French Fried (3 page)

There I waited for a light and trudged across while cars slammed on their brakes and honked at me. Evidently I hadn’t chosen a light meant for pedestrians. Once across, I leaned against the window of a shop and took deep, calming breaths until the shopkeeper frightened me half to death by tapping loudly on the window behind me.

Needless to say, our trip to Lyon and Avignon did not start out well. We had been invited by Adrien Guillot, a chemist we met at a meeting in Sorrento. Jason was to give talks at Professor Guillot’s university in Lyon, after which we would travel to Avignon for an international meeting, at which both men would be speakers. Naturally I had been quite excited at the prospect, Lyon being so well known for its food and Avignon for its history. It had been the residence of the papacy for a hundred years, and the general area was the seat of the Albigensian heresy and the resulting crusade of the Northern French against the Southern French. All very fascinating, not to mention the delights of the Provençal cuisine to be savored in Avignon.

My enthusiasm had begun to wane when Jason rejected, as too expensive, the hotel recommended by the Guillots. He’d gone on the Internet and found the Hotel Charlemagne. Since he liked the price, the hotel was bound to be less than comfortable, but as he pointed out, his attempts to find me in the spring, when my cruise ship went missing, had been very costly. True, but the money was well spent. I had been so very happy to see him on the deck of the destroyer when the United States Navy hauled me up from my lifeboat.

How gallant and chivalrous my dear husband had been, and what a lovely summer we’d had together in New York while he was consulting for Hodge, Brune—a sort of second honeymoon, although our daughter Gwen was sharing the apartment, and son Chris came down from Boston on the weekends. And, of course, Jason insisted that we live as economically as possible, which is hard to do in New York. What with eating two desserts at every opportunity because the situation was so stressful, the ten pounds I gained during the cruise had to be shed, but the family wasn’t at all appreciative of my experiments in “diet gourmet.” In fact, by the end of the summer, Jason declared that he never wanted to see another salad.

Still, we got along wonderfully, which, sadly, hadn’t been the case earlier that year. Jason had hinted that our problems might be due to menopause, but I am
not
menopausal! I’m only in my forties. I attributed our problems to—well, no matter. She wasn’t in New York, so that took care of that. We had a lovely summer.

And maybe our Lyon hotel would be nicer than I expected, although a second bad omen had occurred as soon as we landed at the airport. Our hosts, Adrien and Albertine Guillot, were not there to meet us. We were paged and informed that a family emergency had taken them out of town, but they hoped to be back before departure for Avignon. Naturally, Jason was disappointed. He and Adrien had been planning a joint research project.

Albertine was to show me around Lyon, but without bringing her dreadful dog, Charles de Gaulle—I hoped. Now I didn’t have to worry about the dog. No doubt she had taken him with her to the emergency, but her absence left me to find my way around Lyon, and it’s a very large city with a very intimidating airport. Not the inside; that was fine. But once we went outside to look for ground transportation, the terminal building loomed up like a black and silver bird with gigantic wings upraised. In my sleep-deprived state, I had the shocked perception that the bird building was about to pounce on me.

And the final blow fell here at Perrache, where Jason deserted me. It was bad enough that he refused to take a taxi to our hotel. Too expensive, he insisted, and quite unnecessary when he’d bought a map and plotted our way by bus and subway. What other husband, jet-lagged and exhausted, would be so besotted with chemistry that he felt it necessary to rush off to a university, where he probably knew no one?

Lost in morose thought, I had been limping along, tugging my heavy suitcase behind me, when I spotted, across the street, the sign HOTEL CHARLEMAGNE. Wouldn’t you know that I’d chosen the wrong side of the street? Well, I was not walking to a corner so that I could cross safely and sensibly.

“Never make eye contact with a foreign driver,” someone had told me in Italy, so I tried it in France, peeking from the corners of my eyes and barging into traffic when it appeared that oncoming cars could brake before hitting me. They did brake, and I walked straight through the door of the hotel without catching a single eye of a single outraged French driver. If jaywalking is a crime in Lyon, I

became a criminal on my very first day. Fortunately, no gendarmes were about to arrest me, and weren’t they lucky? I was in no mood to put up with annoying French policemen. Bad enough that drivers for two blocks in every direction had seen fit to honk their horns at me.

