Fleur De Lies (4 page)

“Ish worked wonders for mine!” crowed Irv.

“Give that man a business card,” cried Woody as he sailed a card toward him … and Osmond … and Victor … and—

Click-clack click-clack
.

Eyes stilled. Heads cocked. Ears listened.

“What was that?” asked Cal.

“Shounds like the noise my knee makes when it pops outta joint,” said Irv.

Click-clack click-clack
.

“It’s a cricket!” marveled Osmond.

“THERE’S BUGS IN HERE?” squealed Bernice, jerking her feet off the floor.

“Where’s it coming from?” asked Osmond, hardly able to contain his excitement as he came to attention like a quail-sniffing bird dog.

Smiling precociously, Madeleine waved her hand in the air, revealing a flat, stubby gadget that was shaped like a pack of gum but measured no longer than a child’s whistle. Holding it between her
thumb and index finger, she depressed the snapping plate and
clicked it again. “You are quite correct, Monsieur Osmond. You have heard of the crickets, yes?”

“I sure have. The army handed them out to the troops who parachuted into Normandy the night before the D-Day invasion. Clicking those things was the only way the landing force could tell if a fella was friend or foe in the dark. That one sure is shiny. What’s it made of ? Brass?”

“
Oui
. I found it in a meadow when I was a child, but others have found them in forests and apple orchards, graveyards and roadside
ditches—anywhere they can use their expensive metal detectors.”
She pressed it to her chest. “It is my most prized possession … and a reminder of the sacrifice that so many strangers made for my country. Parisians may be guilty of having short memories, but here in Normandy, where the liberating forces fought such bloody battles, we will never forget.”

“What about the French Resistance?” asked Tilly. “Was your family
involved in the Underground efforts to sabotage the Nazi war machine? Or is that too personal a question to ask?”

“
Mais oui
!” Madeleine enthused. “My family played a crucial role in the liberation effort. My grandmother rode her bicycle through Nazi enclaves to deliver coded messages about the expected Allied invasion to other members of the Resistance. Her brother removed railroad ties, loosened spikes, and planted explosives to derail the trains that carried their munitions and fuel. My family placed itself in grave danger to defeat the Nazis, and for their efforts, they paid a very dear price.”

The room grew so hushed, I could hear the mechanical whirr of individual seconds ticking by on an antique desk clock.

“It was a devastating time for my family,” Madeleine confided in a pained voice. “When the BBC delivered the message that all of France
had been waiting for—that the invasion was upon us—the Resistance took action. They blew up bridges, cut telegraph and phone lines, shut down nearly all communications between the occupation army and Berlin. Everyone knew their role. Several members of the Underground from our town made their way to the cliff at Pointe du Hoc, the coastal stronghold that the Germans had forti
fied with their most powerful artillery guns, which were aimed toward
the Channel, ready to open fire on an invasion fleet.”

“I’ll say they were powerful,” Osmond agreed. “They were hundred and fifty-five millimeter cannons.”

Irv let out an off-key whistle. “That’s not a cannon. Ish a Death Shtar.”

“They hoped to create a distraction large enough to draw troops away from their bunkers and gun emplacements. The only way the German guns would be stilled was if no troops remained alive to fire them.”

Virginia Martin clucked her disapproval. “Sounds like a recipe for suicide if you ask me.”

“It was a great test of courage, my pet.” Victor’s tone was harsh with censure. “Something that few people know anything about.”

“I hope enough folks went to get the job done,” said Woody. “The Jerrys had a machine gun called the MG-42 that could mow a whole squad down in half a second.” He punctuated his statement with an emphatic nod. “I oughta know. I spent a helluva lot of time diving out of their path in Italy.”

“Five people undertook the mission to Pointe du Hoc,” Made
leine continued. “They cut through barbed wire barriers. They booby-trapped potholes. They set off small explosions. At least, that had been
their intent. We’ll never know if they enjoyed even a small measure of success because they never returned from their mission.”

Another silence descended, followed by Cal asking in a flat voice, “Were they captured?”

Madeleine shook her head. “Many days after the major battle
ceased, the remains of my grandmother’s brother and three others
were found clustered in one spot on the cliff, as if they had been lined
up and executed. One body was never found. We’ve come to believe that this missing person was a Nazi collaborator. A traitor within the Resistance movement. He warned the Germans of the mission and, for his cooperation was allowed to escape, while the others were killed.”

