French Fried (16 page)

“Yes, I had a great many angry calls on voice mail at the hotel.”

“Well, I don’t know why they’d be upset. Don’t they know that it’s every citizen’s duty to cooperate in police investigations? Anyway, they’ll get over it. Albertine’s all right with the syphilis misunderstanding.”

I remembered that with a wince. I couldn’t believe my wife had accused Albertine’s mother of having syphilis.

“How was I to know that Gabrielle was talking about shingles? Wouldn’t you think
syphilis
if someone said
foul pox
? I think Albertine understands, although she did say we couldn’t ride with them because they’re leaving this afternoon for Avignon, which I don’t mind at all, and you shouldn’t. Take my word for it, you wouldn’t want to ride in a car with her dog.”

“She’s bringing the dog?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember everything she said this morning. After all, I was sleepy because I’d had no sleep last night.”

She
was
having memory lapses. “Well, don’t worry about any of it, sweetheart. I’ll be here in Lyon until you’re released, even if I miss my paper.”

“I do remember her saying Adrien would shift the schedule to accommodate you, but Jason, I don’t want to stay here too long, even if the food
is
good. There are so many things I want to see—the papal palace and the half bridge and everything in Avignon. In Villenueve Avignon, a pope’s nephew built a castle because Avignon was so nasty during the stay of the popes. There’s a monastery and a fort and . . . Well, we’ll leave tomorrow at the latest. Goodness, I’m so sleepy. Maybe I should have a little nap. Is the guard outside?”

“You go to sleep. I’ll be right here,” I assured her.

“If the guard’s not here, someone might get you, too. Can’t you look?”

I agreed to look and found him asleep in the chair. Some guard. He hadn’t even noticed that I was in her room when he returned. When I tapped him on the shoulder, he woke up and addressed me in French with his hand on his gun.

“Esposo,”
I said in Spanish, not knowing the French word for husband. He nodded and went back to sleep. I returned to my chair to find my wife asleep as well, so I retrieved a printout of a paper on mercury poisoning that I’d been wanting to read and settled down, but before doing so I saw the bruises on one of Carolyn’s arms. They looked terrible, although not as bad as the angry scrapes. Was her whole body covered with those? Had she really been pushed? Or had she fallen? It was hard to imagine that someone was trying to murder us, but still, dangerous things had been happening.

After Albertine, no
academics came to visit. I suppose they were on their way to Avignon or mad at me, or both. I, meanwhile, was preparing to be released, although I hadn’t yet discussed it with the doctor. He hadn’t stopped by. Perhaps he felt it was enough to speak to Jason, an attitude that my mother-in-law would have deplored. Every time the nurse was out of the room, I insisted that Jason take me for a walk—to the bathroom or the window. He protested and with some reason. Getting up made me dizzy, but I clutched his arm and managed to stay upright.

While he was having lunch downstairs, the inspector arrived with the news that none of the people he interviewed seemed likely suspects. Many had alibis. I asked if he’d checked their alibis and received evasive replies.

“Could you not have fallen, madam?” he asked. “On a dark, rough stair, falling would be easy.”

“Backward?” I retorted.

“You landed facedown.”

“Well, I was trying to break my fall. I may have twisted several times. Goodness knows, I have bruises and scrapes everywhere. Why do you question that I was pushed?”

He straightened his handsome silk tie and stared at the ceiling, perhaps preparing some lie to pacify me. “Professor de Firenze’s door was unlocked, and according to an aunt we contacted, cherished items are missing.”

That was terrible news. “Valuable items?” I asked, dreading Jason’s reaction to this news. “Perhaps someone burglarized the apartment before I was pushed down the stairs. That’s it. They were escaping with the loot and, finding me on the stairs, pushed me down to keep their identity secret.”

