French Fried (13 page)

Could someone as flighty as Sylvie have poisoned my wife? The desire to tease Gabrielle did show a certain maliciousness, but it took more than that to poison someone. And why would she? I called the Doignes next and spoke to Gabrielle, who complimented me on my wife’s appreciation for Catholic history and churches. “She was stunned by the beauty of the basilica and Saint-Jean Cathedral. I wish I could say the same for Sylvie. I’m not even sure she’s Church of England. What sect do you and Carolyn adhere to? Protestant I suppose, but still—”

I really had no interest in discussing religion with Gabrielle so I interrupted to ask if she’d heard from Carolyn after their outing.

“She’s not home yet?” cried Gabrielle. “I might have known. Sylvie probably had an accident or her car broke down, and the two of them are marooned somewhere. Poor Carolyn. She was worried about getting a stomachache from the pâté and her—what was the word?—hernia. My aunt had one. Very unpleasant.”

What hernia?
I wondered. Gabrielle wasn’t much help. She could only suggest that I call the police to ask for reports of accidents involving two women in a small, foreign car.

I stopped worrying about an accident when I remembered that Yvette had claimed Carolyn came back to the hotel and left again. I didn’t know who to call next or where in Old Lyon the apartment was. I should have put my foot down on that score, but it is quite difficult these days to put my foot down with Carolyn. She used to listen when I asked her to do something she didn’t want to do. Now I was lucky to find dinner waiting when I got home. I blamed it on my mother. Sometimes I spied that feminist gleam in my wife’s eye, the same gleam that had made chaos of my childhood. I was fifteen the first time I had to bail Mother out of jail. Before they divorced, my father had done that.

The telephone rang just then, Yvette calling to say that the Guillots were waiting for me in the lobby, and that she would be very angry if I did not return the room key lent to me at the manager’s insistence. I put my suit jacket back on and took the elevator downstairs.

 

First, I was
aware of the terrible pain in my head, pounding, inescapable. It made me want to get away from my own consciousness. Then I realized that I didn’t know where I was. Only confusion met my attempts to think. Confusion multiplied a hundredfold by pain. I heard a whimper and thought it was mine. I tried to open my eyes, and the light cut into them like a razor into flesh. I heard a voice, not speaking my language, and wished it away. The hand on my shoulder, although gentle, terrified me because it might belong to the person who had hurt me.

“Madam?” The voice was female and nonthreatening.

Eyes still closed, I whispered, “Where am I?”

More foreign voices conferred softly. Then a man’s voice in accented English said, “Madam, you are in a hospital.”

“Where?”

“In Lyon, France. Do you know your name?”

Did I? “Carolyn? Carolyn Blue?”

“And you live in Lyon?”

Did I? Memories began to slip through the agony, and I replied, “Charlemagne. On Charlemagne Cour. My hotel.”

“You are a visitor to our city?”

More memories leaked in between the waves of pain. “I’ve been poisoned. Treat me for tetro—tetrotoxin. No. Dotoxin? The poison in fugu. In the pâté at the basilica.”

Several people spoke to each other unintelligibly. “My head hurts. Can’t you do something? At least make me throw up before the poison shuts down my nervous system.”

“Madam,” said the male voice, “it is unlikely you have been poisoned. You were found in a stairway. Without consciousness. An injury to the head.”

“Someone hit me on the head?” It felt like it, but what about Sylvie’s pâté? “Sylvie?”

“She hit you?”

“Made the pâté.”

“You may have fallen on the stair and hit your head on the stone wall.”

“Catherine’s apartment,” I mumbled, remembering now that I had been feeling my way upstairs in the dark.

“However, there was no handbag. Did you carry one?”

“Yes. Oh lord, did they take her key?” Even through the pounding, I now feared that my attacker took Catherine’s key and burglarized her apartment. “And
my
key? To the hotel room. Did they—” Jason would be very upset if everything was stolen. Our laptops. Our clothes. “And my money and credit cards—are they gone?”

“Your purse was not found. Can you open your eyes?”