Uff-da
. My perception of World War II had been tempered by distance, time, and reruns of
Hogan’s Heroes
, but to the local families who had lost loved ones on the front lines, there would never be
anything even remotely humorous about it. “Was the family of the man who betrayed the mission ostracized by the people in your town?”

Madeleine hesitated, bitterness and regret darkening her eyes. “We
never learned which person was the traitor.”

I frowned. “Not even by process of elimination? If you found the
remains of four bodies, wouldn’t the traitor be the person whose body
you didn’t find?”

“In normal circumstances, yes. But in this instance, no. My
grand
mother identified her brother from the fragments of two gold incisors left in his skull. It was the only recognizable part of him. The other three victims were charred beyond recognition from the Allied bombardments on the morning of the invasion. There was nothing left to distinguish one from the other—no clothing, pocket watches, ammunition belts. But we considered it a blessing that their personal effects were incinerated in the bombing rather than end up as trophies of war in the hands of the men who slaughtered them.”

Osmond looked suddenly distracted, as if he’d just recalled leaving a pot of water boiling on his stove before he left for vacation.

“What about the artillery guns?” Cal inquired. “Did the Allied bombing runs destroy them?”

“
Pssht
. Even I can answer that,” said Bernice in a superior tone. “Didn’t you ever see
The Longest Day
—that World War II flick starring every leading man in Hollywood? Robert Wagner scales the cliff with Tommy Sands, Paul Anka, and a bunch of unknown stuntmen. They’re a special commando force, and their mission is to destroy the big guns. But after they clean out the Germans, they discover there
are
no guns. The bunkers are completely empty. I wanna tell you, even Fabian was ticked off to think he’d done all that climbing for nothing.”

Cal looked perplexed. “So … where were the guns?”

“The Germans moved ’em to a safer location,” said Osmond.
“About
half a mile inland. To an apple orchard. For all the good it did them. A couple of army rangers found ’em and placed incendiary grenades in the firing apparatus. When they detonated ’em, all the metal parts got welded together in a big molten clump. Those guns
weren’t worth a lick after that. A pea shooter woulda done more damage.”

I stared at Osmond, thunderstruck at the depth of his knowledge. The guns, the clicker, the tides? How did he know all this stuff ? And then it hit me.

Even though he
claimed
not to have cable TV, he could be pulling
the wool over everyone’s eyes simply to avoid having to host the gang’s
weekly get-togethers to watch reruns of
Family
Feud
on the Game Show Channel. I shot him a suspicious look. He was watching the Military History Channel on the sly. He had to be.

“Grandmama!” Madeleine propelled herself out of her chair and hurried across the room to assist an elderly woman who appeared in
the doorway. She was small-boned, arrow straight, and wore her white
hair in a braid that formed a tidy coil around her head. Her cheekbones were high and angular, her complexion remarkably smooth. Her piercing blue eyes snapped with animation and good humor, and when she smiled, I caught a glimpse of the stunning beauty she must have been decades ago.

Madeleine cradled her arm around the woman’s shoulders and planted a kiss on her head. “Mesdames and messieurs, this is a special treat. Allow me to introduce my grandmother, Solange Ducat.”

Solange hugged her shawl more closely to her body and tipped her head. “
Bonjour tout le monde
.”

“
Bonjour
,” we offered in response, all except Osmond, whose breath
suddenly caught in his throat like a fish bone. His eyes grew round, his
face turned white. He swayed slightly forward, as if he were about to keel over.

Oh, my God!
He was having a heart attack!

Propelling myself out of my chair, I clamped a steadying hand on his arm. “Easy does it. Stay calm. I just took a CPR refresher course,
so I know exactly what to do. Someone help me get him on the floor!”

Irv swung his cane upward, poised it against Osmund’s shoulder, and gave him a shove.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked.

“He
llll
p-ing him to the floor!”

Osmond batted the cane away and gaped at the woman. “Solange?” he choked out. “Solange Spenard?”

“
Oui
.” She regarded him with her impossibly blue eyes, her face registering surprise, followed by bewilderment. “I was once Madame Spenard.”