Actually, the Hotel
Charlemagne was nicer than I expected. Potted, ball-trimmed trees and sizable stone lions guarded a rounded glass-and-metal door that led into a modern lobby. Inside, colorful abstract paintings, leather couches, and handsome contemporary rugs greeted me. In a raised section, large, healthy cacti provided privacy for groups of tables served by a rounded bar, while the reception counter, made of glowing, lighted glass, was backed by a deep red wall. All very chic. What I didn’t see was a welcoming presence—no bellhop, no receptionist, just a woman working at a computer. I had to clear my throat twice before she said something snippy in French.

When I replied irritably in English, she said, “I am busy.”

“Fine,” I replied. “We’ve prepaid our room; just take my passport and give me my key. I’ve had a long trip, and I want to go to bed.”

She scowled and informed me that she was in charge of billing, not reception. Much I cared. I scowled back. After relenting and checking me in, she told me that my room was on the fourth floor and that the bellhop was otherwise engaged. Then she pointed me toward the elevator and handed me one of those huge keys that are so heavy they
have
to be returned before one goes out. Surrounded by so much modern décor, I couldn’t imagine why they didn’t provide key cards, but with no bellhop, I wouldn’t have to tip, so I headed in the direction of the elevator.

Like the key, the elevator didn’t fit the interior decoration. It was so small there was barely room for my bag and me. The room provided another unpleasant surprise, not that it was unattractive. Cream walls slightly tinged with orange, a modern painting overhanging twin beds, yellow patterned spreads contrasting with dark gray headboards and lamp tables, most of one wall covered with gray-and-pale-orange-striped drapes, partially opened, and on the left against a pale green wall a gray desk and mirror, a gray chair upholstered in orange, a wall TV, and the opening to a hall that evidently contained bath and closet facilities—quite nice, I decided in passing.

The surprises included a dark-haired man sprawled across both beds, asleep on his stomach and making a strange rattling-wheezing sound. He obviously had a sinus condition. On the desk sat a split of champagne in an ice bucket and a plate with two delicious-looking slices of pâté de foie gras in back, two slices obviously missing in front, a smeared knife, and toast in a small bowl. The envelope attached by a ribbon to the bottle was addressed to Jason and me.

I glanced at the sleeping man and then tiptoed over to open the envelope. The chemistry department had sent us this welcome snack, which was very thoughtful, except that the strange man had come into our room, slathered foie gras onto toasts with the little knife, and eaten it, after which he had evidently fallen asleep across our beds. Who did he think he was? Goldilocks invading the house of the three bears? Well, I, as Mama Bear, resented having my pâté filched. I could call downstairs, but in doing so, I might awaken the man. No telling what he’d do.

Accordingly, I wheeled my heavy suitcase into the hall and closed the door quietly behind me. I was so tired, and now I had to convince that rude Frenchwoman that there was a pâté thief sleeping on my bed. When she again ignored me, I said loudly, “There’s a stranger in my room. He ate half of the pâté sent to my husband and me and then fell asleep on the bed.” She raised her eyebrows before returning to her computer. “I demand that you call the manager.”

“Our manager, madam, is having his midmorning snack in the dining room and cannot be disturbed.”

“Very well, then,” I replied. “Go up there and deal with the intruder yourself. Otherwise, I shall have to call the police. He is occupying a room for which we paid and has eaten food that was sent to us. That makes him a thief. I’m quite prepared to sign a warrant for his arrest.”

That got her attention. She plucked a page from her printer, folded it neatly in thirds, and popped it into an envelope. Then she slotted the envelope carefully into a cubbyhole and, sighing, rose from the desk. “Louis,” she called to a fellow polishing glasses behind the bar, “you must watch the desk for me while I investigate this report of an interloper. It is, without doubt, another guest who wandered into the wrong room.”

“Why would another guest have the key to my room?” I demanded as I trailed her to the elevator, still dragging my suitcase.

“Leave the suitcase here, madam. The elevator will not hold the three of us,” she instructed.