“No,” I said firmly. Either a criminal had attacked me, something Catherine had warned me against, or this was another attack on Jason and me. “One man has died of poison meant for us. My husband was injured when a car tried to run him down. Now I’ve been attacked. Call Inspector Theodore Roux. It’s his case. And my husband. Jason Blue. At the Charlemagne. Or at the university.”

“What university, madam?”

I couldn’t remember. Why did these things happen to me? I was a good person. Before I could complain, someone pried one eye open and shone a light in it.

“You have a concussion,” said the male voice.

“Then give me some painkillers.”

“Not yet,” he replied.

“That’s mean.” I felt like crying, but was afraid it would make me feel worse.

“But we will make the calls. Jason Blue at the Hotel Charlemagne and Inspector Theodore Roux. Yes?”

“Yes. And maybe an ice pack if I can’t have any painkillers, but I know why. The French don’t like Americans. That’s why.”

“I assure you, madam, I like many Americans. We will give you painkillers when it is safe.” Then the lights dimmed. I could tell through my eyelids, which seemed transparent for all the good they did. “Does that help? The light.”

“Yes, but I need a guard so the people who want to kill us—”

“You are safe here. French hospitals are very safe.”

“Giverny wasn’t. They sprayed chiles on Professor Childeric,” I mumbled. “If your flower gardens aren’t safe, why should I believe you about your hospitals?” I drifted in confusion and pain, trying to think what could have happened to me. Who knew that I would be at Catherine’s apartment that afternoon? Who . . .

Then a hand held mine. Male. Surely the doctor wasn’t—“Madam Blue. Carolyn. It is I, Theodore Roux.”

“Sylvie poisoned the pâté,” I answered without opening my eyes. It was enough to recognize his voice.

“The pâté Professor Levasseur—”

“The pâté at lunch. She made it for the picnic and practically forced it down my throat.” My head didn’t hurt quite so much now, and I was angry.

“But Madam Blue, the doctor says you have had a bad fall on a stairway, and your head is concussioned. He finds no signs of poison. I will take this Sylvie’s name, but—”

“Yes, do. Sylvie Girard. Husband, Raymond Girard. University. You say I fell? Climbing to Catherine’s?”

“Did someone push you?”

“Why else did I fall backward? I remember that. Backward.”

“Who would know you were to be in the traboule stairway?” he asked. “Why were you there?”

“To see Catherine’s apartment. She’s Italian. From the Renaissance bankers. She knew because she invited me, but she went to Avignon, so it wasn’t her. Sylvie and Gabrielle knew because they took me to churches. Gabrielle Doigne. Husband . . . Doigne. Same department. Catherine’s student Martin le something. He would have heard her, and he was angry because I said he looked like William Rufus.”

“Who is William Rufus?”

“But if Martin pushed me, who poisoned the pâté and tried to hit Jason?” I had to give him Catherine’s last name and position, but couldn’t remember Martin’s last name, even if he didn’t like me. “Also the Fourniers. They were at dinner when Catherine made the offer. Nicole and Bertrand.” I remembered something else. “It must have been Bertrand. He said I had to have the potatoes with the fish because I might not get another chance. How did he know that, unless he planned to finish me off before I could eat another dinner in Lyon? Catherine said they were better with lamb and—and something, but he said . . .”

The inspector was muttering
potatoes
and
fish
, and I could hear the scratch of his pen. When he’d written down the names of our gourmet hosts and promised to interview them, too, he said, “Of course it could have been a simple robbery. Are any of these people the type to steal your purse?”

“For goodness sake, Inspector, it’s obvious that my handbag was stolen to make the attack
look
like a robbery. Can’t you see that?” I opened my eyes to glare at him for his lack of professional reasoning. The eyes were a bad idea. Such a little light to hurt so much.

“Poor madam. You are in pain. I will call the nurse.”

“Why? They won’t give me anything. Just go out and find who did this. You can hit them on the head for me, if you like. And try to get my credit card back so Jason won’t be upset, and Catherine’s key and the hotel key. If Yvette is on duty, she’ll have a fit because I forgot to return the key. She’s so mean.” I paused, drawing a breath against nausea. “Can’t talk anymore. My head hurts. So do a lot of other places. But not as bad as my head.”

