Fleur De Lies Page 10

  “Maybe your dad is finding it difficult to admit that, given the circumstances, his hard sell was politically incorrect.”

  “Dad has never in his life admitted he’s wrong, so … who knows? Maybe you’re right. But I’ll tell you one thing. Profits at the Jolly Funeral Home would skyrocket if Dad wasn’t so pig-headed and stubborn. In fact, that’s the main reason we signed up for this tour. The idea was that a relaxed atmosphere in a neutral setting would promote calm and allow us to iron out some grave matters. Pun intended.”

  “I didn’t realize the funeral industry had matters to iron out.”

  “That’s because you’ve obviously had no need to employ our services yet. But there’s a real battle going on between the cremationists and the terra-firmists, and as baby boomers age, it’s only going to get worse.”

  I shoved the remainder of my sugar cone in my mouth and flicked crumbs off my top as I finished chewing. “Sounds like you’re talking science fiction.”

  “I’m talking profit and loss. I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes version. The cremationists, like me, are pushing for affordable crematory services and low-cost mausoleums. The terra-firmists, like Dad, stand behind traditional services like in-ground interment and coffins that can withstand nuclear attack, and they’re petitioning for additional cemeteries to accommodate the future onslaught of boomer clients. Our morticians association has just hired an expensive lobbyist to push our agenda through the state legislature, but none of us can agree whose agenda is going to be advanced, the cremationists or the terra-firmists. Hence, our desperate attempt to arrive at some type of unanimity before we fly home.”

  “Any breakthroughs yet?”

  “Nope. There’s a dozen of us on the trip, equally split between opposing camps, and no one’s willing to give an inch yet. But there’s a meeting scheduled tonight in the lounge, so if everyone gets liquored up, maybe we’ll see some movement. The old-timers are just too mired in tradition to realize that shifting religious attitudes, tax revenues, and commercial land development are changing the industry. They’ve clung to their ‘business as usual’ motto for decades, but if they continue, the only thing they’ll have to show for it will be a fistful of bankruptcy notices. Quite a legacy for the family members who are hoping to inherit the business, hunh?”

  While Cal scouted out a trash bin for his plastic dish and spoon, I waited at a noisy intersection opposite the public parking lot, intrigued by the one-story building on the opposite corner. It occupied a large slab of real estate, was half-timbered in a pre-fab kind of way, sported no windows, and was mostly roof. The name attached above the front entrance read casino.

  “That’s where my group is,” I told Cal when he returned.

  “Are they lucky with the slots?”

  “Not particularly. I think the only reason they like casinos is because they’re addicted to the noise.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “They get off on all that digital racket? Yow. Makes my head pound.”

  “Not them. It reminds them of texting.”

  Herring gulls soared overhead as we climbed the stairs to the promenade, their screeches quickly drowned out by the primitive roar of sea greeting shore. For a long moment I stood at the rail, stunned into

  silence, for there was almost too much to comprehend. A white stone beach nestled between chalk-white cliffs. Hang gliders sailing over the channel like predatory birds. A great gaping hole punched clear through the western cliff, creating an elegant natural arch. Children dashing into the surf armed with pails and shovels. A steepled church perched high atop the eastern cliff. Rental boats piggybacked atop each other above the high tide line like a string of turtle shells. White-capped rollers rumbling onto the beach with a deep-throated boom that vibrated through my feet into my gut. Beach stones shifting in the tide. Spinning. Floating. Clacking.

  “Wow,” was all I could think to say. And although the sight was awe inspiring, it wasn’t at all familiar.

  “I know this place,” Cal marveled. “Dad has a painting of that arch hanging up in his den. The arch. The beach. A little fleet of boats heading out to sea. Well, I’ll be damned. I never realized it was an actual place. But … here it is.”

  “Is the painting an original?”

  “Beats me. I think he picked it up at an estate sale years ago. Rob said something about information plaques.” He ranged a long look down the promenade and swept his hand toward the cliff. “Shall we?”

