Fleur De Lies (24 page)

“I took one opshional tour. One waz enough.” He took a sip of his Cuba libre. “I’d rather shtay here and chat with Patreesh. Now Patreesh, he looks
very
familiar. I’d know him anywhere.” He flung his head toward the bar. “Oh, look. He’s hard at work. Don’t you jusht love the shound of ice cubes clinking in a glassh?”

“Good afternoon once again, ladies and gentlemen,” the art instructor announced behind us. “Please seat yourselves close to the supplies I’ve provided, and if you recall my instructions from yesterday’s lesson, I would encourage you to begin. I’ll come around to watch how you’re progressing.”

“I bet you didn’t know Patreesh’s family got their shtart in alcohol,” Irv blathered on. “Calvadosh. That delicioush brandy our lovely hostess sherved ush at her housh.”

“The one made from apples?”

“The one that’s only made in Normandy.”

“Aha! So that’s why he’s able to cycle on the Tour de France roads. Does he live along the route? Or nearby?”

“His family lives shomewhere by those D-Day beaches we
vishited.”

“Really? I wonder if they live in the same vicinity as Madeleine Saint-Sauveur.”

“He menshioned shomeplace called Pointe … shomething or other.”

“Pointe du Hoc?”

He made a pointer of his finger and stabbed it into the air. “That’s it. Pointe … whatever you shaid. Good guessh.”

“It wasn’t a guess. Madeleine told us the story about Pointe du Hoc. Didn’t you hear her? It’s where the Resistance fighters from the local village were killed.”

“Oh, yeah. The Resishtance fighters. His grandfather was a Resishtance fighter.”

A frisson of alarm sent a chill rippling down my spine. “I didn’t
realize that.” I glanced toward the bar as Patrice delivered a Cuba
libre to Woody. “Did Patrice tell you anything else about his grand-father?”

Irv nodded. “Yup. He gave me the whole hishtory. He died on D-Day. At that Pointe dew whatever place.”

The picture came together in that instant with the impact of a multiple car crash. Of course. Of course!
Oh, my God
.

I launched myself out of my chair and raced across the room. “Don’t drink that!” I yelled, slapping the glass out of Woody’s hand just as the rim touched his lips.

“What the hell?” he boomed.

The glass flew onto the floor, splashing cola onto every dry surface and shooting ice across the carpet like hockey pucks.

“What’d you do that for?” he barked.

“It’s you!” I cried, firing my accusation at Patrice like a bullet from a .45. “You saw his ring!” I jerked Woody’s hand upward and flashed his ring finger. “You know its history. It’s why you want to kill him!”

Eyes big as plates, Patrice backed slowly toward the bar. “I don’t know what you say, madame.” He stretched his hand out in warning. “You should mind where you step. The ice. You might slip.”

“I couldn’t figure out the one detail that connected all the events, but it was you.
You
were the connection.”

I heard loud thumps and scuffling as the gang stampeded across the room to form a wide circle around me.

“It’s him what’s been doin’ the killin’?” asked Nana.

I nodded. “It’s him. When the police analyze the contents of the highball he just mixed for Woody, I suspect the jig will be up.”

Woody snorted his outrage. “He put something in my drink?”

“Blood thinner,” I said. “Warfarin. Most probably left over from the hip replacement surgery he underwent last year. The drug that killed Krystal. The drug that sent Victor to the hospital.”

Patrice took another step backward, chest heaving, eyes skittish. He shook his head. “A mistake. A terrible mistake. I did not mean for the girl to die. I did not mean for the gentleman to suffer.”

“Then why did they?” I demanded.

“The mademoiselle. It was a terrible confusion. The day she died, she ate the food I intended for
him
.
Cochon
,” he spat at Woody.

Woody looked stunned. “You mean to say, if I’d eaten Krystal’s breakfast, I’d be dead?”

“That was the idea,” snarled Patrice.

“How did the order get mixed up in the first place?” I urged. “They both ordered the same thing, so—”

“Two omelets,” snapped Patrice. “One for the man in place setting one, and one for the mademoiselle in place setting two.
She
should be alive.
He
should be dead. So I ask, what happened?”

“They switched seats,” I said, recalling breakfast that morning. “Krystal complained about having to sit in the sun, so Woody offered to change seats with her. If you’d been the one who actually
served
the food, you might have noticed the switch, but, as I remember, you conveniently found someone else to do your dirty work for you.”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “What can I say? The dining room was very busy that morning.”