Using my arm for support, Osmond boosted himself to his feet and stared across the room at her, his legs so wobbly, I thought they might collapse beneath him. “It’s me.” His voice shook with Richter scale intensity. “The chicken man G.I. with the broken leg.”

A dozen emotions flitted across the woman’s face before she pressed her hand to her mouth. “
Mere de Dieu
,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Ozmund?”

Irv thumped his cane against the leg of the coffee table. “Hey, if this fella’s not about to croak, could we get shome more Calvados over here?”

four

“I was so frightened
when I found an American soldier hiding in our barn, but I could see he was terribly hurt, so I ran back for my papa, and we sneaked him into zee house.”

Solange Spenard Ducat sat on the living room sofa beside Osmond, her thigh touching his pant leg, her shoulder brushing his arm, her fingers intertwined with his in a kind of lovers knot configuration. “The silly boy had parachuted into a tree and broke his leg when he cut himself from his harness.”

“That’s because it was pitch black,” teased Osmond. “I couldn’t tell how tall the tree was.”

Although Tilly and I had dragged our chairs close to the sofa so we wouldn’t miss a word of the unfolding story, most of the other guests had tired of the reminiscing and were meandering around the
room, snapping photos, shooting videos, and trying not to look bored.
Madeleine was making a concerted effort to play hostess to her guests
while being attentive to Osmond and her grandmother, but it was pretty much a lost cause since Bernice had commandeered her as her own personal photographer.

“We had to take evasive action once we hit the Normandy coast because of German flak,” Osmond continued, “so we ended up making our jump miles away from the drop zone.” He bowed his head and lowered his voice. “My whole squad got wiped out in that jump. All except me.”

Solange patted his forearm with a familiar hand, seeming to ease his grief with the simple intimacy of her touch.

I looked from one to the other, then sat up ramrod straight in my chair.
Uff-da!
Was I bearing witness to more than the casual reunion of two old friends here? Because their body language was suggesting
that back in 1944, they might have been a lot closer than mere
friends. A
whole
lot closer.

“Did you get me posing in front of the sideboard yet?” Bernice’s voice. Somewhere behind me. “The light’s pretty good right here.”

“
Oui
, madame,” droned Madeleine. “I have you in front of the sideboard, the china cabinets, the sofa, the—”

“Well, take another one.” The sandpaper rasp that was her voice
morphed into a syrupy lilt. “Have I mentioned that I used to be a mag
azine model?”

Tilly leaned forward on her walking stick, curiosity oozing from every pore as she zeroed in on Osmond. “So you became entangled in a tree and broke your leg when you fell to the ground. However did you manage the hike to Solange’s barn?”

“I rigged a crutch out of a broken tree limb, and then I headed away from the sound of artillery fire. Don’t even know which direction it was because my compass got smashed in the jump. It’s pretty embarrassin’ for an Iowan to admit, but I was lost about as bad as the Israelites in the wilderness.”

On a brighter note, at least it didn’t take him forty years to find his way back to civilization.

He gave his head a disbelieving shake. “Eighteen thousand Allied troops parachuted into Normandy, but I never ran into another livi
ng soul that whole night. No Americans. No Germans. No one. Kinda
felt like I’d arrived for the war all by myself.”

“Osmond,” I said gently, “does anyone in the gang have the slightest inkling that you participated in the actual D-Day invasion?”

“Nope. If I’d told ’em I’d been to war, the Dicks would’ve asked, ‘Which one? Revolutionary or Civil?’”

“I’m not sure how you’ve kept it to yourself all these years,” marveled Tilly.

Osmund shrugged. “If you’d seen the things I saw, you’da kept it to yourself, too.”

“But you’re a hero,” I insisted.

He shook his head. “The fellas who jumped out of those planes and never lived to tell about it are the real heroes, Emily. Not me.”

“That’s not true, Ozmund. Have you not told your friends what you did for my family?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably. “No need getting into that now. Far as I’m concerned, it’s all water over the dam.”

“
Non
! You tell them, Ozmund Chelsvig! If not for you, my mama and papa would have died at zee hands of zee Germans.” Her voice grew sharp. “
I
would have died!”

“Hey, folks,” Cal called out from the front window, “looks like the bus is here to pick us up.”

“But I still have room on my memory card for five hundred and forty-four more pictures of myself,” whined Bernice.

