Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery (9 page)

T
he
Snake paces back and forth across his cheap, sleazy motel room. He almost blends in to the decor. His blandness and grayness match the dreariness of his chosen hideout. But he doesn’t care. It’s close to the fancy hotel where his quarry, Michelle duBois, resides, and near enough to the hospital where the niece, Colette, remains in her comatose state. He is jabbering into a cell phone, but like a jackrabbit, he can’t seem to stand still
. Alors,
how many other ninety-year-olds are as amazingly agile as he, and can whip around the room talking rapidly as they pace? He stops a moment to peer out a window but it is too dirty to let him see much. With his elbow he smears a spot of murky light and examines the weather
.

He is furious at his cousin Gaston, who rattles away angrily at him from his winery a few kilometers outside of Bordeaux. “You have only five days to accomplish our objective and you waste it attacking the mark’s niece? How could you waste our precious time on such foolishness?”

The Snake snarls. “You dare question The Snake’s techniques?” He is glad Gaston cannot see the reddish hue of his guilty face. He lies blatantly. “You think The Snake didn’t analyze the complexity of the job? The mark is difficult to get to. Her routines are rigid. She is constantly surrounded by many sycophants, especially the niece, Colette, who never leaves her side. This Colette was not supposed to go on this trip, according to your research.”

Gaston mutters, “How was I to know she decided at the last minute?”

“And how was it you didn’t warn me duBois has friends in the States?” The Snake knows well how to attack on the offensive when he’s in the wrong
.

“What friends? I know of no friends. She never makes personal calls to the States or gets letters. I tell you we thought we made a thorough investigation!”

“You thought! You thought! You swore to me your information was accurate. And what do I discover? She has friends who are gendarmes!”

“Mon Dieu.”
Gaston must be sweating by now. The Snake is sure of it
.

“However, The Snake is not perturbed by your incompetence, so he attacked the niece first. Now the duBois woman will be off balance and upset. His plan is working perfectly. She is lost without the assistant, who is no longer at her side and out of our way forever.”

“Brilliant,” Gaston timidly agrees. “Forgive me for having doubted the brilliant Snake.”

“She is at my convenience now.”

“C’est merveilleux!
But, cousin, you must not forget the manuscript of the new book. We need to know what she has written about us so that we can be prepared to fight her.”

“Why do you waste my time spouting stupidity? The Snake has not forgotten his secondary goal. That is his very next step, and after the shock of her tremendous loss, there will be nothing left of her resolve. She will be a woman of jelly and putty in his hands.”

Gaston sighs. “Someday you must write your memoir. You are
magnifique!”

The Snake leers. This old guy hasn’t lost his touch yet
.

“I will inform the others of your great progress, dear uncle,” Gaston concludes
. “Adieu.”

With his usual arrogance, The Snake hangs up without saying good-bye. The ploy reinventing his
negligence worked like a charm. He grabs his small, dingy backpack and rushes to the door, then stops, startled, as he realizes he missed the door and has smacked his face hard against the wall instead
. “Merde!”
he yells in pain
. Assez!
Enough. It is time to get the eyeglasses!

GLADDY DETECTS

I
hate to admit it, but the Frenchwoman is a good writer. Her book matches her personality: She is well-organized, concise, tough, and has clearly done her homework. And how cleverly she lets her victims hang themselves with their own words. They probably want to shoot themselves for their careless chatter that leads them easily to prison. Or want to shoot her, more likely. Probably Mme. duBois is right when she says she has many enemies.

She has me so enthralled with her book that I’m still in my robe, with my legs propped up on the kitchen chair next to mine. And on my third cup of coffee at that. I even skipped my early morning exercise with the girls, to their surprise and
annoyance. Our daily routine is not to be missed unless the circumstances are dire. None of us especially likes exercise or the pool, so a united group attendance prevents malingerers.

But in deference to what seems to be a problem concerning Jack and “that French hussy” as they call her, they are cutting me some slack these days. Except for Evvie, I don’t dare let the girls touch the book. Heaven only knows what their response will be to the inscription Michelle wrote on the title page for Jack. In large, yet delicate handwriting, in pale blue ink, she wrote “
On pardonne tant que l’on aime
,” which she credits to the famous French writer La Rochefoucauld.

Needless to say, I immediately look it up in a huge volume of quotations I own. Fortunately it’s there, saving me a trip to the library to do research or asking someone who has a computer, which would take time. It translates to “We pardon to the extent that we love.” Who is asking for forgiveness from whom? I’m sure Jack hasn’t seen it yet. When he reads it, do I look directly into his eyes to perceive recognition of its meaning? Or do I look away, preferring not to know?

I hear his footsteps and quickly slip the book on the chair next to the window.

“It’s nine o’clock already?” Jack makes his way into my kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “I can’t believe I slept so late. Why didn’t you wake
me?” He bends to put a quick kiss on my cheek, then makes his bleary way to the coffeepot.

“You needed your rest, obviously. Would you like some breakfast?” I’m pleased with myself that my voice is steady.

“No, thanks, I’ll just put up a piece of toast.” He takes a slice of the rye bread from the table and pops it in the toaster.

Not hungry, eh? Had a late dinner last night with Michelle?

Taking butter out of the fridge, he asks, “Where were you yesterday? I tried reaching you all day.”

He beat me to it. I was just about to ask him the same question. “Silly me carried my cell phone and forgot to turn it on. How is Colette?”

“When I left she was still unconscious. What a terrible accident.”

Jack brings his toast and coffee to the table and sits down next to me.

As I make room for him at the tiny kitchen table, I ask, “So you hung around the hospital all day with Michelle?” Now I hear the quaver in my voice.