“Let this be a lesson to all you men,” Helen blasted. “Giving up your seat to a lady might save your life one day. YOU HEAR THAT, DICK?”

“Krystal didn’t complain to anyone about the food tasting
funny?” I pressed Patrice.

“She would have no cause. The drug has no taste, no odor. And when mixed into the horseradish-infused sauce for the omelet, it would have been undetectable. But again, it pains me greatly that she died. She was not my intended target.”

“And what about Victor? How did you make a mistake with
him?”

“The Bloody Marys last night.” He trained a damning eye on Woody. “I placed the drink directly in his hand, but what does he do? He sets it on the table so close to Monsieur Martin’s cocktail that the other gentleman picks it up and drinks it.” He thrust an angry finger at Woody. “Why are you so hard to kill? You belong in Hell with the scum who executed my grandfather on the morning of D-Day!”

“That wasn’t me!” raged Woody. “I didn’t kill your grampa. I wasn’t anywhere near Normandy on D-Day. If you wanna kill the real owner of this ring, you’re way too late, son. He died years ago, and the reason I know that is because I’m
the one who buried him.”

Patrice narrowed his eyes with suspicion. “My grandmother
wore a brooch with the same fleur-de-lis design. She told me stories of Pierre Lefevre and his signature jewelry. If you are not Pierre Lefevre, how is it that you wear a ring that Pierre Lefevre never removed from his finger?”

Woody gnawed on his lower lip, his cheeks and nose turning scarlet. “It’s a little hard to explain,” he choked out.

I didn’t condone what Woody had done, but neither did I condone his having to face any more public humiliation than what he’d be facing when he returned home. “I don’t know how you dispose of personal property here in France,” I spoke up, “but back home we have something called an estate sale, where possessions that people have held dear can be purchased by perfect strangers. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jolly?”

Woody coughed self-consciously and bobbed his head.

“They’re listed in the newspaper every week,” I continued. “Some folks are so addicted to them, they’ll attend two or three a day.”

Patrice shook his head, disbelieving. “You are Pierre Lefevre. The traitor of D-Day.”

“Honest, son, I’m Woodrow Jolly the Third, newly retired funeral director of Jolly Funeral Home, born and bred in the good old US of A, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

Doubt filled Patrice’s eyes. “It is not possible.”

“Show of hands,” announced Osmond. “How many people think the old guy is who he says he is?”

“No voting!” I cried.

“If you are not Pierre Lefevre,” rasped Patrice, his vocal cords straining against his throat, “then I have—” He gasped for breath as the magnitude of what he’d done played out on his face in anguished waves. Horror. Fear. Regret. Fusing into a primal need to run.

Hemmed in on three sides, he bolted around the end of the bar.

“Do
not
follow him behind there!” I warned as Dick Stolee made to give chase.

“Move away from the bar,” ordered Patrice as he assumed a central position behind the counter, barricading himself behind a stack of cocktail napkins and bowl of nuts. He stared at us. We stared at him. Nobody moved.

“Did you mean that as a threat?” asked Tilly.

“
Oui,
madame.”

“Move away from the bar or else … what?” questioned Dick Teig.

Patrice dropped his voice to a menacing pitch. “You should move away for your own good.”

He made googly eyes at us. We made googly eyes back.

Nana raised her hand.

“
Oui,
madame?” Patrice nodded, giving her the floor.

“I don’t wanna slam your escape plan or nuthin’, but you don’t got no leverage. If you was plannin’ to make threats, you shoulda taken a hostage.”

“Nana!” I chided.

“I’ll be his hoshtage,” volunteered Irv, “if he lets me camp out behind the bar with him.”

As if recognizing the wisdom of Nana’s words, Patrice snatched up an industrial-size corkscrew and pressed it to his throat. “If you do not move away, I will drive this corkscrew into my throat, and for the rest of your lives,
all
of you will have my blood on your hands.”

“Not if we keep standing where we are,” said Margi. “I think we’re far enough out of range to avoid splatter.”

George scratched his head. “I hate to bring this up, son, but the notion behind taking a hostage is to threaten someone
else’s
life, not your own.”

“My life?” wailed Patrice. “It is worth nothing now. I will kill myself, and you will all watch!”

