Authors: Maddy Hunter
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #senior citizens, #Mystery, #Humor, #Cozy, #Paris, #Travel, #France, #cozy mystery, #maddy hunter, #tourist
eighteen
From our moorage on
the river, Vernon appeared less historic than Rouen, less quaint than Caudebec, and less picturesque than Étretat. Nondescript apartment buildings and public parking lots fronted the river. A busy highway ran parallel to its banks, and speeding along this artery were drivers who seemed to delight in revving their engines, squealing their tires, blaring their horns, and boasting their faulty mufflers. We boarded our coach at promptly nine o’clock and, after crossing the long bridge that spanned the Seine, headed down the narrow, two-lane road that would take us to Giverny.
The countryside was similar to what we’d encountered on our way to Étretat—open fields that sloped down to the river. Shrubs giving way to a few trees. Trees weaving themselves into forests. Houses popped up alongside the road at varying intervals—houses made of stone or stucco, with steep roofs and painted shutters, sheltered behind hedges, masonry walls, split-rail fences, or decorative gates.
I sat at the back of the bus, where I could keep an eye on what was happening in front of me, because like it or not, I felt as if I needed to keep my guard up. Victor might be in the hospital, but Krystal’s killer could still be among us, targeting his or her next victim. I just hoped my guys were off the killer’s radar.
“We’ll be arriving at the parking lot in a few minutes,” Rob announced over the mike, “so I’m handing out maps to give you a chance to study them before we leave the bus.” He proceeded down the center aisle, distributing sheets of white paper while he talked. “We’ll be here for a total of three hours, which should give you plenty of time to tour the gardens and house, buy souvenirs in the gift shop, and pick up a cup of coffee in one of the cafés. At twelve thirty we’ll meet in front of the museum on Main Street, which is marked on your maps, and walk back to the bus together. The path back to the parking lot is a little tricky, so I don’t want anyone to get lost. Any questions?”
“Could you send your map to us as an email attachment?” asked Osmond.
“Sorry, folks. What you see is what you get.”
“How about a photo?” inquired Alice. “If you send a picture of the
map to my email address, I’ll be happy to forward it to everyone.”
Rob guffawed as he handed me my copy. “Come on, people. What
have you got against paper?”
Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!
“Check your inboxes,” announced Nana. “I sent it JPEG, but if the image don’t look clear, I can send it again as one a them PDF files.”
“Mine didn’t come through in color,” fussed Margi.
“That’s because the original is in black and white,” said Tilly.
The size of a tourist attraction’s parking lot is usually a good indication of how popular the attraction is with the public. Given the size of Giverny’s, I steeled myself to expect crowds, which, considering our group might be playing host to a killer, could either be a blessing or a curse.
“Our bus is number twenty-one,” Rob announced as our driver pulled into a space and cut the engine. “If you lose the group on your way back, don’t forget that number.”
We filed off the bus into the parking lot, where we began following after Rob like rats after the Pied Piper. As we passed through a pedestrian tunnel, I noticed Bernice a few paces ahead of me, and hurried to catch up.
“So, Bernice, what’s the latest on Victor’s condition?”
“Why’re you asking me?”
“Because you seem to be the person who’s dispersing all the
behind-the-scenes information even before the official announcements can be made.”
“I pay attention. You should try it sometime.”
“Who told you?
No one
was privy to that information except for two people … or three. Okay, maybe five, but none of them was
you
, so how did you find out?”
She regarded me sourly. “A good newsperson never reveals her sources.”
“You’re not a newsperson.”
She waggled her eyebrows. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not telling you anyway.” That said, she fired up the famous afterburners that kept her a Senior Olympic five-yard sprint champ and left me in the dust.
Regardless of my opinion of Bernice, I grudgingly admired one thing about her: she’d never say anything behind my back that she wouldn’t say directly to my face, no matter how rude the comment.
We followed a circuitous path to the group entrance, where we lined up like school children and filed through the turnstile without pushing or shoving. But once on the property, we faced a nearly impossible decision. What to tour first? Claude Monet’s famous flower garden and house? Or his water garden and even more famous lily pond?
