French Fried (27 page)

“Some people say it was simple melancholy, but I think the priest was wrong to deny him the last rights. Poor Maurice couldn’t help it when his condition became so serious he killed himself. He wasn’t in his right mind, you know. I’ve always felt that God will forgive him, after a suitable time in purgatory, because the poor man wasn’t responsible.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Nicole. I hope you told Catherine that. It must have been a comfort to her.”

“Oh, no. Catherine would not be comforted. She’s still in mourning. In fact, I did tell her, and she screamed at me. Catherine never accepted that Maurice had psychiatric problems. And they came and went. He was quite normal and cheerful while they were falling in love and during the first year of their marriage. I’ve often wondered if it wasn’t the strain of being married to a woman so much younger that set off the depression again, but of course, I couldn’t say that to Catherine. She’d probably have pushed me down the stairs. Bad enough that she screamed at me.”

“Pushed you down the stairs?” I echoed weakly, remembering my fall into space before I lost consciousness in her stairway.

“Well, that’s just a figure of speech, my dear, and an unfortunate one, considering your fall in Lyon, but surely you didn’t think that Bertrand or I would have pushed you, anymore than I think Catherine would have pushed me.”

“No, of course not,” I replied. “I was in pain and very groggy when the inspector asked who knew where I’d be. It never occurred to me that he’d rush off and question everyone I named. I was very embarrassed by the whole misunderstanding.”

“Well, don’t give it another thought. We’ve forgiven you, haven’t we, Bertrand?”

He didn’t answer because he and Jason were eating and drawing molecules on pieces of paper that Jason carried in his pockets because I’d gotten tired of him irritating restaurant employees by drawing on their napkins and tablecloths.

“The fact is that Catherine blamed a stranger for his death. Someone said, in print, mind you, that a paper Maurice published was all wrong, and Maurice was upset about the criticism, but one doesn’t kill oneself over chemical data. The poor man probably
was
wrong. He was already depressed before that letter about his paper was published. I remember saying hello to him in the hall outside his office when I was meeting Bertrand.

“In fact, we were going to the very restaurant where we took you and your husband in Lyon. We had—what was it?—ah, a lovely capon with truffles under the skin. I’ll never forget that dish. But as I was saying, I greeted Maurice, and he didn’t even look up. He just continued down the hall with his head hanging. So sad.

“I don’t suppose the medications for such problems were as good then, or perhaps he didn’t want to take them because of what Catherine would think. She never, never accepted that he had a problem. Blaming his death on a professional conflict was just Catherine’s way of rationalizing his suicide. She probably thought that if he had really been in love with her, he wouldn’t have been depressed.”

At that point the profiteroles ordered by Bertrand arrived, and they were marvelous, with an exceptional dark chocolate sauce, crispy pastries, and inside a rich vanilla and chocolate ice cream. I ate all three of mine and had a sip of wine with each.

“Ah, I see you cannot resist the wine, after all,” said Bertrand, sounding pleased, “and you can be sure that the chocolate used to make the sauce is Lyonnais. Note how fine and smooth it is, how rich. Only chocolate made with the very best varieties of cocoa tastes like this.”

I was talking
with colleagues between sessions when a young woman from the registration desk tapped my arm. “Professor Blue, perhaps I could speak to you privately,” she whispered. Of course that caught the interest of the others.

“If it’s about that student of mine,” I said brusquely, “just tell me what the problem is.”

She hesitated. “It is her father. He and the mother are at the hospital and they
demand
—that was his word—that you and your wife meet them there. I am so sorry to bring this message, but he threatened to call the police if you do not come immediately.”

I thanked her as calmly as I could and excused myself. Once I was safely away from spectators, I said a few choice words and went in search of a telephone. It wasn’t that I wanted Carolyn to go with me, but I did need to warn her in case they, or the police, showed up at the hotel. I was hoping that my wife would already be out sightseeing, but she picked up, so I outlined the problem.

“Albertine should be here any moment,” said Carolyn. I was relieved until Carolyn insisted that I stay at the palais until she arrived to talk to me. “Mercedes and her father can wait a bit.”

“What if he follows through and calls the police?”

“Let him. He’ll be more embarrassed than we could ever be when he discovers what his daughter’s been up to. Did you get hold of Human Resources at home?”

“Yes, and I’ve faxed them the complaint.”

“Oh, good. I hope you kept a copy. Do show it to the Lizarretas.”

I did wait for her but wished I hadn’t when I discovered what she intended. At Carolyn’s insistence, Albertine drove us to the hospital to meet the parents, both tall, thin, and dark-haired, both hovering over my former student, who, according to the floor nurse, refused to leave the hospital although she could have been discharged. The three glared at us when we were shown into Mercedes’s hospital room. She was wearing a frilly bed jacket of the type seen in old black-and-white movies and looked as if a hairdresser and makeup artist had come in to make her glamorous.

“You’re looking well, Mercedes,” said Carolyn. “Why is it you won’t leave the hospital?”

“I am safe from being shot while I’m here,” said Mercedes crisply.

