in the belfry of the attached building.”

Feeling a raindrop splat on my nose, I looked up to see an ominous bank of storm clouds rolling over us … again.

“I hope you’re not fixin’ that we should set our watches by that thing,” Bobbi fretted. “I hate to be the one to point out the obvious, but it’s only got one hand.”

“It’s more of an astronomical clock than an actual timepiece,” said Madeleine. “The ball above the clock indicates the phase of the moon, and the inset below the Roman numeral VI specifies the day
of the week. And even though the single hand only indicates the hour
of the day and not the minute, two thirteenth-century bells inside the tower ring out the hour, half hour, and quarter—”

The clouds burst above us like water surging from a pitcher pump.
Down came the rain. Up went our umbrellas. Out came the boo birds
.

“I’ve HAD it!” snarled Bernice.

“Me, too!” spat Virginia.

Madeleine herded us beneath the shelter of the arch, where a flock of sheep grazed in magnificent stone relief above us.

“Take us back to the boat,” Bernice demanded.

“I am required to stay with the guests who want to continue the tour,” Madeleine explained in an even tone, “but if you would like to return to the boat, I will give you directions.”

“You brought us here, so you should take us back,” insisted Virginia.

“
Non, non
. I am not contracted to escort you back, but it is very simple. Walk back to the cathedral, turn right onto the Rue Grand Pont, and continue straight until you reach the river. The
Renoir
will be moored along the embankment.”

“Which cathedral are you talking about?” asked Woody. “The first one or the second one?”

“The one you can see from here,” said Madeleine. She gestured back down the mall toward Notre-Dame. “Turn right onto that boulevard.”

“But how do we find our way back to the boat?” fussed another woman.

“The boulevard to the right of Notre-Dame will lead you straight back to the boat.”

“How are we supposed to find Notre-Dame?” pressed Bernice.

Madeleine pursed her lips, her eyes shooting tiny sparks. “It is right
there
. At the end of the mall. Can you not see it?”

“I’m not sure how you expect us to find our way back by ourselves,” groused Virginia. “It’s outrageous that you’re just going to abandon us. The next time I take a tour, you can be sure it won’t be with any slipshod company like this one.” She flung a disgusted look at Victor. “This is all your fault. River cruise. I didn’t want to take a river cruise.”

“How many of you would like to leave the tour now?” asked
Madeleine.

Bernice and Virginia shot their hands into the air immediately. Other hands drifted up more slowly. Bobbi. Dawna. Woody and his contingent.

“But I’ve got a question,” said Dawna, as she kicked rainwater off her alligator boots. “How do we get back to the boat?”

Oh, God
.

“I’ll take them,” offered Cal. “Or at least get them on the right road.
I’ve got a map.”

“
Merci beaucoup
,” Madeleine gushed, her voice dripping with gratitude.

“Not so fast, pretty boy,” taunted Bernice. “I’m not going anywhere
until it stops raining.”

“Neither am I,” declared Virginia. “I’m staying put until the storm
lets up.”

“Whatever,” said Cal. “Just don’t go wandering off. When we head
out, we head out together.”

“But if the rain doesn’t stop in the next thirty seconds, I’m gonna shoot across to that shoe store to browse,” warned Bernice. “Pick me up when you head back.”

“
Ewww
!” cried Dawna as she followed Bernice’s gaze. “You can pick
me up there, too. They’ve got boots on sale.” She hesitated. “Does
Vente
mean sale?”

“It means the place is air-conditioned,” said Bernice.

“It does not,” countered Virginia. “If the store were air-conditioned
, why would they throw the front doors wide open?”

“It doesn’t seem to bother you at home,” Victor commented with some snark. “I thought you rather enjoyed cooling off the neighborhood with our central air unit. I can’t think of a better way for you to waste my money. Can you? ”

“I’ll work on it.” She leveled a menacing look at him, eyes narrow and splintered with ice.