“Possibly, but there are oniy three keys to the apartment, one with the neighbor, which you were given; one taken to Avignon by the professor; and one in the hands of the aunt, who has had it for years. There was no sign of forced entry, which would have been difficult given the sturdy construction of the door. I think we must assume that the thief got the key from your handbag along with everything else you carried. Surely you do not think members of the faculty or their wives pushed you in order to rob you of money and credit cards and a colleague of family heirlooms.”

“Family heirlooms?” I echoed weakly. He handed me a list of the missing items as described by the aunt—a Renaissance cross, gold inset with lapis; a necklace and earring set with pearls and rubies; an illuminated, medieval prayer book; a set of six engraved gold forks from the period of Catherine de Médicis, and ornate silver candlesticks from the seventeenth century, things that could never be replaced, even if we had the money to do so. “You must find out who stole them,” I said frantically. “What will I say to her when I arrive in Avignon?”

“You are leaving Lyon?” asked the inspector. “The professor already knows of the theft, but are you able to travel? Surely, your physician—”

“I don’t care what he says,” I snapped. “I’m not going to miss Avignon.”

“It is a delightful town,” he agreed. “And the food—well, the food of Provence! Not as good as the food of Lyon, perhaps, but—”

“But you
will
keep investigating, won’t you? Although I suppose the attacker will follow us.” I blinked back tears.

“Do not be afraid, madam. I will call a colleague in Avignon and advise him of the situation so that they can be at your service.” As he was writing down the name of this colleague, I was thinking that Jason and I would be more at risk in Avignon than here, where at least I knew the inspector.

Advising that I’d be better off to stay in Lyon, although he could not keep a guard at my door for longer than today, he left, and I managed to fit in another nap before the doctor finally arrived to peer into my eyes and tell me that I was doing well, and that perhaps my scrapes were not infected since they looked better. I didn’t think they looked better. They didn’t
feel
better, but I kept that to myself.

“I’m so pleased to hear that you think I’ve recovered because I have to leave tomorrow for Avignon.”

“Madam,” cried the doctor, “I did not mean to imply that you are ready to leave the hospital. We must continue the antibiotics and observe the progress of your head injury. How can you leave when you cannot yet stand?”

I assured him that I had been to the bathroom and the window several times.

“But that is dangerous. Are you not dizzy? What if you fall and hurt your head again? One head injury on top of another is very bad, and Avignon is an old town. The streets are not always easy walking, as are most streets here in our more modern Lyon. I must insist—”

“I’ll be with friends. I’ll have arms to support me.” Although I had no assurance of that. Perhaps no one would want to sightsee with me. Catherine certainly wouldn’t, not that she seemed the sightseeing type. “I can even get a cane if you insist. Just give me antibiotic pills, painkillers, and the name of an English-speaking doctor in Avignon, and I’ll be on my way tomorrow.”

“You will leave at your own risk. I cannot be responsible—”

“That’s fine. If I have to sign papers, I can do that.” The doctor threw up his hands and left my room.

When Jason returned from lunch, I told him my plans. “The doctor agreed?” he asked. I smiled. “Well, that’s good news. I won’t have to miss my paper,” said my husband. “I’d better call Adrien to let him know.”

“Yes, and you’ll have to buy train tickets and pack our bags. You can bring the luggage, and we’ll leave from here. You’ll need to pick out something for me to wear. I doubt that the clothes I had on when I was brought in are wearable. And cosmetics. I’ll need cosmetics.” I could see that Jason was worrying about packing and paying for cabs.

However, he said, “I’ll have to see about paying the bill. I wonder if they take Blue Cross Blue Shield.”

“Doesn’t France have socialized medicine? Since I was injured by a French criminal, we probably won’t have to pay anything.” That thought cheered my husband considerably, and he went off to get ready for departure. I went back to sleep.

 

Getting dressed the next morning was much more difficult than I anticipated because I was still dizzy; however, I had the whole train trip to Avignon to rest and drink in the scenery of Provence. The doctor never came to see me again, sulking probably because I hadn’t followed his advice. I was given pills, the name of a doctor in Avignon, an ugly metal cane, and a lecture by the nurse, which, fortunately, Jason didn’t hear because he was reloading our bags into a cab while I was wheeled down to the entrance. Also I had to sign some papers in French, probably absolving them if I came to grief.

