Fleur De Lies (19 page)

Victor slid the bowl closer. “It’s quite delicious, Virginia. I suspect you may regret sharing it with me.”

“I doubt it.”

“I wanna clear the air about somethin’,” said Bobbi as she inched her bowl toward the center of the table. “If you’re gonna be openin’ a whole new branch of Mona Michelle, you’re gonna have to put me and Dawna in charge of somethin’, Victor. We’ve got seniority, which is a fancy way of sayin’ we’ve been with the company a lot longer than
she
has.” She nodded across the table at Jackie.

“Amen to that,” said Dawna.

Victor grinned. “You’ve lost your distaste of the elderly so quickly, ladies? How do you explain that?”

The girls exchanged a meaningful look before Bobbi placed a reverent hand over her heart. She turned doe eyes on Victor. “We both know it’s what Krystal would have wanted. She was so dedicated. So … so maniacal about her job. We can almost feel her presence with us now, can’t you?”

“That’s Krystal?” Jackie scanned the ceiling. “I thought it was a draft from the air conditioner.”

“Krystal never would have left you in the hands of amateurs,” swore Bobbi, “and neither will we.”

Especially if it meant booting Jackie off a higher rung of the corporate ladder. The girls definitely had their priorities.

“Could we declare a moratorium on shop talk?” asked Cal. “I’d like to enjoy my lobster bisque without the pain of heartburn.”

“You want mine, too?” asked Bobbi, nudging it toward him. “I can’t get past the color.”

“Me either,” said Dawna. “Mine’s free for the takin’. Anyone want it?”

Jackie sucked in her breath like a Hoover with a faulty motor. “Stop! Don’t anyone touch those bowls! They might be contaminated.”

Yup. That got everyone’s attention.

“
Euw
!” Dawna snatched her hands off the table. “Contaminated with what?”

“With whatever you and Bobbi used to kill Krystal.”

“WHAT?” they cried in unison.

“Don’t deny it,” warned Jackie. “You wanted to eliminate the top competitor to improve your odds at earning the bonus, so you whacked her.”

Bobbi’s mouth rounded like a knothole. “That’s not true!”

Virginia eyed the girls with cool detachment. “Are you listening to
this, Victor? Your fair-haired beauties may be natural-born killers.”

“We are not!” protested Dawna. “There’s nothin’ natural about us.”

Virginia settled back in her chair and smiled. “Actually, I rather like the idea. So how did you do it? Peroxide? Or were you afraid you wouldn’t have enough to see you through the entire trip, so you decided to substitute something else?”

Bobbi gasped. “Are y’all gonna sit there and let her talk to us like that?”

“I’m okay with it,” said Jackie.

Dawna shot an explosive look at Virginia. “If you don’t take that back, I mean to tell ya, I don’t care if you
are
Victor’s wife. Me and Bobbi will sue you for libel.”

“No, you won’t,” said Cal.

“Oh, yah?” challenged Bobbi. “You just watch us, sugah.”

“The only way you can sue someone for libel is if the person says something defamatory about you in
print
. If it doesn’t appear in black and white, you can forget about it.”

Dawna flitted a desperate look around the table. “Does anyone have a pen and paper?”

“Maybe she could text you,” I suggested.

“I cannot begin to tell you how inappropriate this conversation has become,” said Victor as he set his spoon on the service plate beneath his empty bowl. “Have you suddenly become members of the politburo that you can throw around your accusations so freely?”

“Harmless chitchat,” chimed Virginia.

“Well, I advise you to find some other topic to chitchat about.”

As it happened, I knew the perfect thing.

“Woody has some intriguing tales to tell about his experiences in World War II. Maybe he’d agree to share a few stories with us.”

Cal rolled his eyes. “Great. Now you’ve done it.”

“Happy to oblige,” Woody enthused. “Happy to oblige. Well, it all started back in December of ’41. Pearl Harbor got bombed on the seventh, and I was first in line at the recruitment office on the eighth.”

“My Grampa Potter did the same thing!” Jackie tittered. “He was a navy guy, but he eventually ended up in France as part of a Seabee unit.”

“Not me. I was army all the way. Never made it to France.”

