Fleur De Lies (22 page)

“Have you run out of scenery to take pictures of already?” I asked as I neared them.

Bobbi eyed me with cool regard from beneath the brim of her cowboy hat. “Priorities, darlin’.”

Dawna swatted an insect off her bare shoulder, nearly stabbing herself with her nail file. “Trees and bugs,” she whined. “I mean to tell ya, we got plenty of trees and bugs in Nacogdoches, so I don’t know why I had to get dragged here to see more.”

“Because
these
trees and bugs once belonged to Claude Monet,” I pointed out.

Bobbi gave her nail file a lackluster twirl in the air. “Woo hoo.”

“Well, Claude Monet can have ’em,” drawled Dawna. “I think
they’re
borin’.”

Nope. Couldn’t let that pass. “They’re not boring to the tens of thousands of tourists who pay to see them every year.”

Bobbi narrowed her eyes into a squint. “Do you get paid for bein’ so irritatin’, sugah? I’ve seen you talkin’ to that bunch of old geezers. Are they payin’ you to babysit them or somethin’?”

“Actually, they pay me quite handsomely to escort them on trips around the world.”

“You gotta be jokin’.” Dawna laughed in disbelief. “You’ve conned folks into thinkin’ they need to pay you big bucks to hold their hands while they travel?”

“Yup.”

“What a crock.”

“Hold on now,” cautioned Bobbi, waving her fingernail file like a magician’s wand. “We might be in the market for new jobs if Victor doesn’t pull through.”

“No way,” argued Dawna. “We’ll have jobs at Mona Michelle forever. Why do you think we’re here starin’ at trees and slappin’ bugs? Because we’re good at what we do. Irreplaceable even.”

“We won’t be keepin’ our jobs at Mona Michelle if there
is
no
Mona Michelle,” threatened Bobbi.

“Shut your mouth,” chided Dawna. “Mona Michelle will be
around forever.”

“Not if Virginia has anything to say about it. If Victor takes a turn for the worse and dies, I wouldn’t put it past her to cash in her chips and liquidate the company. She’d do it, too. Just for spite. She hates us. We remind her of her lost youth, and she despises us for it.”

“She can’t do that.” Dawna’s face lost some of its artificial glow. “Can she?”

“You don’t see our promised bonus check being handed out, do you?” asked Bobbi. “The old shrew probably tore it up on the way to the hospital. Believe me, she’ll do anything she wants once Victor’s out of the picture. And first and foremost she’ll wanna get rid of us.”

“But … how’re we gonna find other jobs that pay six figures in this economy? Pretty women always get the plum jobs, but even perfect tens like us might have a hard time this go-round.”

Bobbi flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “So tell me more about this job of yours, Emily. Sounds pretty cushy. Talk to the old folks. Act like you care about what they’re sayin’. Take a head count now and then. Try not to lose any of ’em. Bring ’em back dead or alive. Then you get all the perks. Free plane fare. Free accommodations. Free food. Free optional tours. That sound about right?”

“Just about.”

“What’s the name of the company you work for?”

“Destinations Travel, based in Windsor City, Iowa.”

“Where’s that by?” asked Dawna.

“Windsor City is halfway between Manly and Ames.”

Dawna rolled her eyes. “I was talkin’ about Iowa.”

“We wouldn’t actually have to live there, would we?” asked Bobbi.

“Heck no,” I assured her.

Bobbi smiled with the confidence of a perfect ten. “So how do we apply?”

“The owners aren’t accepting applications.”

Dawna yanked her bustier toward her throat and swung her hair over her shoulders. “They will after we send them our head shots. ”

“I doubt that’ll convince them.”

“If
you
got hired,” Bobbi said, looking me up and down in mock assessment, “
we
can get hired.”

“I had special status.”

The girls exchanged a meaningful glance. “So what’d y’all have to do to earn your special status?” taunted Bobbi. “Something naughty?”

“I married the company founder and became co-owner. Goodness, would you look at the time? Gotta run, ladies. See you on the bus.”

