Fleur De Lies (25 page)

twenty

Two days later we
found ourselves moored alongside an embankment in Paris, in a nondescript section of the city bounded by roads, bridges, and an empty parking lot. Upon arrival, we’d cruised far enough up the Seine to shoot photos not only of the Eiffel Tower, but of the small-scale replica of the Statue of Liberty that occupied a tiny island in the middle of the river. Yesterday evening we’d enjoyed a night cruise of the city, where we
oohed
and
ahhed
at the sight of Gustave Eiffel’s tower, illuminated with a million lights, and twinkling like a giant Independence Day sparkler. Today, it was still fairly early, so we were sitting on the top deck, dithering about which optional tours we should sign up for.

“I’m leanin’ toward the Louvre,” said Nana as she consulted her travel brochure. “I wanna check out the competition, just in case I ever paint somethin’ that makes a big splash in them fancy art circles.” The water color instructor had been so complimentary of Nana’s work that Nana was actually talking about continuing to paint when she got back home, and exhibiting her work in either the Senior Center lunch room or a contemporary art gallery. Since Windsor City didn’t have an art gallery, she figured she might have to resort to building one herself on the north end of Main Street. Property values were cheaper on the north end, so she imagined she could do it for a song. Maybe less than ten million.

“I don’t feel like battling the museum crowds.” Jackie snapped her makeup mirror shut and recapped her lipstick wand. She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. “I’m hopping on the Metro and heading into the city. You’ll never guess where I’m going.”

Nana regarded her with a long, unblinking stare. “The eye doc
tor?”

“Guerlain,” I said. “Or Chanel. Or Lancome. Or—” I ran out of names.

“Don’t forget Esteé Lauder. I’m going shopping for cosmetics!”

“No kiddin’?” asked Nana. “You don’t got enough already?”

“Mrs. S., a woman can
never
have enough cosmetics, especially in my profession. You can’t imagine all the products I’ve gone through in my attempt to show you guys how hot you can look with your complexions buried beneath a ton of foundation.”

“Well, you sure done right by Bernice. I never seen her look so good as she did the other day.”

Jackie splayed her hand over her heart. “Bernice is one of my great success stories.”

I nodded. “I’ll give credit where credit is due, too. Her face looked amazing before Patrice fell on her.”

Jackie canted her head, staring off into space. “She was my masterpiece. She wanted to be to Mrs. S.’s art class what Mona Lisa had been to da Vinci. But sadly, smear-proof lipstick and volumizing mascara were never product tested beneath the weight of a 160- pound Frenchman.”

“I’ve gotta hand it to her,” I said, recalling what had happened when we’d pulled Patrice off her. “I was astonished she wasn’t embarrassed by her rather blatant overexposure when her bathrobe fell open. I would have been mortified.”

Nana rolled her eyes. “You wasn’t the one what was plannin’ to surprise the art class by posin’ in the buff ’cuz you thought ‘still life’ meant ‘naked person not movin’.”

“Count your blessings,” counseled Jackie. “At least she wasn’t hurt. And her threat to sue the tour company scored her a voucher for a free cruise at some later date. Kinda makes me wish I’d had a 160-pound Frenchman fall on top of
me
.”

Patrice had been led off the boat in handcuffs, destined to face an uncertain future in the French prison system. If only he’d taken the time to discuss the history of Pierre Lefevre’s ring with Woody. If only he hadn’t tried to avenge past wrongs by committing new ones.

“So what’s on your schedule, dear?” asked Nana.

A fluttery sensation tickled my breastbone. “I’m going to sit on this very spot and wait for a call from Etienne. His seminar is over, so he should be phoning me up any minute now.”

Jackie stood up. “I’m off, then. What about you, Mrs. S.?”

“I’ve only got a couple of hours before the bus leaves, so I better go, too.”

I stared out over the empty parking lot. “The bus isn’t even here yet, Nana.”

“I know, dear, so if I get in line now, there won’t be no way I’ll miss it.”

I removed my cell phone from my shoulder bag and set it on my lap, willing it to ring. A few guests were doing laps around the deck, some walking, others jogging, but it was pretty quiet up here this morning. It kinda made me feel as if I were the only passenger on the entire boat.