“That’s too bad,” I lamented. “You might have run into some of your French ancestors as you pushed toward Germany.”

“What French ancestors? I’m not French.”

“But—” I feigned confusion. “I guess I just assumed that since you’re wearing a family heirloom with a French symbol, your ancestors were … you know … French.”

“I might have had a French relative a thousand years ago, before the Norman Invasion, but my family tree got its roots in British soil.”

“So how do you explain the fleur-de-lis on your ring?”

“Why should I have to explain?” His voice rose a half-octave. “Like I told you before, it’s always been in the family. I don’t know how its original owner came by it, or how many hands it passed through to get to me, and I don’t care. Neither should you.”

“I’ve always thought the flower on his ring was a lily,” said Cal. “Considering we hail from a long line of morticians, a lily would make sense. It’s certainly appropriate to the profession. We do handle more than our share of lilies. But I don’t have a clue why the petal is broken.”

“Maybe it signifies that one of your relatives went bankrupt,” offered Jackie.

“Undertakers don’t go bankrupt,” scoffed Dawna.

Jackie puffed up with indignation. “Excuse me? They would if they lived in a nonsmoking community where the primary interests were fad diets and yoga.”

“Did you ever have a metalsmith in your family?” I asked, continuing to press the issue. “Someone who might have actually fabricated the ring?”

Virginia groaned her impatience. “Would you mind
showing
us whatever it is you’re talking about?”

Woody obliged by holding up his hand and flashing his ring around the table.

“I’m not sure what all the fuss is about,” said Virginia. “It’s not even fourteen carat.”

Bobbi pulled a face. “That’s not a lily. It’s an amaryllis.”

“I think it looks like a snapdragon,” said Dawna.

Cal grinned. “I’d give you iris or orchid, but snapdragon? Have you ever
seen
a snapdragon?”

“Shoot,” jeered Bobbi. “Dawna doesn’t know the difference between a tulip and a tea rose. She probably just likes to say the word ‘snapdragon’ out loud. Ya know? Kinda like Krystal used to like to say ‘snakeskin.’”

I tossed the Jollys a questioning look. “You’re not aware of any metalsmiths in the family?”

Cal shrugged. “Beats me. Dad?”

“How the devil should I know? And when would I have time to find out? Hell, I work full time.”

“Then it might surprise you to learn that, prior to World War II, a metalsmith living in Solange Ducat’s village fabricated a ring that’s an exact replica of yours, right down to the broken petal. And the
really
weird thing is, he’s reputed to have made only one. So the only way it could have gotten into your hands is if the metalsmith had placed it there himself, and that’s kind of impossible, because according to the story Madeleine Saint-Sauveur told us on our home visit, he was one of the Resistance fighters who went missing after the failed mission at Pointe du Hoc. He and his ring disappeared from the face of the earth and have never been seen again. Until now.”

Color leached from Woody’s face. He froze in place, eyes fixed, mouth rigid.

“There’s obviously a simple explanation,” said Cal. “Tell her what it is, Dad.”

Woody seemed unable to breathe. He bowed his head and gripped
his hands together to ease a sudden tremor.

Jackie slanted a look at him. “Is he okay?”

“Dad?” Cal gripped his father’s shoulder and shook gently. “What’s
wrong? C’mon, Dad, you’re scaring me.”

“Are you suggesting that Mr. Jolly could be the same man who undertook the mission to Pointe du Hoc?” Virginia asked me. “Do you know what you’re saying? Because I heard Mrs. Saint-Sauveur as well as you did. If he was the man who lived through the mission, that would mean he’s the man the Nazis allowed to escape because he was collaborating with them. Are you accusing Mr. Jolly of being the traitor who sold out his village to the Nazis?”

“I’d like to go back to my cabin now,” said Woody in a halting voice. “I … I’m not really hungry.”

“Geez, Dad, will you say something? Tell them this is all a bunch of bull. Tell
me
it’s all a bunch of bull!”

“I’m sorry, Cal.” Woody’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m … I’m so sor—”

“
Ehhh
!” shrieked Virginia, pulling the oxygen tubing away from
Victor’s face as a torrent of blood began spewing from his nose. Jacki
e whipped her napkin off her lap and pressed it against his nostrils.