  As we strolled, I noticed more intimate details. Layers of horizontal striations that shot through the cliff face like the sugar filling in vanilla wafers. Jagged peaks and angles. Caves eating their way through the soft limestone base. Moss-green algae carpeting the exposed rocks beneath the cliff. A lush swath of grass atop the cliff. Well-worn footpaths crisscrossing the plunging slope. A few adventurous hikers milling around the very lip of the precipice. A set of impossibly steep stairs rising from the promenade to provide access to the hiking trails above.

  “Here we go.” Cal planted himself in front of a plaque that was attached to the rail. “I’ll be damned again. This is Dad’s picture.”

  The plaque was a weatherproofed reproduction entitled, Étretat, la porte d’Aval, bateaux sortant du port, and the artist was— “Claude Monet,” I read aloud. “Eighteen-eighty-five.”

  “Hunh. So Monet didn’t spend all his time fixated on his lily pond. He traveled to the seacoast to paint ocean scenes. Who knew? You have any idea what the title says?”

  “Well, la porte means door, and bateaux is boats, so my best guess would be something like, the door of d’Aval, boats leaving from the port. The arch must be called the door of d’Aval, but where’s the ele-phant that Rob was talking about?”

  I spun in a slow circle, thinking I’d missed something obvious. Cal snickered as he tapped my shoulder. “We’re both blind. Stand here and look at the arch from this angle.”

  And there it was—the chiseled crooks and curves of the arch morphing into the illusory vision of an elephant dipping its trunk into the sea.

  That’s when I heard a scream, accompanied by the sight of a body tumbling off the cliff in a horrifying freefall to the rocks below.

  nine

  We were late getting back to Caudebec.

  “I wasn’t anywhere near her when she fell.” Jackie drained her second discounted cocktail in the ship’s lounge. “But I’m getting the willies just thinking about it. I mean, it could have been me.”

  Since the commune of Étretat supported no police or emergency medical services of its own, assistance had to be summoned from a town ten miles away. Once the authorities arrived, they swarmed over the cliff, reconstructing the scene and taking statements from witnesses who spoke no French and needed the help of a translator. The more grisly work was left to a handful of medics who braved the hazardous terrain at the foot of the precipice to remove Krystal’s body before the incoming tide washed it away.

  “I’m thankful it wasn’t you. When I close my eyes, I can still see her body falling through the air.” I folded my arms close to my body to ward off a chill. “You’re lucky you didn’t see it. I wish I hadn’t. It was horrible.”

  She clutched my forearm and drilled me with a terrified look. “You’re not catching my drift, Emily. It really could have been me. It probably would have been if the three of them had been able to keep up with me.”

  I paused. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

  “They want to kill me, Emily. I know they do.”

  I hung my head, eyes shut, shoulders slumped. I’d vowed this trip would be different from all the others. No dead bodies. No sleuthing. No lame-brained accusations. Unfortunately, two days into the trip, we were already dealing with a dead body. But there was no evidence suggesting anything suspicious about the death. According to what the gendarmes had told Rob, Krystal had ventured too clos
e to the edge of the cliff, lost her footing, and fallen off—a tragedy they attributed to lack of guard rails on the part of the French and inappropriate footwear on the part of the victim.

  Fortifying myself with a deep breath, I looked up. “Okay, Jack, why do the girls want to kill you?”

  “Well, duh? I already told you. They don’t like me.”

  “No one likes Bernice either, but they’re not lining up to kill her.”

  “Yet. You’ve gotta believe me, Em. The minute I saw that cliff, I knew I was a goner.”

  I checked both ways to see who was within earshot and lowered my voice to a whisper. “If the girls wanted to kill you, how come Krystal ended up dead?”

  “That was an accident. You heard the police report. She wandered too close to the edge in the wrong shoes. You can’t hike in five-inch platform slides. Even I know that. Three-inch maybe. But with five-inch you’re just asking for trouble.”

  “So if you suspected they wanted to kill you, why did you go hiking with them? You couldn’t have declined the invitation?”