“Bonsoir, madam,” said the inspector softly. “I shall begin questioning suspects immediately. Even if I have to wake them up. And a guard at your door. I will get to the top of this.”

“Bottom of this,” I corrected, wishing that he’d go away and leave me in peace and quiet. Talking and listening were painful. Even thinking was. And the worst was his cell phone, which rang close by and sent a wall of blackness right over my head.

Adrien apologized for
missing our appointment. “Albertine’s mother gave us a fright. She was in such pain that we had to go. Now we must fit enough planning in tomorrow and during the meeting to get our project under way. No?”

Albertine, for her part, assured me that she had secured a reservation, even on short notice, at a restaurant that would delight my wife. “My wife has disappeared,” I replied. “She left the hotel around three and hasn’t been seen since.”

Mouth pinched in her dark, thin face, eyes flashing with anger, our hostess said, “So Carolyn has hidden herself in order not to see us. I even left Charles de Gaulle at home, although my poor dog has had a terrible time since he met Carolyn. So have Adrien and I, but here we are to welcome you, and she has not seen fit—”

“She didn’t even know you were back,” I snapped, “and I can’t say that I give a damn about your dog. It’s my wife I’m worried about. I’ve called the people she was with this afternoon, and they don’t know what happened to her. If she went to Catherine de Firenze’s as she planned, she hasn’t come back. I’m almost convinced that, as Carolyn thinks, someone really is trying to kill us.”

“Indeed?” Albertine raised her eyebrows in a supercilious way. “Isn’t that a bit paranoid? Well, no matter. We can talk during dinner—unless we miss our reservation. It took a lot of influence to get a table. We’ll just leave a note for your wife.”

“You think I’m going out to dinner when I don’t know what’s happened to Carolyn?”

“Do you expect us to skip dinner because she’s wandered off?”

People in the lobby, including Yvette, were staring at us. “Go off if you want to, but leave me the address of Catherine’s apartment. At least I can see if Carolyn managed to get that far. If not, I’ll . . .”

The Guillots had to admit they knew only that Catherine lived somewhere in Old Lyon. “She hasn’t been particularly sociable since her husband died, and that’s been ten years at least,” said Albertine. “Really, ten years and she hasn’t returned our dinner invitation.”

“She’s in Avignon,” said Adrien. “Perhaps we can reach her by phone and get the address.”

“After dinner,” his wife added.

“Now,” I insisted, and Adrien, thank God, agreed and went off to call information for a number in Avignon. He got it, but Catherine didn’t answer. Then he insisted that his wife get out her address book and call everyone in the department to see if they had Catherine’s address or any word of my wife. He was so forceful that she agreed, and they split the list and called everyone they could think of. Nobody knew Catherine’s actual address, just that she had restored, with a loan from the city, an apartment in a Renaissance building.

“Obviously we can’t knock on doors in every Renaissance building,” said Albertine.

“I’ll try Catherine again.” And this time Adrien got her. She was evidently quite astounded to hear that Carolyn had not returned from her visit to the apartment, but gave us the address, after which we set off in the Guillots’ black Renault to find the place.

On Catherine’s instructions, we knocked at the door of a woman on the first floor, who answered wearing a robe and a hairnet. Yes, she said, an American woman with blond hair had called and taken the key at three-fifteen. We asked if she had seen Carolyn leave. The woman then burst into an angry tirade in French.

“She says that when the woman did not return the key, she, Madam Ravelier, went upstairs with a flashlight to find the woman, whom she felt might be stealing Professor de Firenze’s belongings.” Adrien stopped translating and began to look dismayed, as did Albertine.

“What’s she saying?” I demanded.

“She says she found the woman’s body on the stairs, unconscious with a bloody head, so she called the ambulance service, and they took her away.” The neighbor added a few angry remarks. “And the key was gone,” Adrien continued, “so she went up to Catherine’s door. It was ajar, possibly burglarized judging by the condition of the apartment.”