“If you do not tell them, Ozmund,
I
will,” threatened Solange. She skewered him with a fierce look. “Well?”

He responded with a stubborn snort. “All right, all right.”

My mom and dad had standoffs like this all the time, but it was usually over an issue that was even more vital to marriages than trust and fidelity: control of the TV remote.

“Solange’s parents hid me in a secret room they’d built under their
front staircase, but the day after I showed up, so did the Ger
mans. Three of them came knocking, and it wasn’t a social visit.
They knew about the secret room and the family’s involvement in the Underground, so they arrived to voice their objection.” He thrust out his bottom lip and shrugged. “That’s about it.”

I frowned. “That can’t be it. You can’t end a story like that.”

“Why not?”

Tilly rolled her eyes. “You’ve given us the exposition and the conflict, but you’ve left out the resolution. Without a resolution, we’re dealing with random plot points that go nowhere. So you need an ending, accompanied by a satisfying denouement, if you can manage it.”

“Confound it.” Sucking in a lungful of air, he burst out with, “So the Germans barged into the house with their threats and guns, and I made sure they never left. Is that resolution enough for you?”

I looked at Tilly. Tilly looked at me. We both looked at Solange.

“Zee three men shot their way into Ozmund’s room, but he was waiting for them, barricaded behind pillows, flat on his back, with
his broken leg bound in splints. He returned fire, and when zee shooting stopped, it was Ozmund who proved to be zee better
marksman. My brave little chee-ken man.”

“Mesdames, messieurs, your tour director is waiting for you by the front gate.” Madeleine strolled around the room, herding guests toward the doorway.

“Chicken man?” I stared at Osmond, baffled. “I—uh, I don’t
get it.”

“He wore a chee-ken on his shoulder,” said Solange. “A little screaming chee-ken.”

“Chicken?” Tilly straightened her spine. “On a military badge? I seriously doubt it was a fowl. More likely it was an eagle. A screaming eagle … which just happens to be the emblem of the 101st Air
borne Infantry.” She regarded Osmond with a look bordering on awe.
“You belonged to the 101st?”

He gave his head a nod. “Yup. I was one of the fellas who wore a screaming chee-ken on his shoulder sleeve.” He smiled impishly and squeezed Solange’s hand as he sidled a glance at her.

“When he’s very naughty and pokes fun of my accent, I ignore him,” she announced, nose in the air, head tilted at a coy angle, gaze averted, as if she were a young ingénue fending off a suitor whose
advances she desperately wanted. And in that instant I could see them
as they might have been decades ago, snatching moments of intimate
pleasure from a secret look, a shared touch, in a world that had gone completely mad.

“The 101st Airborne was only the most celebrated, the most illus
trious, the most battle-hardened division in the entire army,” chattered Tilly. “They led the charge on D-Day. They held the line at the Battle of the Bulge. They—”

“Grandmama?” Madeleine came up behind Solange and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Monsieur Osmond must leave us now.
His coach is waiting outside.”

“Leave? But he just arrived.”

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Virginia Martin bobbed her
head at Madeleine as she guided her husband past the sofa. “I’m sure you did the best you could under the circumstances.”

Victor halted his steps and jerked his hand away from his wife’s arm, irritation causing his facial muscles to grow rigid. “My dear
young woman”—he shuffled his feet slightly to face Madeleine—“I’ve
heard rumors that my wife was once an engaging and gracious creature, but I’ve never had the good fortune of bearing witness to it myself. You are beautiful and kind, and I thank you for opening your home to us.” He tipped his head politely and shifted his gaze to Solange. “And Mrs. Ducat, permit me to say that you are as lovely today as you were—”

He paused suddenly, as if his brain realized what was about to
come out of his mouth and closed his windpipe to avoid disaster. He
stiffened with panic for a brief second before he assumed a calmer
demeanor, his brain and mouth apparently on the same page again.
“You’re as lovely today as I imagine you were when Mr. Chelsvig first
met you.” He inhaled a deep, wheezy breath. “Your
eyes are quite haunting, my dear. A man could never forget a
woman with your eyes.”

Virginia elevated her hand to admire the jewels bedecking her
fingers. “Do you know the only thing worse than a fool, Victor?”

“I expect you’re about to tell me.”