  She shifted her gaze self-consciously. “Uh—It was my suggestion.”

  “Your suggestion?”

  “Actually, it was Victor’s suggestion. Look, he had a ‘Come to Jesus’ meeting with us this morning before we boarded the bus, and he threatened to fire all four of us if our demeanors didn’t become more reflective of the Mona Michelle corporate image. Translation: get along or else. I guess Virginia had some pretty harsh things to say about the tenor of our conversation last night. She thought the girls were extremely unkind ganging up on me the way they did, so she forced Victor’s hand. I wish you could have seen the look in their eyes when they were being dressed down, Emily.” She looked off into space, cringing with the memory. “It was bone chilling. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. The three of them are so gorgeous, they’ve probably never felt the sting of a rebuke before.”

  “So you thought hiking a cliff with three would-be killers would be a good way to fend off imminent death?”

  “I didn’t know it was a cliff. I thought it was just some ordinary hiking trail along the beach. And the only reason I suggested hiking was because I figured it’s the thing they’d least want to do. I mean, why ruin your pedicure if you have other options? But surprise, surprise, they love to hike.” She let out a dismissive snort. “Sure they do. And I’m Luke Skywalker.”

  “What made you think they were lying? They’re in great shape. How do you know they haven’t hiked all over Texas?”

  “They asked if the vending machines along the trail would be offering Coke or Pepsi products.”

  I shook my head with doubt. “I don’t know, Jack. I think you’re off base with this one.”

  “Easy for you to say. You haven’t been skewered with their spiteful stares. I tell you, Emily, my head’s on the chopping block. I’m not imagining it. They have it in for me. Blonde hair, black hearts. I need to figure out a plan to stay alive before they figure out I’m onto them.”

  Thankfully, her new plan sounded a lot less self-destructive than the one she promised to devise last night while curled up in a fetal ball in her cabin. But still. “I hope this means you’re going to forget about your vow to get even with them.”

  “Why should I?” Her eyes lit up with supreme satisfaction. “In fact, you might be interested to know that I’ve already set my plan in motion.” She ticked off an imaginary item in the air. “Step one. Check.”

  I gasped so loudly, my ears popped. “You said you had nothing to do with Krystal’s death!”

  “I didn’t! When my feet hit the hiking trail, I fired the afterburners and put as much distance between me and them as possible. When the accident happened, I was actually standing on a footbridge talking to a lovely couple from England.” She pulled her camera out of her shoulder bag. “Clive and Fiona. I took pictures. You wanna see?”

  “Please tell me the police cleared you.”

  “They didn’t even bother to question me. I told you! I was too far away to be of use to their investigation.”

  I gave her the evil eye as I blew out a calming breath. “If you were intending to give me the fright of my lifetime, Jack, it worked.”

  “Sorry.” She bowed her head in contrition for a whole half-second. “So … do you want to see my photos? They’re really good. The perspective is amazing from three hundred feet up.”

  A commotion at the opposite end of the lounge announced the arrival of Nana and the rest of the gang. I shot my hand into the air to get their attention, then watched them descend on us like a swarm of hungry locusts.

  “I got news,” Nana choked out as she reached a nearby chair a full body length ahead of Helen Teig.

  Helen crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom and tapped her foot with impunity. “I was here first, Marion.”

  “Then how come I’m the one what’s sittin’ down?”

  “DICK! GET ME A CHAIR.”

  As the gang rearranged the loveseats and chairs into a “circle-the-wagons” grouping around us, the barmaid hovered at the perimeter, waiting to take drink orders.

  “I’ll have a Shirley Temple,” said Nana. “Hold the ice. Double the grenadine. As many cherries as you can spare.”

  “I’ll have the discounted special,” said Dick Stolee. “Don’t care what it is as long as it’s cheap.”

  “I’ll have a fuzzy navel,” said Dick Teig.

