Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery (13 page)

Charles bows and positions himself slightly away to give us time, all the while ogling Michelle’s décolleté. Low-cut sounds so much sexier in French.

Jack examines the wine choices. I see him furrow his brow and I bet the prices are staggering. So much for our having an inexpensive dinner tonight.

Michelle reaches out toward the wine list. “May I?” she asks. “While living with the winemakers whom I tear apart in my next exposé, I learned a great deal.”

Jack hands her the four-sided laminated card. “Be my guest.”

I almost shout “Don’t!” I shudder. Doesn’t he realize she’ll pick the most expensive bottle?

And indeed she does. The highest-priced French champagne they have. Jack winces when she points it out to our waiter, who simpers immediately to her side.

And so it goes. When it’s time to choose an entrée, Michelle waves to her “Jacques” and requests he choose for her. He always knew what she liked. Oh, boy, talk about double entendres. Another choice French expression. Under my breath I hum to keep from speaking.

I choose quickly. The very cheapest thing on the
menu, a small appetizer. I explain I’m not too hungry. Jack gets my message. At least my part of the bill won’t bankrupt us.

Michelle waggles a naughty finger at me. “Now, now,
Gladeze
, that is not a good way to diet. It’s not the amount of food you eat, but the ingredients.”

So now I’m fat. I take a deep breath. It’s time to mentally chant Evvie’s mantra. I will take the high ground. I will not throw my tiny ounce of champagne in her face. I took only enough to wet my lips, leaving the rest for her, and she does guzzle most of it. I only pray she doesn’t order another bottle (I might have to kick Jack under the table to stop her). Nor do I retort with a snappy quip about the size of
her
hips. No, not I. Nor do I respond when she “congratulates” me on my clothes, for being thrifty and for shopping
prêt-à-porter
.

“That refers to department stores,” she translates.

“I know,” I tell her. “I saw the movie.”

She sighs. “If only I had a shape that could wear clothes off the rack, but, alas, they never fit right.”

Not one word from me, but oh, how I’m tempted.

She yaks on. “I’m forced to have all my outfits made especially for me.”

“How sad for you,” I say, hardly hiding my sarcasm.

“But, however, I have lucky genes. I can eat all I desire and never gain weight.” This she proves by ordering a fat-streaked steak and garlic mashed potatoes.

She looks to Jack. “I haven’t gained any weight at all since you saw me last, have I?”

“Look the same to me.” His response is bland.

For some reason, Jack seems oblivious to her antics. And he isn’t saying much. She chatters away about her life in Paris, her darling
petite maison
with its six bedrooms and five baths in the charming part of the seventh arrondissement with its lovely view of the Eiffel Tower.

Wanna bet that’s the wealthiest neighborhood of Paris? No takers?

She prattles on and on. The people she knows. An endless list. She dredges up how much Jacques adored going to the Sorbonne with her. He just loved Montmartre and the Centre Georges Pompidou. The modern art museum. “But I think our favorite was the drive down to Chateau de Versailles.” She nods to Jack; he parrots a nod back.

I tune her out. Jack listens as if mesmerized. I eat quickly, hoping to rush things along. It’s already been two lengthy hours and I want out! But not
Michelle, she lingers over every bite of every course.

Finally, she daintily pats her mouth with her napkin and beckons her very own Charles and asks for the dessert menu. She explains to me, “Ever since I wrote my latest book,
Bonbon, Non Non!
I’ve become an expert on
chocolat.”

I stand up. I’ve had it. “I don’t want any dessert, Michelle. No need to order for me.” I head for the ladies room, muttering, “The high ground, the high ground.”

Jack is startled as Michelle suddenly grasps his hand. She seems mortified. “Oh, Jacques, what have I done? Your
Gladeze
is upset. I have insulted your fiancée.”

“Michelle, Gladdy is a mature woman. I’m sure she isn’t insulted.” Oops, that wasn’t the right thing to say. Now he’s insulted Gladdy for being old and Michelle for being a child.
I feel like I’m on a high wire
, he thinks.
I’m going to lose either way
.

