Fleur De Lies Page 13

  Oh, God.

  The rain had stopped about ten minutes ago, allowing us to collapse our umbrellas, but dark clouds still loomed overhead, threatening to drench us at any moment.

  “Do these buildings serve any purpose now?” asked Victor.

  “Mais oui,” chimed Madeleine. “The galleries have become the home of Rouen’s Fine Art Academy.”

  “What became of the bones?” asked Cal.

  “In the eighteenth century, the buildings were earmarked to become a school for poor boys, so the bones were removed to—”

  BONGbongBONGbongbongbongBONG!DINGbongding

  BONG!

  “… outside the …” BONGBONGBONG!

  I gazed at the church spire towering above the rooftop of the galleries and realized that even though Rouen was a city of medieval houses, winding passageways, and sidewalk cafés, it was mostly a city of church bells that rang out with riotous abandon at any odd minute on the hour. Even earbuds and receivers were no defense against the cacophonous clang.

  “Could you repeat that?” Cal yelled out to Madeleine. He waved his hand toward the distant spire. “The bells.”

  She nodded happily. “In the eighteenth …” bong … bong … BONG

  BONG … “poor boys …” ding … DING … DING … dingding …

  Yup. This was going well. I unplugged my earbuds, which were wedged in my ear canal as comfortably as a couple of peach pits, and wandered away from the group to shoot a few photographs.

  The four buildings that boxed in the square were an architectural mixture of half-timbered masonry panels, long banks of framed windows, and decorative wooden columns carved in chilling, graphic relief. Spooky skulls grinned down at me with empty eye sockets embedded with eight hundred years of soot and grime. A ghoulish chain of crossed bones marched above the window frames, vying for space with coffins, burial shrouds, gravediggers’ shovels, and the Grim Reaper’s scythe. Aitre de St. Maclou might have appeared less gloomy in full sunshine, but with its macabre history and the overcast sky, it seemed as if a veil of gray haze had descended upon the entire complex, tarnishing the view.

  “Do you want to have your picture taken with the mummified cat?” asked Cal as he headed toward me.

  I zoomed in on a skull and snapped my camera shutter before turning to him. “Excuse me?”

  “The mummified cat. Full-grown, I might add.” He pointed toward the entrance. “They discovered it in the wall when they were doing some repair work, but instead of removing it, or walling over it again, they slapped a glass panel over it so it can be on display for the tourist crowd. I’m a dog guy myself, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel for future hordes of grossed-out cat lovers.”

  “How did a full-grown cat get inside the wall?”

  Cal shrugged. “It has an Edgar Allen Poe feel about it, doesn’t it? Madeleine says certain felines were thought to embody the devil. Black cats, mostly, so some overly superstitious zealot probably entombed the thing to help ward off evil spirits. And, yes, rumor has it that this particular creature was black.”

  BONG … BONG … BONG … BONG … BONG …

  Cal rolled his eyes. “You think it’s like this every day, or only on Sundays?”

  “Are you taking pictures?” Woody called out as he hustled toward us.

  “Of what?” asked Cal.

  “The mass grave! What? Too obvious for you?” Woody eyed the courtyard in the same way P. T. Barnum might have eyed the Feejee Mermaid. “There’s money to be made here.”

  “Geez, Dad, will you give it a rest?”

  “You know what your problem is, Cal?” scolded Woody. “You don’t think like a funeral director. You think like an accountant. We’re standing on a mass grave. Think of the presentation we could put together comparing the barbaric burial customs of our ancestors to the humane practices offered by funeral homes today. Give it historical context, stir in some subtle marketing, add a pinch of a discount, top it off with a followup call after potential clients have let our offer bake in their brains for a week. We could be looking at the windfall of a lifetime.”

  Cal skewered his dad with a sour look. “Always pushing the envelope, aren’t you?”

  “Someone has to. Leaving the marketing decisions to you will probably throw us into bankruptcy.”