“I don’t wanna step on no one’s toes,” Nana said as the gang gathered off to one side of the path, “but we’re facin’ one a them momentous decisions. Flower garden or water garden? So we’re gonna have to vote.”
All eyes flew to Osmond, who was leaning against a nearby fence, captivated by a message he was texting.
“I don’t think he heard you,” whispered Alice. “Maybe you should say it louder.”
“CHELSVIG!” yelled Dick Teig. “I’M TAKING A VOTE!”
We watched. We waited.
Osmond continued texting.
“I still don’t think he heard you,” fretted Alice.
“Then he’s the only one on the planet who didn’t,” snapped Helen. She fired a sharp look at her husband. “QUIET! This is a sacred place. Show some respect.”
“This place is
not
sacred,” scoffed Dick, who’d won the cervical collar lottery today and was wrapped in foam like a sausage in butcher’s paper.
“It is so,” she challenged. “Do you hear anyone else yelling?”
“I can’t hear anyone other than
you
, Helen.”
Unh-oh
. This wasn’t good.
“This place might not
be
sacred,” soothed Lucille, “but it sure
feels
sacred. It’s like we’re inside a church … where everything is quiet … and hushed.”
“Feels more like a library to me,” said Dick Stolee, who was sporting the second cervical collar. “Without the stale book smell.”
“Shhhh
.” Lucille spread her hands wide and closed her eyes in her best imitation of a Hindi guru. “Listen to the silence.”
“You better hurry before Helen starts talking again,” razzed Dick.
“Do you hear that?” enthused Alice, her hand cupped around her ear. “I can hear the buzz of hundreds of honeybees.”
“That’s not bees,” said Nana. “That’s Osmond hummin’ off-key.”
All eyes darted back to the fence. Alice gasped. “What’s he doing with his mouth?”
“Looks like he’s smiling,” observed George.
“He hasn’t smiled for days,” said Tilly. “Why do you suppose he’s smiling now?”
“He’s probably smiling because he’s happy he’s not married to Helen,” Dick Teig wisecracked.
“Please ignore
Richard,
” instructed Helen in a dismissive tone.
“We’re having a disagreement over funeral planning and, as usual, he’s contributing to the discussion by acting like a dickhead.”
“
Eww
, big surprise there,” droned Bernice. “Like he knows how to be anything
but
.”
“I know exactly what the disagreement is about,” said Grace. “
He
wants to be cremated and stuffed in a jar because it’s cheaper. But
you
want an open casket with all the trimmings. Right?”
“Hey! We’re not talking about Christmas dinner here,” groused Dick Teig. “I’m talking about trying to prevent thousands of dollars from being poured down a six-foot hole where the return on my investment is zilch!”
“
Yeehaa
!” whooped Dick Stolee, cheering him on. “What he said!”
“Shut up, Dick,” warned Grace. “You’re not gypping me out of an inground burial just because Dick Teig is too cheap to spring for Helen’s.”
I’m not sure what this discussion said about the Dicks’ fiscal ideology, but it said a great deal about the effectiveness of powerpoint presentations.
“Does everyone remember the number of the bus we’re on?” I broke in in an attempt to redirect their attention.
Silence descended with an audible thud. Gazes flitted left and
right.
“Do we get lifelines?” asked Nana.
“We’re on bus number twenty-one,” I told them. “If you think you’re going to forget, write it down.”
“This sounds like something we should vote on,” asserted Lucille.
“Didn’t we just vote on something else?” asked Alice.
“What were the results?” asked George as he tugged on his cervical collar.
“What was the question?” asked Nana.
This is where the truly adept travel escort could work her magic to reestablish order. “The water garden is thataway.” I pointed them in the right direction. “Japanese bridge, lily pond, and possibly other water hazards, so watch where you’re going. Looks like there are plenty of signs to guide you, so don’t forget to read them. Ready?” I raised my arm like a green NASCAR flag, paused for a beat, then slashed downward. “Go!”
They took off like a herd of camels, bumping, shoving, and cutting each other off—all except Margi and Osmond, who remained behind, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings as they focused on their iPhones.
“Margi?” I stood in front of her, waving my hand to distract her. “Hello? Anybody home?”