Two things occurred to me as I ambled off. First, it seemed apparent that Bobbi and Dawna were more dependent on Victor for job security than Jackie realized, so it was highly unlikely they’d want to kill him. And secondly, the more opinions I gathered about Virginia, the more I began to wonder if my original suspicions had been correct. Who, other than someone connected to the Mona Michelle family, would want to eliminate its top sales rep
and
its president?

Not Dawna. Not Bobbi. Definitely not Jackie.

Who would benefit the most, both financially and emotionally, if the company folded?

Virginia.

Who had access to Victor’s pills?

Virginia.

Who’d been a constant presence around the victims from the beginning, with numerous opportunities to tamper with their food?

Virginia.

I didn’t know who owned the mortar and pestle the police had found in the Martin’s cabin, but if it belonged to Virginia, I’d be willing to declare game, set, and match. Considering how many toiletries, cosmetics, and shoes a woman needed to pack for a two-week trip, why would she try to squeeze in extra kitchenware unless she had a deliberate plan to use it?

And that thought gave me pause, because I realized that by packing the mortar and pestle, Virginia may have established that not only had she committed murder—

She’d committed premeditated murder.

Holy crap. Had the police been able to piece it together yet? Had anyone even bothered
telling
them about Virginia? Or were they getting most of their information
from
Virginia?

I wheeled around and hot-footed it back to the bench. “Did the police interview the two of you last night?”

“Yah,” said Bobbi. “Why?”

“Did either one of you mention how much Virginia despised you or Krystal?”

“Oh, sure,” Dawna cooed. “As if we’re gonna badmouth the wife of the guy who signs our paychecks. Do you know what kind of a public relations disaster that would be? We’d get kicked to the curb so fast, it’d take your breath away.” She shot me a disgusted look. “What a joke. Tell the police the truth about Virginia? If they wanna know anything, they can find out from someone who’s not a company gal. Shoot, just how stupid do you think we are?”

Given that she probably meant that as a rhetorical question, I thought it best not to answer. But if neither one of them had disclosed any pertinent information to the police, then
someone
needed to, else Virginia might disappear into the crowds of Rouen while the going was good and escape justice indefinitely.

Since I seemed to be the lucky individual who’d assembled all the pieces of the puzzle into a complete picture, I figured the responsibility of informing the police should therefore rest in the hands of only one person.

Rob.

This was the beauty of being a lowly escort on someone else’s tour. You got to hand the ball off rather than shoot it yourself.

Now, to find him.

I hurried down the path, feeling as if I were following the yellow brick road through Oz, minus the witch and flying monkeys. Beyond more weeping willows and a dense stand of bamboo, I came
upon a narrow footbridge that spanned a wider section of the stream
, but crossing it would prove challenging since the gang had parked themselves all along the rail, mugging for photos.

“You need to squeeze closer together or I’ll only be able to get half of you in the picture,” warned Jackie, who had apparently been awarded the honor of group photographer. She stood in the middle of the walkway, framing her shot, while at her feet sat a jumble of
iPhones and cameras, nested safely atop her shoulder bag.“Tall peo
ple at the back!” barked Bernice, who’d positioned herself front and center.

“We don’t got no tall people no more,” said Nana. “We’re all shrunk to the same size.”

“How about we have the men stand in back?” asked Jackie.

“I’m not standing in front of Dick Teig,” growled Helen. “We’re not speaking.”

“Fine,” said Jackie. “Stand someplace else.”

“I don’t want to stand by him either,” said Grace. “The cheapskate.”

“I’ll stand in front of him,” Alice volunteered.

“Good luck with that,” crowed Bernice. “The only thing that can fit between Dick Teig’s stomach and the rail is fresh air.”

“Does anyone know the weight limit of this bridge?” asked Tilly.

Eyes drifted to the planks beneath their feet before darting to the water beneath the bridge.

“Would you just shoot the dang picture before this thing collapses?” Lucille yelled at Jackie.

“Before you do anything, can I squeeze past you?” Without waiting for a response, I stepped onto the little green bridge, sucked in my breath, and angled past them sideways.

“What was that?” asked Dick Stolee, craning his neck in every direc
tion, his eyes shifting nervously. “It sounded like wood cracking.”

“It was,” said George.