“Gimme your napkins! This is just like Krystal’s.”

And we all knew what had happened to Krystal.

sixteen

“Do you believe me
now? First Krystal, now Victor? Aren’t you sorry for calling me paranoid?”

“I never called you paranoid.”

“Maybe not. But you were
thinking
it.”

The ambulance transporting Victor and Virginia to the hospital had departed well over three hours ago. Normally, the restaurant manager wouldn’t have called emergency services for a mere nosebleed, but after we beat him over the head with the fact that another guest at our table had died after suffering a similar nosebleed two days ago, he succumbed to our pleas and relented. He could see for himself that Victor’s was no ordinary nosebleed.

It was a gusher.

So amid much fanfare and confusion, Victor had been whisked off on a gurney, loaded into an ambulance, and driven off with sirens blaring.

“He was wearing his favorite dinner jacket,” Jackie reflected as
she peered out the wraparound windows at the ship’s bow, staring mindlessly at the city bridge that loomed above our mooring place.

In a half-baked effort to put a positive spin on an absolutely dreadful evening, we had decided to meet in the lounge for a well-deserved cocktail after the police interviews ended.

“Of course, the jacket is totally ruined now. Feel free to quote me on this, Emily. Technology will never be advanced enough to develop an oxygen-boosting stain treatment capable of removing that much blood from natural fiber clothing.”

I sighed. “Victor’s dinner jacket is the least of his problems.”

We didn’t have a clue which passengers aboard the
Renoir
had been grilled by the criminal investigation unit, but all the interviewees must have been cleared, because when the police paraded down the gangway, they didn’t have any suspects in tow. I’d been granted access to one of the attending officers on-the-fly, so in a quick three-minute meeting, I expressed my fear about a male guest who’d been transported to the hospital with a nosebleed that was eerily reminiscent of the one Krystal Cake had suffered prior to her death.

“Doctors at both local hospitals are very competent, madame,” he’d assured me.

“Yeah, but, could his nosebleed be an indication that someone slipped him the same substance that caused Krystal’s brain hemorrhage? Could whoever killed her be trying to kill him, too?”

“Did you inform the emergency medical unit of your concerns?”

“We tried, but there was a lot of commotion in the dining room and everyone ended up talking at the same time, so I’m not sure they heard us. They were mostly interested in clearing the area and treating the patient.”

“Did anyone accompany the gentleman to the hospital?”

“His wife.”

“She’ll be questioned by the admissions staff at the hospital. If she tells them of your concerns, I promise you, they will be addressed.”

“Okay, that’s good to know. I just wanted you to be current with all the details.”

“I appreciate your stepping forward, Mrs. Miceli. Perhaps you would be kind enough to give me the gentleman’s name? For future reference if needed.”

He wrote down the information I gave him, frowning slightly as he turned to another page in his memo pad. “Ah, yes. Victor Martin. I recognize the name. We were applauding the fact that a man afflicted with so many health problems had the courage to venture so far from home.”

“How do you know about his health problems?”

“Are you familiar with the term: medical history form? A most helpful tool. But given Mr. Martin’s age, I will tell you I am not surprised that he was rushed to hospital with acute nasal problems. For many elderly who are oxygen-dependent, it is not an uncommon occurrence.”

I stirred my Bloody Mary, trying to regain my balance after having my legs knocked out from under me. “That police officer must have thought I was just another hysterical tourist with an addiction to American TV programs beginning with the letters CSI. But I swear, I never even thought about the possibility that Victor’s nosebleed might have been caused by his nasal apparatus.”

“If that nosebleed was caused by nasal apparatus, someone needs to redesign the apparatus. His event was
exactly
like Krystal’s, minus the whining. Trust me, our killers have struck again.”

“Maybe it was a polyp. I think polyps can bleed quite profusely.”

“The girls have a lot of brass to target the head of the company. I think it’s a sign of how delusional they are. Beautiful women think they can get away with anything.”

“Or it might be possible that the air-conditioning caused his nasal tissue to dry up. I think dry nasal tissue can cause all kinds of problems.”