“Most of the time. There were forms to fill out and people she needed to call. Morrie came round. More forms. And he questioned her, trying to formulate what might have happened.”

All of that must have taken about two hours.
What about the fifteen or so other hours? But I won’t ask that question.

Jack suddenly spots Michelle’s book. “Oh, you found it. I was going to give it to you this morning.”

I say guiltily, “I saw it on the hall table. I hope you don’t mind. I was curious.”

What I don’t tell him is that my imagination kept me awake, thinking of that book with her gorgeous face on it just lying there. So what choice did I have?

“She’s a very good writer,” I say brightly.

“You finished the whole thing?”

“You know what a quick reader I am.” I didn’t tell him that I stayed up all night to finish it. “Are you sure I can’t make you an omelet?”

“I’m good. Honest.”

Are you good, really good, Jack?
I’m reminded of ex-President Jimmy Carter’s famous line, “I only lust in my heart.”

I get some cranberry juice. “I learned quite a bit of fascinating information about Michelle’s life. In a section called ‘About the Author.’ A couple of facts stick in my head. She seems very accident-prone. And very lucky. Her ski broke off on a slope when she skied Chamonix and she shattered her leg. Her Lamborghini rolled over on a dangerous mountain road in Monaco, not far from the castle road where Princess Grace died. While she was
flying in a private Cessna to Austria, the plane ran out of gas. Luckily the pilot was able to make a remarkable landing. And there’s more.”

Jack is surprised. “Never knew any of that before. She really means it when she calls herself a risk taker. She’s like a cat with nine lives.”

“The risk isn’t in going skiing or driving a fast car or flying in a small plane.”

Jack looks at me sharply. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

“Colette had even commented about that. Her aunt writes books that expose companies for their illegal business practices, and because of her, either they are ruined or they land in jail. A woman with a collection of many enemies who just might want her dead.”

Jack shakes his head, not wanting to believe what I’m saying.

I go on. “Skis tampered with? Car tampered with? Airplane gas tank tampered with? All those ‘accidents.’”

“No one’s after Michelle. Colette’s the one who had the accident.”

“Suddenly bolts fall off a heavy bookcase?” I start clearing the table. “Maybe this time the killer got the wrong redhead.”

Jack jumps up and paces, upset with my idea. “But they’re a different height and weight and
Colette is much younger. No one would mistake one for the other.”

“I think this cat of yours has used up yet another life. I hope the next attempt isn’t the ninth.”

Our conversation peters out shortly after that, and I go and change into my swimsuit. I hurry to catch up with Evvie on her way to the pool. I wave my beach towel at her. She sees me coming and waits for me.

“Oh, good. I’m glad you could join us. Where’s Jack?” she asks.

“Getting into his suit.”

“Find out what he was doing all day yesterday?”

“Not really.” Our pesky ducks quack at us to get out of their way on the cobblestone path. They act like they own the place and maybe they do. “I guess he was keeping Michelle company while she hovered over her niece’s bed. By the way, Jack brought home her new book.”

“I bet you read it already.”

“You know I did. I’m going to give it to you and see what you get out of it. I have a strong theory that Michelle was the target, not Colette. Jack doesn’t believe it, or maybe he doesn’t want to believe it.”

“I can hardly wait. I’ll pick it up after our swim.”

We reach the pool.

“So, look who’s here, late as usual.” Hy Binder
has to comment on everything. “And where are your menfolk?”

Evvie glares at him. “And why do you care? You’ll see them when you see them.” We lather each other with sunscreen. The usual gang is here: Hy with his adoring, clueless wife, Lola, Tessie and Sol, Irving and Mary. Irv’s wife, our friend Millie, is still in the Alzheimer’s clinic. The cousins from LA, Barbi and Casey, who run the Gossip information business, are there as usual, tapping away at their laptops.

Lola is in the pool, strolling back and forth in the shallow end with Tessie. She calls out to me, “So how did you like Trixie? Isn’t she a hoot?”

Hy pokes his nose from out of the day’s newspaper. “She’s more like a howl. What a nutcase.”

Lola is insulted. “You take that back. She’s good at what she does.”

“Hah!” Hy turns a page without glancing at her. “The way she dresses, I can think of a better occupation for her. Some kind of interesting all-night job.”

I ignore him. “I’m not so sure about working with her, Lola. She and I see our wedding plans very differently.”

Lola swims over to me, holding onto the edge. “Give her a chance. You’ll love the results.”

“I don’t think it’s for me.”

She climbs out of the pool and whispers in my
ear. A whisper so loud that everyone hears it. “Please, don’t drop her so fast. She’s got a very sick grandchild in an expensive hospital. She desperately needs to make money.”

Swell. Just what I need. A little guilt trip. Before I can say more, Jack appears. Not in bathing trunks, but suit, tie, the whole dress-to-go-out-to-someplace-else.

I look directly at him. “What’s happened?”

“Michelle was told Colette just woke up and Michelle wanted me to be at her side.”

Damn, why is he saying this in front of everybody? He should have taken me out of earshot. No way will I get into a discussion with him with this group’s ears hanging out eagerly. I can’t give any indication of how unhappy this is making me—not in front of the yenta patrol. Trying to seem disinterested and fooling no one, I say to Jack, “Well, give me a call later and fill me in.”

He gives me a chaste peck on the cheek, waves to everyone, and takes off.

It’s silent as everyone watches him go.

When this pack does “silence,” it speaks a thousand words. They are evaluating every glance, every piece of information gathered, and every nuance. Don’t worry, the quiet won’t last long. The comments will fly.

Hy, always the first to chew on a tasty bit of gossip, climbs up on the diving board, calling down to
me. “So who’s the sexy Frenchie your fiancé is hanging out with? I hear she’s some looker.” With that he raises his arms and takes a showy dive.