She sighs. “Too long have I lived alone. Too long have I made my own decisions. You had picked out a sweet small restaurant, non? But I make you go along with my plans. So selfish. I pick the restaurant. I pick the wine. The dessert. Me, me, me. That’s who I think about. But I was trying to please you and selfishly did not think of her. What should
I do? Apologize? How can I undo my bad manners?”

Jack smiles at her. “It’s all right. I promise Gladdy will be fine.” He hopes. “She’s a wonderful woman if you had time to get to know her.” Why didn’t he make it clear to Michelle how much he loved Gladdy? Suddenly he couldn’t get words out of his mouth through dinner? That’s gonna cost him.

“Will you give her my apologies? I feel such an inconsiderate fool.”

Jack is touched. This is the Michelle he once knew.

The Snake looks up and down the hall. So far, so good. No one is on her floor. His waiting is finally paying off. The maid parks her cleaning cart in front of the redhead’s suite
.

He waits a little longer, hoping the woman will clean one of the bedrooms first. He plans to hide there until she finishes her cleaning and leaves
.

But he decides it’s too risky to wait out in the open much longer. When he enters the suite, he passes the vacuum cleaner sitting in the middle of the living room rug. He hears sounds coming from the master bedroom. The Snake tiptoes around the corner and looks in. The maid is standing in front of the closet mirrors. What is she doing? Aha, she
is trying on Mme. duBois’s clothing, specifically a scarlet cocktail dress and a diamond necklace. He scowls. To him the maid is a homely middle-aged hag. A too-fat stomach bulges out of the outfit, so it stays unzipped. Her black, frizzy hair is unkempt and the snood she must wear on her head doesn’t help, either
.

What to do? She hasn’t seen him yet. He can just grab the laptop and sneak back out. Amazing that the woman forgot it. She always has it with her. He cannot miss this opportunity. But his plan is to make it part of a robbery, so it will seem like the laptop was just one of the stolen goods. A common occurrence in hotels. He could come back and try later—kill his mark at the same time. But he hesitates. What if she brings her guests back to the suite? This might be his only opportunity
.

He watches the maid enjoying seeing herself dressed in such expensive clothes; doesn’t she realize what a pig she looks in them? Now she tries on a black silk gown. He shudders at the lumpy body in her cheap underwear. Doesn’t she have other rooms to clean?

Enough! He has not yet had his dinner. He will linger no longer. He pulls on a pair of leather gloves and walks boldly into the bedroom
.

“What is going on?” His voice reeks of cruelty
.

The maid gasps. She gropes for words. “I didn’t mean anything, honest.” Half hiding behind the
closet door, she rips the gown off and quickly hangs it and the other outfits back in the closet, apologizing all the while. “Please, I’ll lose my job. I need this job … ”

She throws the necklace back on the dresser and dresses hastily in her uniform. She stands, paralyzed, waiting to find out what he will do. She inches slowly toward the door, but he moves right with her. From the change of the look on her face he realizes she has understood the situation. Her hands go on her hips, indignant now
.

“Who are
you?
This is not your room. You are not a guest here. You don’t work here. You’re old!” She starts to laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“Shut up, you cow,” he shouts at her. Nobody disrespects The Snake! He sees her freeze at the sight of a knife appearing in his gloved hand
.

The maid falls to her knees, begging. “Please, don’t hurt me. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I’ve seen nothing. Nobody. Do what you came for. Let me go.”

“And you think I believe you won’t run to the manager immediately?”

Her hands are shaking and she can’t stop them. “I wouldn’t tell him, because he would fire me for going through guests’ private things. You couldn’t tell them about me. That way, we are both safe. I promise I’ve never seen you.” She climbs back up
,
clumsily, never taking her eyes off him. Panting, not daring to move
.

“Say
au revoir.”
He moves menacingly toward her, angling the knife
.