They flew off the bridge in two seconds flat, everyone except
George, who remained at the rail all by himself. “My leg,” he said sheepishly. “I can’t tell if it’s expanding or contracting.”

I sprinted down the walkway, past the famous lily pond with its cache of lily pads glutting the surface, and its pink and white water lilies blooming as sublimely as they had a hundred years ago. Flat-bottomed rowboats hugged the shore on either side of the pond, chained to trees that hovered over them like doting parents. Color dappled the banks in wild disarray—pale pink, deep rose, lavender, dusky pink, bright magenta, soft coral—like house paints that had spilled and been left to dry. I snapped a quick picture of the pond and Japanese bridge, then navigated through another underpass that led me back to the original flower garden.

Margi and Osmond had disappeared, but in their place were hordes of camera-toting tourists who were jamming the pathways like swarms of worker bees. Good Lord. How was I supposed to find Rob in this crowd?

I wormed my way around clusters of people posing for group photos, danced around people loitering in the middle of the path, and ducked beneath people’s cameras as they took aim at the climbing roses, scarlet poppies, and towering hollyhocks. Plump pink rose blossoms twined around great iron archways that curved above the main path. Wildflowers dusted the air with wisps of color. Ornamental trees flaunted their slender trunks and miniature leaves. I tried to find an isolated spot for a Kodak moment, but tourists and their photographic equipment were everywhere, their heads invading my shot, their arms obstructing my vision, their iPads blocking my entire view.

It used to be that when people snapped pictures, they’d look into the viewfinder of a camera, frame their photo, and press the shutter. The iPad has advanced technology so much that people no longer have to place a camera anywhere near their face. Instead, they can happily hold a device the size of a mattress over their heads and shoot whatever’s in front of them. Of course, no one else can see over, around, or through them to shoot their own pictures, but hey, not having to look through that viewfinder anymore is real progress.

“Can you believe this crowd?” asked Cal Jolly as he came up behind me. “I’ve given up trying to take pictures. Rob said the gift shop sells great postcards, so I’m doing that instead. I’m through trying to outmaneuver the iPad people. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve won the war.”

“How long ago did you see Rob?”

“About ten minutes. He was headed for the house.” Cal glanced toward the far end of the garden—at a two-story house that was as long as a boutique hotel. It was a charming froth of pale pink stucco, with dozens of green shutters and a blanket of vines and roses scaling the exterior wall. For forty-three years, it had been inhabited by Claude Monet. “They’ve done some work on the interior that he hasn’t seen yet, so he wanted to have a look.”

“Thanks much.” As I made to leave, he wrapped his hand around my arm, stopping me momentarily.

“I want to thank you for listening to my dad last night, Emily, and not judging him. We’re obviously going to have a mess to deal with when we get back home, and I have no idea how it’ll all turn out, but at least I know what’s happening now, and can try to put things to right. Dad’s not a bad sort. He’s just guilty of making some of the poorest choices a man can ever make, and he’ll probably have to pay dearly for it.” He shook his head. “I guess no matter how much you think you know a person, they can still end up surprising you.”

I wondered if one day soon Victor would be making the same statement about Virginia?

I zigzagged through the crowd and took my place at the back of the queue to tour the house. Several of the second-story windows were thrown open, and since there were no bug screens, visitors were poking their heads and cameras through the openings, shooting the panoramic photos they couldn’t shoot at ground level.

I kept my eyes on the open windows as I shuffled toward the entrance, and when I arrived at the stairs fronting the main door, I was rewarded with the sight I’d been looking for.

Rob.

“Rob!” I shouted, waving my arm in a wild arc over my head.

He stuck his head out the window and glanced in my direction, looking straight at me without apparent recognition, because in the next instant he drew his head back into the room and disappeared.

Well, duh? What was
wrong
with this guy? Did he have face blind
ness?

I ascended the stairs close on the heels of the person in front of me and, once inside the door, smiled at the docent who was directing visitors into a room on the left.

“Could I scoot up the stairs before I see the downstairs? There’s someone up there I need to speak to. It’s really important.”

“Madame,” he replied, waving me into the downstairs room.

“No, no, you don’t understand. I need to go up.” I pointed my forefinger toward the ceiling. “Up.”