“There you are, Emily. I ran into Jackie downstairs. She was kind enough to tell me where you were. I hope you won’t mind the intrusion.”

“Victor!” I popped out of my chair and ushered him to the chair Nana had just vacated. His oxygen tube was secure in his nostrils, and he was still supporting himself on his cane, but he looked surprisingly hale considering what he’d just been through. “I hope you’re feeling as good as you look.”

He laughed. “Flatterer. But the hospital stay did me good. I don’t know what those IVs were pumping into me, but I no longer feel like a two-hundred-year-old relic. I feel more like a mere pup of perhaps seventy or eighty.”

“Are you rejoining us for the remainder of the trip?”

He nodded. “I’m making arrangements to accompany Krystal’s remains back to Texas, so until that happens, I’ll continue sightseeing with you. Besides, I’m feeling much too frisky to remain on my back any longer. I might even surprise Virginia and decide to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

I flashed a concerned look. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Just kidding.” He trailed his fingertips along the carved handle of his cane. “I’m told the ne’er-do-well who tried to poison me has been arrested.”

“Did the police give you details?”

“Enough to satisfy me for a while. What no one has bothered to tell me is why I’m still alive and young Krystal is dead. How is it that the person living in this decrepit body of mine could defy death? Why is she dead, while I live?”

“Actually, I was curious about that myself, so I nosed around the Internet, and I think I found the answer. Do you remember Krystal’s battle with motion sickness? She was so prone to the condition that she took daily supplements to ward it off. Massive doses of ginger. According to the information I found, ginger can amplify the effects of blood thinners to dangerous levels. Fatal levels. So I suspect that’s why she died and you didn’t.”

He shook his head sadly. “Life is so unfair. No one as beautiful as that lovely woman should have to die so young. And for what? For nothing.” He opened his jacket to observe the envelope containing his twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus check. “Upon copious reflection during my hospital stay, I’ve decided to award my much-anticipated bonus check to no one, but instead make a contribution in Krystal’s name to a worthy cause. What do you think of that idea?”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea.” Although I doubted Bobbi or Dawna would share my opinion.

“Good. I’m glad you agree. You didn’t spend much time in
Krystal’s
company, but from what little you observed of her, did you
get any sense of where she might want a donation of this size to end up?”

“The NRA?”

He frowned. “I don’t think so.” He closed his jacket and patted his lapel. “I’ll give it more thought.”

“Could I ask you something, Victor? I might be way out of line, but I’m really curious.”

He invited my inquiry with a palms up. “Please.”

“Why do you travel with a mortar and pestle?”

“You heard about that, did you?”

I shrugged. “Word gets around.”

He smiled. “They belong to Virginia. She uses them to pulverize her vitamin E softgels, which she applies to her face daily to maintain her flawless complexion. I’ve told her there’s no difference between vitamin E in liquid form and what’s contained in her softgels, but she doesn’t believe me. So wherever we go, so too go her mortar and pestle.”

“She does have a lovely complexion.” I touched my fingers to my cheek. “Maybe I should hop on board with her beauty tip.”

A faraway look crept into his eyes. “Virginia is indeed lovely, but I think no woman will ever match the incomparable beauty of Solange Spenard.”

I regarded him curiously. “You say that as if Solange were an old acquaintance.”

“I never had the pleasure of meeting the lady until a few days ago.”

I frowned. “Then how would you know—”

He held up his hand. “I saw her picture many years ago. Her husband hid it beneath the insole of his shoe to secret it away from our jailers, because, as you might imagine, the Germans were rather stingy about allowing their prisoners to indulge in creature comforts. And I ask you, what greater comfort would there be for an imprisoned man than a photo of his wife?”

I sat statue-still, the unexpectedness of his admission taking my
breath away. “You were a prisoner with Solange’s husband? In
Amiens Prison?”

“
Ah
. You know of Amiens. You’ve heard the story then?”

“Madeleine told me.”