The Snake waits for the expression that always comes to his victims when they know death is near. Terror first, then their eyes roll back in dazed acceptance
.

But
merde,
not this one. She runs for the door, screaming
.

For a ninety-year-old, The Snake has fast reflexes. She never makes it. He catches her by her uniform apron string. But she still doesn’t give in. She fights for her life. He smacks her. She grabs onto his pocket so as not to fall. He doesn’t notice that his glasses case has fallen out in the struggle
.

As he walks over her dead body toward the door, he wonders if the café down the street has the calf’s liver special again. He must remember to tell them to leave the bacon off to the side
.

WAITER,
L’ADDITION

S
omething’s changed. I watch the dessert eaters. Michelle’s head is down. Am I imagining it that since I’ve returned to the table, she hasn’t looked at me once? I would expect her to lick up every crumb of her chocolate almond mousse, since she was so set on choosing it. But no, she is moving the spoon around the dish, pretending to eat. Suddenly she’s lost her appetite? Jack barely takes small bites out of his raspberry sorbet, looking from me to Michelle with a rather odd expression on his face. I can’t quite read it. I reach over and take a teaspoon-sized bite from his portion. He smiles at me, it seems, gratefully.

Michelle pats her lips daintily with her napkin and then stands up. “I’ll be right back,” she says,
tossing Jack a little wave in the air as she ambles away.

I look at Jack. So poker-faced I still can’t read him.

After too much silence, I have to say something. Be careful,
Gladeze
, I tell myself. “Well, this was an illuminating experience.”

He glances up to see if I’m being sarcastic. But I’m sure my face is bland, my tone as well.

Jack replies equally mildly, “You might call it that.”

“Oh, oh, here it comes. Brace yourself.” Our very own Charles is bringing a dainty silver dish with the check. “Wanna bet what it comes to?”

Jack manages a weak smile as he reaches for his wallet. His humor’s coming back. “Maybe I’ll just hand him my Visa and not even look at it. Less painful that way.”

“I’m betting we could have had eighteen dinners at Nona’s with what this cost.”

Charles bows. “I hope everything was to your satisfaction.”

“Beyond my wildest expectations,” I say, bracing myself.

As Jack reaches for the dish, Charles places it in front of Michelle’s place. We both look at him in surprise. Charles explains, “Your very charming dinner companion has already paid. This is her
credit card and her receipt.” He bows again and says, “Have a pleasant evening.”

I look at the plate with astonishment. “Well, I’ll be … ”

“That was very nice of her.”

“Maybe it’s another kind of manipulation.”

“Maybe she realized she could afford it better than we can.”

“Wanna peek?”

I start to reach over. Too late. Michelle is bearing down on us. She doesn’t bother to sit. She picks up her card and the receipt. “Are we ready to leave?”

We both get up. After all, Madame has set all the rules. She’s ready to go, therefore we go. Jack manages the usual cliché. “But you shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense.
Mon plaisir
 … ” She puts her arm through Jack’s, then waits for me to catch up to his other arm.

That woman is full of surprises.

As a parking lot attendant brings us our car, Jack’s cell phone rings. He answers as the doormen help his two women in. Naturally Michelle sits up front.

Suddenly I’m aware of Jack’s voice getting louder. He moves away from us and paces the driveway back and forth, listening to something that must be disturbing. Moments later, he quickly tips the attendant and slides into his seat. He takes off like a shot.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He looks to Michelle. “That was my son Morrie calling. He’s at your hotel suite. Somebody broke in and robbed the place.”

Michelle is horrified. “No, it isn’t possible. No!”

“And worse,” he tells her. “A woman was found murdered there.”

When we arrive at the hotel, this time Michelle doesn’t play the “who will Jack help out of the car first” game. She’s out and running for the revolving doors. Jack does me the honor of giving me his arm. But he isn’t walking me to the hotel entrance. He’s guiding me to the driver’s side of the car, where he left the motor running.