Jason helped me from the wheelchair into the car, quite unaware of how much I needed that help, and then we were treated to a wild ride from a friendly cab driver to the Gare Part Deux, which had a delightful clock in front—a large clear plastic circle with red hands and gold balls at each hour position. I took a picture through the window.

Then the difficulties began. Jason could not handle all the luggage by himself, so I had to pull my bag while I clung desperately to his arm and he pulled his bag and hung both carry-ons from his shoulders. One of the carry-ons kept bumping my bruises. Rather than worry him, I clenched my teeth and kept my eyes wide open to prevent any telltale tears and groans, but I was so glad to sit down and mind the luggage while he went off to get a copy of the
Herald-Tribune
and find out our track number.

Then matters worsened as we resumed the bag dragging, amid crowds of travelers. My head began to ache abominably. Since Jason had to get the bags up into our train car by himself, he sent me ahead to secure seats. Climbing the narrow, high steps with a reeling head was dreadful, but once I got into the car, I could grab the seat handles as I staggered to the nearest open seat, which I fell into ahead of a mother and her child.

“
Excusez-moi
,” I said politely. I’d learned a few phrases, although not how to pronounce them. She gave me a furious look and dragged her whimpering child in the other direction.

Jason arrived about five minutes later, his forehead bedewed with perspiration. He was carrying the two computer cases, which are easier to steal than the large bags. He dumped those onto the seat beside me, which I had guarded vigilantly from people who wanted to sit there, and went back for his suitcase, which he then hefted onto the overhead rack with a grunt.

“Mine hasn’t disappeared, has it?” I asked anxiously. That would really be the last straw. Three attempts on our lives, a whole department of chemists angry with us, and no clean clothes.

“I seriously doubt it,” said Jason. “I could hardly get it onto the train. What thief would try to get it off? If I hadn’t packed your bag myself, I’d have thought it was full of bricks.”

“Do we have any water?” I asked, looking pathetic. “I need to take a pain pill.”

Somewhat abashed, Jason said he’d see if he could buy a bottle. While he was gone, I worried that the train would leave without him. He had the tickets. However, he returned with water but not my bag. When I asked where it was, he said, not very pleasantly, that it would have to stay between the cars because there was no way he could lift it onto a rack.

I’d have worried about the bag all the way to Avignon if I hadn’t fallen asleep as soon as I took the pain pills. Needless to say, I missed the lovely countryside of Provence. On the upside, my bag was still on the train when we arrived.

Carolyn slept so
soundly that I began to worry, although it occurred to me that her pain medication might be the cause. Still, I decided to suggest that she spend the afternoon resting at the hotel so she’d be able to attend the reception at the Palace of the Popes.

Getting off the train at the
gare
in Avignon was almost as difficult as getting on at Lyon. I had to handle all the bags and carry the computer cases while Carolyn clung to the seat handles in the aisle and edged down to the platform, hanging on to the stair rails for dear life. Obviously she should have stayed in the hospital, which made me wonder if the doctor had actually released her. Whistles were blowing, conductors were calling out in French, and my wife was in a panic when I transferred the last bag to the platform.

In the terminal, she asked that I buy her a tourist picture book of Avignon. I doubt she really needed it so soon because she fell onto a bench, looking pale. She called after me to get water as well, which meant she wanted to wash down more pain pills. Obviously, I couldn’t suggest taking public transportation to the hotel. In the taxi I eyed the meter while Carolyn exclaimed over one sight after another on the Rue de la Republique, ending with, “Look at that carousel!” It was a colorful and pretty attraction at the end of the Place de l’Horlage, which was lined with plane trees and sidewalk cafés shaded by colorful umbrellas that flapped in a stiff breeze.