“An old fool.”

He pivoted slowly toward her. His voice became gruff. “Help me out to the bus.”

“Thanks for everything, Madeleine.” Cal offered a brief valedictory wave. “I’m going to pick up some of that Calvados. Good stuff!”

Taking my cue from Cal, I stood up. “I guess we should be leaving, too. Don’t want to keep the coach driver waiting.”

“
Non
.” Solange clutched Osmond’s hand. “Not yet. There’s …
there’s
much I should tell you.”

Woody Jolly maneuvered around my chair to sketch a valiant, if arthritic, bow before the sofa. “Ladies, thank you for the conversation and refreshments. The obnoxious drunk I could have done without.”
He extended his hand, palm up, to Solange. “May I?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Solange placed her palm atop his, smiling shyly when he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

“I don’t know if that’s the way you French do it,” he blurted out with enthusiasm, “but it sure works for me. I’ve wanted to do that all my life. ‘Course, if I tried it with a woman in the States, I’d get my face slapped.”

He released her hand but continued to linger, apparently not at all worried that his dawdling might earn him the dreaded status of last person on the bus. “You’re such a beautiful woman, Solange, but like me and Osmond here, you’re getting up there in age. Do you mind my asking if you’ve made advanced funeral plans yet? For a nominal fee, Jolly Funeral Home offers an online consulting service
to help you decide exactly what arrangements will best suit your needs.
And it doesn’t matter that you live here and I live in the States. We’re
all connected now through the Internet, and we accept all major credit
cards.”

Solange stared at him, looking too speechless to respond.

“I brought a brochure with me. How about I leave it with you, and if you’re interested, you can contact me through our website. You have a computer, don’t you?” He slapped the numerous zippered
pockets of his jacket in search of the missing document. “Can’t remember which pocket I stuffed it in.”

Madeleine waved him off. “Please, monsieur, it is not necessary. We—”

“Sure it’s necessary. Folks in your grandmother’s and my generation don’t want to spend the afterlife cooped up in a jar the size of a flour canister. We want to be able to stretch out in a cheerful casket that’s lined with tufted satin and rest our heads on a pillow made of one hundred percent breathable cotton. Aha! Paydirt.” He unzipped a long, vertical pocket and slid his hand into—

“
Mon Dieu
,” cried Solange, eyes wild, mouth contorted. “
MON DIEU!
”

Woody froze, brochure in hand. “Was it something I said?”

Solange hurled a barrage of rapid-fire French at him, her voice
rising
to a crescendo, the cords in her neck straining so violently against
her flesh, they looked as if they might burst.

“What is it,
cherie
?” Madeleine darted around the sofa and sat down. “What is wrong?”

Solange’s hands flew into the air. Her voice grew shrill. Her words spilled out of her mouth so quickly, even Madeleine looked baffled.

“Please, Grandmama.
Lentement
. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

Cal poked his head in the door. “Sorry to break up your farewells, folks, but I’ve just been told by the head honcho that if you’re not on the bus in three minutes flat, our schedule is going to be seriously screwed up. You hear me, Dad?”

Osmond threw me a pleading look. “Emily, please, I can’t leave Solange like this.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” said Tilly as she pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. “And you know you can’t.”

Woody backpedaled away from the sofa, a sheepish look on his face. “How about I leave the brochure here for you?” he suggested, dropping it on the coffee table in his hasty retreat. “Maybe you can check it out when you’re in a better frame of mind.”

Solange stabbed a damning finger at him as he rushed out the door. “
C’est toi
!” she scolded in a high-pitched shriek that bristled with
venom. “
C’est toi
!”

The bus horn blared long and loudly, causing a wave of panic to ripple down my spine. “C’mon, Osmond.” I grabbed his arm. “We’ve gotta go. I can guarantee you won’t want to be anywhere around me if I have to walk back to the boat in five-inch wedges.”

“Solange?” He reached out his knobby fingers to touch her, but she was collapsed in Madeleine’s arms, seemingly inconsolable as she broke out in anguished tears, the sounds of her tormented wails filling
the room. He took a step back, bowing his head with a remembered sadness. “She cried just like that the day she found her brother.” He tried to catch Madeleine’s eye, but she was so fixated on soothing her grandmother that she no longer seemed aware of the presence of other people in the room.