Her father, face reddening, turned to me and shouted, “You are the professor of my daughter. And you let your mad wife shoot her? You were the father in absentia. It was your duty—”

“Mercedes wasn’t treating my husband like a father,” said Carolyn sweetly. “If she treats you the way she treated Jason here in Lyon, your friends must be gossiping behind your back. All the conferees are certainly talking about her behavior. She’s been acting like a trollop.”

“What did you call
mi hija
?” cried the mother.

“If she hadn’t draped herself all over Jason, she wouldn’t have been shot,” Carolyn continued. “Of course, I’m grateful that Jason wasn’t hurt, but I doubt that Mercedes had anything in mind other than trying to get close to him.”

“Then you confess to the shooting!” said the father triumphantly. “The police will wish to hear this. They are looking for the weapon and tell me that you have no alibi for the time when—”

“My wife meant no such thing,” I protested. “In fact, at that time, she was incapacitated with a broken ankle outside the palais. As you can see, she’s wearing an orthopedic boot.”

“Yes,” Carolyn agreed. “I even heard the ambulance that came for your daughter; I really wished they were coming for me. Furthermore, Jason was the target of the gunman, not Mercedes. If she hadn’t thrown herself at him, the bullet wouldn’t have hit her.”

“So you are saying that not you, señora, but perhaps another angry father was trying to shoot your husband?” asked Señor Lizarreta.

“She’s lying,” cried Mercedes. “She shot me because she knew that Jason and I are in love.”

“I am not in love with you, Mercedes. I never was in love with you, and I’ve never given you any reason to think I was. In fact, I’ve found your conduct at the conference extremely embarrassing.”

“What is this?” growled Señor Lizarreta, turning toward his daughter. “You are in love with a married man?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “And he loves me.”

“Really,” said Carolyn. “If he’s so much in love, why has Jason insisted that you find another research director, preferably at another university?”

“He just told
you
that. He doesn’t want me to leave him,” said Mercedes.

Tired of the whole argument, I opened my briefcase on the nightstand and pulled out the copy of the harassment complaint, which I handed to her father. While he read it, Mercedes demanded to be told what it was, and I told her. She screamed at me in Spanish, which was probably a good thing. I didn’t really want to know what she had to say, but I did notice that her mother turned white and spoke sharply to her.

“No
hombre Mexicano
would be so unmanly as to accuse a pretty girl of harassing him,” said the father. “Have you no pride, señor?”

“We take sexual harassment seriously in our country,” I replied. “Evidently that is not the case in Mexico.” Carolyn clapped her hand over her mouth, to stifle a giggle would be my guess.

“As for you, Mercedes,” said her father, “you will accompany us to Mexico City immediately. Raquel,” he addressed his wife, “see that she dresses while I pay the hospital bill.”

“Her university Blue Cross Blue Shield will cover part of it,” my wife said helpfully. “I found that out when I had a concussion in Lyon and the broken ankle here.”

The father gave Carolyn a contemptuous look, as if using health insurance was a lower-class tactic.

“Out of the room,” ordered the mother. “My daughter wishes to dress.”

“I do not,” said Mercedes.

Carolyn and I left quietly and found Albertine in the hall, eavesdropping.
“Mon Dieu,”
she said. “What an unpleasant threesome, although I must agree with the father. Filing a complaint against the girl is not dignified, Jason. Adrien agrees with me.”

I shrugged. “If she really disappears into Mexico, I’ll withdraw it.” That would have been my preference, but I’d wait until I was sure no lawsuits against me were impending. And the next time I accepted a female graduate student, she’d be homely and devoted to science. I doubted that discrimination could be charged if I showed a preference for ugly, chemistry-obsessed girls.

Carolyn slipped her hand through my arm and whispered, “Wasn’t that fun? Aren’t you glad I came along?”

My wife has a somewhat twisted idea about what’s “fun.” I just hoped that the police no longer considered her a suspect. Perhaps if the victim left town, the investigation would die a natural death, not that I wouldn’t be relieved if the French police actually caught whoever seemed to be targeting us, even though the attacker had been mercifully unsuccessful.

Albertine drove Jason
back to the palais and went in to tell Adrien, belatedly, about the dinner date with the Girards, so I took the opportunity to have a word with my admirer, Pierre. In fact, I had to drag him into a chapel to make my request without being overheard. “Pierre, could you find out who wrote a letter to a journal fifteen or sixteen years ago criticizing the work of Maurice Bellamee, a chemist from Lyon.”

“You have a new beau!” Pierre looked crestfallen. “Here am I, madly in love, and you want me to provide information so you can defend the work of this Maurice. Why, may I ask? Is Maurice—”

“Dead,” I replied, “and keep your voice down. You mustn’t tell anyone I asked. Can you do it? Or is it too long ago?”

“But of course I can. The Internet holds all information if you know how to use it and have access to the necessary websites. You are pining for this dead person? I am hurt. Bad enough to compete with a live husband for your affections, but what man can compete with the memory of one who is dead? I am devastated.”

“You’re an outrageous flirt, Pierre, and this has nothing to do with my affections. However, if you can find the information, I shall hold you in affection forever.”

With that Pierre beamed at me, kissed me on both cheeks, and promised to call once he got to his computer. “Well, well!” said my husband from the door. “Albertine said you’d ducked in here with Lamont. It seems I can’t let you out of my sight, Carolyn.”