“Emily, pull your head out of the sand. The girls are staging a
takeover of the company, although I’m not sure how they plan to eliminate all the board members. There’s a whole slew of them. Mostly old men with obscenely young trophy wives. I think that’s kind of a Texas tradition.”

“How can Bobbi and Dawna take over anything? Neither one of them is equipped to run a multimillion dollar corporation.”

“Which is exactly why they’re in this together! They know they can’t do it alone, so they’ve teamed up. Two bodies, one brain. And I hate to break it to you, but their current score ain’t too shabby. Benedict and Chestnut—Two. The rest of us—Nothing.”

“Don’t stick Victor in their win column yet. He’s still alive.”

“Let’s hope so. But if Virginia was too traumatized to give the paramedics some background on what’s been happening around here with toxic substances—” Her voice grew gravelly with emotion.

“The police assured me that the hospital staff would pump her for information, so I expect she’ll give them a full history, even though she and Victor
do
run kind of hot and cold.”

Jackie exhaled a dramatic sigh. “He’s such a sweet man. So Old World and mannered. The last of a dying breed. But I’m still puzzled about why the girls hit
him
instead of me. I mean, wouldn’t it have made more sense for them to get rid of their closest competition and
then
hit the bigwigs? That’s the way I’d do it, but then again, I’m not blonde.” She sniffed delicately. “I feel as if Victor took a bullet for me.”

I drained my glass and set it down on a side table, casting about for explanations. “Maybe it was a question of opportunity and timing. You were holed up with the gang on the boat all day while Victor hung out with Bobbi and Dawna on the port walk. So they literally had unrestricted access to him all day long.”

“See?
Why
is it taking you so long to admit I’m right?”

I frowned. “But that doesn’t really wash because we didn’t stop for anything to eat while we were touring. We were too busy dodging raindrops.”

“They could have eaten after the tour ended. I didn’t see them in the dining room at the luncheon buffet, so they must have stopped someplace on their way back to the boat. In fact, Bobbi and Dawna were probably lobbying to eat in some fancy little bistro so they could set the wheels in motion to take out Victor.”

Weary from all the mental calisthenics, I slumped in my chair and scrubbed my face with my hands. “My head’s going to explode. I dunno, Jack. I get the feeling we’re missing something obvious, but I can’t figure out what.”

She clasped her hands to her chest, her eyes brimming with nostalgia. “You know what
I
miss?”

“Your old external plumbing?”

“Twinkies. I was so crushed when Hostess stopped making them. I know they’re supposed to make a comeback with another company, but I doubt they’ll ever stack up to the originals.”

“When did you start eating Twinkies?”

“When I became a vegetarian. Sponge cake and artificial cream filling are
so
much better for you than red meat.”

At the sound of voices, I glanced over my shoulder to find Patrice setting another cocktail in front of Irv. Man, if the only thing Irv wanted to do on this trip was drink, he could have saved himself some money by having his bender at home. If he kept this up, he might not even remember
taking
the trip. I wondered if he’d mentioned his struggle with alcoholism on his medical history form. Probably not. He might even deny he
had
a problem. But thinking about the forms prompted another thought.

“Do you know how the police chose the guests they wanted to interview?”

“Well, they didn’t interview
me
, so whatever process they used, it’s flawed.”

“They read all our medical history forms.”

She gasped. “They can’t do that, can they? I thought the only agencies authorized to spy on Americans were the NSA, CIA, FBI, ONI, INR, IRS, online advertisers, and Facebook.”

“They
did
do it. So if the police were interested in what we wrote on our medical forms, do you realize what that means?”

The answer seemed to strike her like a lightning bolt, causing her
to bounce excitedly on her chair. “I know, I know. Handwriting
analysis!”

“What?”

“They analyzed everyone’s handwriting to see whose penmanship best fits the profile of a killer. It’s possible, Emily. The way we form our Bs and Fs can speak volumes about our potential for criminal activities. And capital Gs? They might as well be neon arrows.”