“Nonsense. We can squeeze in, or I’ll ride up with my suitcase, and you can walk,” I retorted, at that point thoroughly irritated by her haughty attitude. We did manage to edge in, but the elevator emitted alarming groans as it labored upward. I stared at Yvette, as her nametag identified her, just waiting for her to make some unkind remark about the weight of Americans. She stared at the ceiling, lips pursed primly. Her attitude convinced me that I should insist the hotel replace the pâté missing from our welcome gift.

Since this hotel was Jason’s unfortunate choice, it seemed only fair that, once the pâté thief was taken away, the two remaining slices should be mine, not to mention as much of the champagne as I felt like drinking before I went to bed.

Yvette plucked the key from my hand, inserted it in the door, and told me to wait outside while she investigated. Fine. There was a sofa in the hall, and I sat down, glad for a little rest. “Please come in now, madam,” she called from inside. “This man is not asleep. He is dead.” She was standing with arms crossed over her chest, staring with disapproval at the figure sprawled across our beds.

“Nonsense. He was snoring when I left.” I looked, too. He was no longer snoring, but that hardly meant he had died.

While Yvette went
to call the police, I curled myself on the hall sofa and fell asleep with my head on the padded arm. Sometime later I awoke suddenly to find three Frenchmen staring down at me while they conversed among themselves. “Are you the American lady discovering the deceased person in her bedroom?” asked one.

“No, he was alive when I found him,” I replied, giving them a surprise. They were an ill-assorted lot—a stout, middle-aged man with a mustache and a full, unwrinkled face; a tall, thin, dark-skinned man, wearing a black turtle-neck and black pants and carrying a suitcase in one hand and a camera in the other; and last, the man who had spoken to me in English. He was of medium height, fashionably dressed, and had very tidy fingernails, possibly buffed. I do like tidy fingernails. When Jason and I became engaged, my first suggestion was that he take better care of his nails.

“I am Inspector Theodore Roux,” said the English speaker. “Please meet my colleagues, Doctor Alphonse Petit and Collector-of-Evidence Kahled Bahari.”

Alphonse was the portly fellow and Kahled probably Algerian or Moroccan, although he sounded very French. I shook hands with each.

“Doctor Petit asks why you think the deceased was alive when you discovered him,” the inspector asked.

I replied that the man had made a noise—a sort of snore-cough. I was asked to imitate the noise, an embarrassing request. I didn’t even remember it very clearly, but the doctor insisted so I gave a little cough, thought a minute, tried a wheeze, and then, unsatisfied with the result, attempted a gargling sound. The last was unsuccessful because one can hardly gargle without liquid. They all frowned; Kahled shrugged and went into the room, from which the flashes of his camera could be seen almost immediately; and the other two talked between themselves in French, imitated my imitations, and rolled their eyes.

“He must have had a sinus condition,” I explained, tracing a finger along the path of my own sinuses and then pretending to blow my nose. After providing me with a handkerchief, the doctor turned back to the inspector for more indecipherable discussion.

Finally the inspector said the doctor thought I might have heard “a death—how would you say?—a death—warble?”

“Warble?” I repeated.
The bird sound?

“The sound a dying person makes in the throat,” Inspector Roux explained. “Before or after death.”

I had never heard the sound a dying person makes. I hadn’t been allowed to sit with my mother when she died, but I doubted that she had warbled before or after the cancer killed her. Then a terrible thought occurred to me.

“If he was dying, I should have administered artificial respiration, but I had no idea,” I assured them. “How terrible to think that I might have saved his life, but if I had performed artificial respiration, and he was simply asleep, he would have awakened to find a strange woman apparently kissing him. And first I’d have had to turn him over, and he might have grabbed me.” I was picturing the whole dreadful scenario.

“
Non, non,
madam,” exclaimed the inspector. “Do not cry. No woman should kiss the sleeping stranger. You were quite right to go for help.” He was patting my shoulder while I sniffed into the doctor’s handkerchief. “Do not be frayed in the nerves, madam. A strange man in the room! Who would not be distressed? Can we say you do not know the deceased person?”