While the deserters waited out the storm, the rest of us ventured out into the pelting rain, splashing past centuries-old buildings that were timbered in pink and red and inset with tiers of arched windows. We passed an optician, a tobacconist, jewelers, clothiers, shoe shops, and a confection shop whose specialty chocolates and pastel macaroons were stacked in sumptuous pyramids in the display window, filling the air with the aromatic scent of cocoa beans. Just beyond Foot Locker and the Swatch store, the mall opened up to a huge square that bore the look of an Old World market with its fresh flower stalls and farm produce. Sidewalk cafés sat cheek to jowl on the cobblestones, their boundaries blurred by their sheer numbers,
their menus chalked onto freestanding blackboards, their tables empty
in the rain. A children’s carousel stood deserted, while directly behind it, a structure shaped like the curved sidewall of a skateboard arena rose above a trio of shade trees. In a city where the architecture was as delicate as spun sugar, this piece, whatever it might be, looked as out of place as hiking boots at a prom.

As we traipsed behind Madeleine, past the square’s many cafés, I realized that the odd structure was actually a roof that looked like Darth Vader’s imperial flagship landing atop a squat concrete building that was being slowly crushed beneath its prodigious weight. After skirting an area in front of the building, where the ruins of an ancient stone foundation poked up from the ground, we detoured right, heading for cover beneath the extended roof of the building’s portico. As the handful of us who remained collapsed our umbrellas, Madeleine resumed her spiel.

“This is the Church of St. Joan of Arc and it sits atop the place wher
e
she was burned at the stake in 1431. Six hundred years ago, this lovely
square was the site for public executions, so where tourists
dine today, the people of Rouen once gathered to watch justice
meted
out to convicted criminals. The actual spot where St. Joan died
is marked by a plaque just there.” She pointed to a fenced garden just beyond the church where a notably austere cross towered skyward. “I would rec
ommend that you visit the spot and take a picture once it stops rain
ing.”

“Is this church very old?” I asked, guessing the answer before Madeleine gave it.

“It was built in 1979, so by Rouen standards, it is brand new. The roof, with all its unusually placed points and peaks, is supposed to represent the flames that consumed St. Joan, but most people say it looks like the underside of an overturned boat, or, if you ask my twelve-year-old son, Darth Vader’s imperial flagship.”

I guess that clinched it. I had the imagination of a twelve-year-old boy. I was obviously spending way too much time with my five nephews.

“You can step inside the church to see the interior if you like. The inside is much more impressive than the outside. Do you have any questions before I turn you loose?”

“I have one,” said the woman beside me. “How do we get back to the boat?”

While Madeleine explained, yet again, which route to follow back
, I dug out a gratuity and waited for the remaining guests to leave before I approached her. “Do you remember me?” I asked as I pressed a five Euro note into her hand.

“Of course! Osmond’s friend. But, Emily, you are much too generous.” She nodded to the fiver.

“No, no. You deserve a much bigger tip simply for your patience. How do you remain so even tempered when guests keep asking you the same question that you’ve answered a dozen times already?”

“My temper is
not
even. I want to strangle some of these people with my bare hands, but I don’t. I celebrate their departure with a drink instead.” She smiled impishly. “Do you know why the French have become such great connoisseurs of wine?”

“Superb vineyards?”

“American tourists.”

Which prompted an idea. “If you have the time, could I buy you a glass of wine? The ship’s purser has been trying to contact you by email for us, but talking to you in person would be so much nicer.”

“My computer service.” She made a face. “It’s up. It’s down. It’s on. It’s off. But, yes, you and I must have a drink. My grandmother has asked for Osmond’s address and perhaps you are the person to give it to me.
Oui
?”

“
Oui
!” I was so thrilled by this unexpected twist of luck, I hugged
her.

_____

“My grandmama thumbs her nose at my computer. She calls it ‘that silly box.’ But if I tell her ‘that silly box’ will allow her to send an instant message to Osmond and receive a reply within minutes rather than weeks, I guarantee she will insist on learning.”

We’d found a table in a bistro that overlooked the church, and even
before our wine arrived, we’d exchanged contact information.

“Please tell Solange that Osmond can even receive email on his iPhone, so no matter what time of day or night she writes to him, when the
alert dings, he’ll reply.”

“He will reply to her in the middle of the night?”

“Yeah. He probably takes the thing to bed with him.” I sighed. “They all do.”