I stared at her, deadpan. “They reviewed our medical histories because they wanted to check out what drugs we’re carrying! If whatever killed Krystal came in prescription drug form, they’d want to interview anyone using the same drug to verify that the guest still had enough medication to treat his or her condition for the remainder of the trip. If someone demonstrated an obvious shortage, it would raise a flag, right?”

She twitched her lips. “I suppose. But if you ask me, the value of handwriting analysis is grossly underrated.”

“A shortage would have to be explained. And if a guest couldn’t offer a reasonable explanation as to why he’d failed to bring enough medication with him, the police would probably haul him off to the station for further questioning. Agreed?”

“Personally, I think it’s regrettable that the French police could jail someone for being absentminded, stupid, or both.”

“But that didn’t happen. The police didn’t haul anyone away,
which means, if Bobbi and Dawna were questioned, they passed muster, and if they
weren’t
questioned, it was probably because they weren’t carrying the drug in the first place.”

Jackie sat very still, looking disappointed, but not yet willing to give up the fight. “Just because the girls didn’t list the drug on their medical histories doesn’t mean they weren’t carrying it.”

“Look, if they’d planned to kill Krystal from the get-go, they might have had a reason to omit it from the list. But if they killed her because of the bonus, like you suggested, let me remind you that
none
of you knew about the bonus before you left home, so there was no reason
not
to include it.”

“Listen, Emily,” she huffed, “you might think you’re making
sense, but you’ll never convince me that—”

“Neither one of us saw them tamper with Krystal’s or Victor’s food, Jack. How did they dole out their deadly doses with everyone watching? Krystal gave one of her supplements to Woody, but other than that, no one has shared a single morsel of food with anyone else.” An image suddenly tumbled into my consciousness. “Well, other than Virginia.”

The name hung in the air between us, causing us to exchange a horrified look. “Ohmigod,” croaked Jackie. “The soup. She couldn’t get rid of her soup fast enough at dinner. Could she have—?”

Motivations began cascading in my head. Her love/hate relationship with Victor. Her rage over the bonus check. Her contempt for Victor’s bevy of beauties. Anger. Greed. Jealousy. Holy crap. It was all there in plain sight … and we’d missed it.

“Yes, she could have,” I cried as I riffled through my shoulder bag for my cell phone. “And we sent her to the hospital with him. What if the only reason she agreed to go was to finish him off while he—”

“I’m really sorry to bother you ladies.” Cal Jolly came up behind us on cat’s feet. “It’s my dad. He’d like to speak to Emily. To the both of us, actually. About the ring. He’s acting pretty weird for Dad, so I’m kind of worried. It’s like he blew all his internal circuits at dinner and is blathering about stuff that doesn’t make any sense. I know it’s an imposition, and I apologize for asking, but could I drag you away for a few minutes? It seems really important to him.”

“
Uhhh
—” I froze, my hand locked around my phone, torn between courtesy and obligation.

“You go,” urged Jackie, whipping out her own phone. “I’ll make the call.”

“But … do you know what to say?”

“Emily! I’ve got it.” She shooed me away. “Where are you taking her?” she asked Cal.

“My dad’s cabin. Number thirty-eight. I just hope he’s still there. Like I said, he’s not himself. It’s like he’s suddenly turned into an entirely different person.”

_____

Woody Jolly was pacing the floor when we arrived, the bluster gone from his demeanor. He greeted me with a nod before indicating that Cal and I should sit on the bed.

We sat.

He continued to pace.

“I never should have left home,” he said in a voice that trembled with emotion. “But how could I know this would happen? No one ever figured it out. No one even suspected. It was my secret, and no one was any the wiser.”

Acid bubbled up in my throat. Oh. My. God. My hunch had been right. It was him. He was the traitor.

“Damn ring.” He tried to pull it off his finger, but it wouldn’t budge.

“It’s not a Jolly family heirloom, is it?” I regarded him with forced indulgence.

He shook his head.

“Why’d you do it, Woody?”

He shrugged. “I grew up thinking integrity was the most important virtue a man could have. And then, one day, I discovered it wasn’t.”

“What took precedence over integrity?” asked Cal.

“You have to ask?” He let out a humorless laugh. “Money, Cal. Money’s the only thing that matters in this world. Without it, you’re nothing.”