A trickle of blood streamed down his throat as he prepared to make good on his threat.

“Okay!” I yielded. “We’re moving back. Put the corkscrew down. C’mon, everyone.” I began shuffling backward, motioning the gang to move back with me. “Nice and slow. Everybody back.”

“Faster!” yelled Patrice. He grabbed something off the bar and hurled it toward us.

A shot glass bounced off Dick Stolee’s shoulder and hit the floor. “Ow!” he howled. “Hey! Cut that out.”

Lucille ducked as the bottom half of a cocktail shaker sailed toward her. “Take cover!” she cried.

A martini glass crashed onto a table and shattered. A champagne flute hit a vertical column, spraying glass everywhere. We took refuge behind chairs and sofas as Patrice unloaded his arsenal, pelting us with margarita glasses, wine glasses, highball glasses, lowball glasses. A bottle of Tanqueray flew over my head and smashed upon landing, exploding like a homemade bomb.

“SHTOP!” screamed Irv. “Not the booze!”

“Who’s got a phone?” I shouted out.

“I do,” they all replied from their hidey holes.

“I’d prefer not to talk about it,” sniffed Margi from beneath a nearby table.

“Call the police,” I instructed.

“What’s the number?” asked Dick Teig.

“Try one-one-two,” said Tilly. “That’s a general emergency number for Europe.”

“Can’t we just call the boat and let
them
handle him?” asked
Grace.

I poked my head above the armrest of my chair, diving to the deck when I saw a projectile hurtling toward me.

BOOM
went the bottle as it burst over the floor.

“Waz that Crown Royal?” shrieked Irv. “Do you know how expenshive that shtuff is?”

“Hello?” Dick Teig said into his phone. “I’m trying to call the police. Po-lice. POLICE.”

“Does anyone know the phone number for the boat?” asked Grace.

“Are you speaking English?” snapped Dick. “It doesn’t sound like English.” He waved his phone above his head. “Anyone else wanna give it a try? I can’t understand what she’s saying.”

“Slide it this way,” Margi urged from beneath her table. “I’ll try out my new language skills.”

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” shouted Dick Stolee, who’d slithered his way across the floor to reach the bowl of fruit. He lobbed a cantelope through the air toward the bar.

CRASH
! Boom!
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle
.

“
Où est la bibliotèque
?” Margi asked into Dick’s phone.

Patrice retaliated with a bottle of Jim Beam, followed by a handful of nuts and a bowl of pimento-stuffed olives.

“Why is Margi asking directions to the library?” inquired Tilly.

“Hold it right there, mister!” Lucille huffed as she plucked one of the nuts off the carpet. “Do you live under a rock? These things are dangerous! You ever heard of peanut allergies? Just being in the same room with one of these little buggers can be enough to kill some folks.”

“I wish he’d throw some maraschino cherries,” said Nana.

“Ask him,” I prodded. “Maybe he’ll take requests.”

Dick Stolee started rapid firing a volley of missiles that sent Patrice scrambling for cover. Grapefruit. Apple. Pear. Naval orange. Peach, or maybe a nectarine. I couldn’t tell which. Muskmelon. BOOM!
Bam
. CRASH.
Splat
!

“
Écoutez et répétez,
” recited Margi in a singsong voice “
Bonjour, Jean.”

“Ready or not, here I come,” Bernice yelled above the mayhem.

I peeked around my chair to the entrance side of the lounge to find Bernice dressed in a short tie-belt bathrobe … and nothing else.
Holy crap
! Where were her clothes?

On a brighter note, her makeup looked quite spectacular.

“What the devil’s going on?” she crabbed as she studied the devastation. “Is this lesson about Monet … or Picasso?”

She shrieked as Patrice catapulted over the bar and went airborne, accidentally clipping his foot on the counter and landing on top of her with a rib-rattling
OOOFF
, flattening her beneath him. “Oh, my God!” I cried. “Bernice!”

“Don’t let him get away!” whooped Dick Stolee.

Patrice shot his head up and boosted himself onto his hands as if preparing to flee.

“Not sho fasht,” Irv slurred as he lifted his cane and thwacked Patrice across the back of his head. “I’ll forgive your other transgresshions, but I’ll never forgive you for deshtroying perfectly good Crown Royal. It jusht happens to be my favorite.”