“Then you know of the bombing raid. Many prisoners escaped, but many were tracked down and dragged back. Henri Spenard and I were fortunate. We eluded capture, but we lived in constant fear.”

“You escaped together?”

“We survived together. In the cold. In the snow. In the rain. We fled into Belgium, and from there, realized we must part company. Henri vowed to return home to Solange and his family. I had no home to return to. The Nazis had burned my village. Executed my family. So I started walking south, and ended up in Genoa.” His eyes grew wistful. “I regret that after all these years, I still don’t know if Henri ever made it home.”

“He did,” I said happily. “He and Solange were together for over fifty years and raised seven children.”

He smiled. “Henri was a good man. I’m glad he was able to return to the life he loved so much.” He thumped his fist on his sternum and coughed. “I’m afraid mine has been rather hampered by health issues, none of which were helped by a prolonged stay in a German prison cell, or a five hundred-mile trek to the sea.”

“How did you hike five hundred miles through occupied Europe without getting caught?”

Victor shrugged. “I chose my path carefully. Through forests. Along streams. Over mountain passes. I
had
to choose my path carefully. I carried no identity papers, so if I’d been asked to present them, my brilliant escape and journey would have been for naught.”

“You weren’t stopped in Genoa?”

“In Genoa, I found a sympathetic priest who falsified identity papers for me, and a sympathetic member of the Red Cross who provided me with a valid passport. I officially became Victor Martin at that moment, and I’ve been Victor Martin ever since.”

Which explained a great deal about why the police had run into a stone wall while looking into Victor’s past. “So you became Victor Martin. Where did you go?”

“Argentina. The priest paid for my passage, which I have repaid many times over with an annual contribution to his church. From Argentina, I eventually made my way north, to the United States, where my skills as an apothecary were, thankfully, in great demand.”

“You were a pharmacist in France?”

“I was, but I no longer wanted to formulate medications. I wanted
to formulate a product that would help people recover from their war wounds and scars. I wanted to create something that would help people, especially women, to feel good about themselves in the post-war world. So I developed Mona Michelle, the cosmetic line that would allow every woman an opportunity to look as beautiful as the photo of Henri’s wife. I’ve never forgotten her face, you see. It’s haunted me for years.”

I stared at him, awestruck. “Is this your first trip back to France since the war?”

He nodded. “I never wanted to come back. Too many painful memories. But Virginia insisted so … here we are.”

His tone made me suspicious. “Is Virginia aware of anything you’ve
just told me?”

He grinned. “Virginia thinks I was born and raised in Connecticut. She’s never asked questions about my origins because she’s not interested in my past history. As long as I continue to provide for her in the manner to which she’s accustomed, I could be a fugitive from Krypton, and she wouldn’t care.”

“If Virginia doesn’t know about your past, why are you sharing it with me?”

“Because I like you. You’ve been gracious to me without expecting anything in return, and given my status, you don’t know how rare that is.” He graced me with a soft smile. “Believe it or not, Emily dear, after all these years, I was feeling a need to tell someone, so I chose you.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing,” he suggested. “To anyone. If you’d be so kind.”

“Of course. But still—”

Victor heaved himself to his feet with more strength than he’d displayed over the entire trip. “Now that I’ve said my piece, I’ll take my leave before Virginia has a chance to convince herself that she actually misses me. Will I see you at dinner, my dear?”

“You bet.”

“Good. Our table needs the diversity.”

“Victor, would you answer one more question for me before you leave?”

“If I’m able.”

“Why did you select the name Mona Michelle for your company?”

He smiled enigmatically. “When people ask, I tell them quite sim
ply
that I liked the name. But to you, I will tell the truth. Mona
Michelle was my mother’s name.”

“And what was yours?”

“Richard. Richard Michelle. But my family saddled me with a pet name. Dick. I actually like Victor much better.”

He disappeared behind the wheelhouse, having provided me with
the answers to so many unanswered questions. Why he’d refused to talk about where he’d fought in the war. Why he had spoken to Solange with such familiarity. Why—

“Cigars for everyone!” cried Osmond as he appeared at the rail. He held out a stogie to a man jogging past him. “Cigar?”

The guy grabbed it and kept running.