She looked up as if surprised to see me, pulled out her earbuds, then sidled a glance slowly left and right, smiling nervously. “Where’d everyone go?”
I pointed to the path. “Water garden.”
“Have they been gone long?”
“About ten seconds.”
Relief flooded her face. “Shoot. I can catch up with them in no time flat.” She shifted her gaze to her phone. “Right after I finish this transaction.”
“You’re conducting Internet business right now?”
She nodded with the kind of gusto that could cause head trauma in children. “My shopping network is hosting a special trunk show
featuring designer medical scrubs, so I’m ordering one in every
color except black. Black washes me out.”
“But … Margi, we’re in Giverny. One of the world’s most beautiful gardens. Are you sure your time wouldn’t be better spent touring the grounds,
then
ordering your scrubs? Remember, we’re only here for three hours, and there’s a gift shop at the end of the tour that’s supposed to be really fantastic.”
She frowned at her phone as she poked the screen. “This can’t wait. I’m live-streaming the show, so it’s now or never. It won’t take long, Emily. I promise. I’m just waiting to see if they carry my size.”
Yup. Nana had sure called that. Maybe an intervention was exactly what Margi needed, or a trip to a country without cell towers and Wi-Fi.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to your shopping, but I warn you. If you have
to race through the grounds at the last minute to take everything in, Bernice’s pictures will be a lot better than yours, and that’ll give her bragging rights.”
“Gotcha.” She stuffed her earbuds back into her ears and returned to her show, happily oblivious once again. I wished I could be so indifferent to the possibility of Bernice Zwerg earning official bragging rights. It might not bother Margi, but it terrified me.
I turned toward the fence and put a bead on Osmond.
“Are you planning to join the group?” I asked as I approached him.
He held up a knobby finger for me to hold that thought.
“Writing to Solange?” I whispered as I stepped closer.
He gave his screen a final poke and looked up, his face split with a jack o’ lantern grin. “She’s a quick study, Emily. She’s already send
ing me email. We’re both going to set up Skype accounts so we can
t
alk
face-to-face, and she’s going to create a Facebook page, and
…
and …” Excitement filled his rheumy old eyes. “She wants me in her life again, Emily. She says she still has a lot to tell me about the war years, but I told her I knew about her husband coming back, and let her know how happy I am that she’d been able to share so many years with him. I think that was the ice breaker. It let her know I didn’t want to relive the past or question anything about her family. I only want to look toward the future … with her as my very, very dear friend.”
I gave his arm a little rub. “You’re okay with that, are you?”
“Yup. I’m not one of those high-maintenance fellas, Emily, but I mean to tell you, it’s sure nice being remembered, and treated not like you’re a useless old man”—his voice cracked as he drew in a calming breath—“but someone special.”
I flashed a wistful smile before leaning over and kissing his forehead. “You’ve always been someone special, Osmond.” I nodded down the path. “I’m headed for the water garden. You want to tag along with me?”
“
Uhh
, I’ll catch up with you right after I hear back from Solange. I just asked if she’d give me her opinion about the differences in France’s geopolitical landscape under its last six presidents, so I’m hoping for an answer any minute now.”
I thought he might be sending Solange messages of a more personal nature, but given what a political junkie he was, maybe a message about geopolitics
was
personal.
Leaving my two stragglers behind, I followed the path leading to the water garden and entered a world where a wood sprite might play hide and seek amid a cluster of ferns, or dance atop leaves that were big as elephant ears. The path meandered beneath a leafy canopy that rustled in the breeze and filtered light into the space below in a haze of silvery-green. A mud-brown stream flowed beside the walkway, its banks reinforced by wooden stakes that were woven together as intricately as a reed basket. I passed weeping willows whose narrow leaves drooped over the water like a mane of unbound hair, and a forest of bamboo whose stalks were growing straight as chopsticks. Clumps of purple and blue-violet flowers bunched together at the edge of the stream, while other blossoms coiled their way around tree trunks, swaddling them in clusters of bubblegum pink and fuschia. The gang had apparently dashed through this section, because they were nowhere to be seen, but I spied Bobbi and Dawna up ahead, sitting all by themselves on a bench, filing their nails.