  “You already have a fuzzy navel,” sniped Helen. “Bring him a diet pop. He’s trying to lose weight. Or better yet, a glass of water. None of that fancy brand-name stuff either. Tap is good.”

  Nana scooted to the edge of her chair, all aflutter. “We just overheard Rob talkin’ to that fella what’s got the oxygen strapped to his back, dear. They’re doin’ an autopsy on that poor girl what fell off the cliff, and as soon as the results come back, Rob’ll make an announcement.” She clucked woefully. “Here she’s gone, and I don’t even recollect if I ever seen her yet. Anyone know what she looked like?”

  “Long, platinum blonde hair,” offered Dick Teig in a dreamy voice. “Blue eyes. Full lips. Creamy skin. Jeans so tight—” He stopped abruptly.

  “Anything else?” Helen asked with a calm that was far more frightening than her ire.

  “I was just repeating what Stolee told me. Honest to God, Helen. I have no idea what those three blondes look like.”

  Dick Stolee’s jaw dropped like a faulty erector set. “I did not tell him anything! Don’t listen to him, Grace. The only blonde I’ve seen on this trip is Lucille.”

  “My hair is not blonde,” balked Lucille. She primped the stylish layers. “It’s called Seashell.”

  “Looks pink,” said George.

  “Cancel that order of tap water!” Helen called out to the barmaid.

  “I think the pink is quite becoming,” Alice enthused. “It suits your complexion much better than the old color.”

  “What was the old color?” asked Osmond.

  “I would have called it melon,” said Tilly.

  “Honeydew or musk?” asked Dick Teig.

  “My hair was never melon,” huffed Lucille. “It was peach.” She elevated her chin at a jaunty angle. “Peach Margarita to be exact.”

  “It was apricot,” groused Bernice. “You looked like a toy poodle.”

  Boos. Hissing. Razzberries.

  “Yah, yah, you people need to upgrade your shtick.” Bernice pooh-poohed the furor with a wave of her hand. “And I don’t know what the rest of you jokers have been looking at, but there’s no way you could have missed the gal who stepped off the cliff. Peroxide blonde? Hair extensions? Fake eyelashes? Fake cheekbones? Fake tan? Does any of this ring a bell? Capped teeth? Double-D implants? Blood-stained top? Saddlebags? Fat ankl—”

  “Hold it!” I held up my hand. “Blood-stained top?”

  She shook
her head in disgust. “Considering how much you morons miss, I don’t know why you even bother going on vacation. When we got off the bus in Étretat, she had fresh blood all the way down that dopey-looking top of hers.” She pulled her iPhone out of her pocketbook and tapped the screen. “See?” She flashed a picture of a headless torso in a clingy snakeskin top that was smudged with blood.

  I blinked in surprise. She certainly hadn’t been blood-stained at breakfast, but if she’d been sloppy … I narrowed my gaze. “Are you sure that’s blood and not tomato-based horseradish sauce?”

  “It was blood,” droned Jackie. “She had a nosebleed on the way to Étretat. You didn’t hear her? Lucky you. I was sitting behind her, so I couldn’t escape. She made such a fuss, I’m surprised all of upper Normandy didn’t hear her.”

  Margi perked up in her chair, brightening like a light on a timer. “Was she prone to nosebleeds?”

  “She was prone to whining about them,” said Jackie.

  “Did she suffer from sinusitis or allergies?”

  Jackie stuck out her lower lip and gave a palms-up shrug. “Beats me.”

  “She suffered from acute motion sickness,” I spoke up. “She took some big honking herbal supplement for it.”

  “I take some big honking supplements that Grace saw advertised on TV,” complained Dick Stolee. “What’d you say they’re for, Grace?”

  “Shut up, Dick,” she said out the corner of her mouth.

  Margi continued her litany. “Do you know if the victim had a deviated septum, nasal polyps, hypertension, or idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura?”

  Jackie stared at her. “What?”

  “I can get a bloody nose if the air’s too dry,” said George.

  “Dick used to have nosebleeds all the time,” Helen piped up. “But I found a cure.”