  BONGbongbongBONGBONGbongbongbongBONG … BONG …

  “I’m not going to use a human disaster of this magnitude to fatten our pockets,” Cal shouted over the symphony of ringing bells. “Using this place for your personal advertising is not only crass and in bad taste, it’s sacrilegious! So if you want pictures, get Walt or Ed to take them.” He shot a curious look around the courtyard. “Where are they anyway?”

  A hint of alarm flickered in Woody’s eyes before he brushed off the question. “None of your business where they are.”

  “Did they stay on the boat?”

  “Last I knew, you weren’t their keeper, so they can damn well do what they want to do.”

  “What are you trying to hide? They must be doing something you don’t want me to know about, else you wouldn’t have a problem …” Cal narrowed his eyes with sudden perception. “You arranged something, didn’t you?”

  Woody hardened his jaw and stuck out his bottom lip. “What’s it to you?”

  “Did you con the purser into letting Walt and Ed give some kind of powerpoint presentation about pre-packaged funeral plans? There were a whole bunch of learning sessions being offered on the boat today. Did you manage to weasel your way onto the schedule?”

  Woody’s face turned florid, his voice acerbic. “We all make mistakes in life, Cal. Apparently my biggest was bringing you into the business. I should have recruited your sister instead. She gets it, which is more than I can say for you.”

  “You want to can me, Dad? Go ahead. Turn my share of the business over to Jody. I’ll give you a month before you come crawling back to me with your tail between your legs.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Cal snorted derisively. “If that’s supposed to scare me, it doesn’t.”

  “It should.” Woody hitched up his belt and fixed Cal with a sharp look. “I own you, son. You’re just too dumb to realize it. Remember, wills can be changed.”

  “Go ahead,” Cal spat. “I dare you.”

  “Is Madeleine trying to round us up?” I asked in an attempt to redirect their attention. “Looks like she’s counting heads. Shall we join the crowd?”

  “Why not?” quipped Woody. “The damage here is already done.” He caught my eye. “Sorry you had to witness that little scene, Emily. What can I say? My son spends a lot of time acting like the hind end of a horse.”

  He strutted off to join the crowd as light rain began drizzling down on us again. I opened my umbrella and, not knowing what else to say, let fly the first thing that came into my head. “Your sister’s name is Jody Jolly?”

  Cal laughed despite his obvious irritation. “Yah. She’s never forgiven them for that particular act of sadism.”

  “She’s not part of the family business?”

  “Nope. She had no intention of spending her life living under Dad’s thumb, so she got out while the going was good. Studied languages in college and became a translator at the UN. She doesn’t get home much, so I don’t see her too often. Dad’s temper isn’t a big drawing card, and the older he gets, the less control he seems to have over it.”

  “He’d never actually get angry enough to make good on his threat, would he? I mean, I’ve eaten a couple of meals with him. I’ve seen him in action. He’s more bark than bite. Isn’t he?”

  “If you’re asking if he’d ever really cut me out of his will, the answer is, when it comes to the business, he’ll do whatever it takes to make a dime. And if that includes shutting me out and finding a new partner, he’d do that, too. But I’ve paid my dues for more yea
rs than I want to admit, so if he decides to give me the shaft, he’ll do it over my dead body.”

  I shivered as the drizzle grew into a light shower, but I wasn’t sure if the chill in my bones was a reaction to the dampness in the air, or the venom I heard oozing from Cal Jolly’s voice.

  _____

  We followed Madeleine down a pedestrian walkway that threaded between a monstrous church on the left and a series of businesses on the right whose storefronts were locked behind sliding metal grates. The church looked older than the Great Flood, its stone façade blackened with soot, its lacy spikes and spires and arches resembling the buttercream frosting piped out of a pastry tube. We passed restaurants and bistros with immediate outside seating for customers who dared to brave the weather and sip their cafés au lait with a heavy dose of rainwater. We detoured into a narrow alley between two unassuming buildings and wandered into an Alice in Wonderland-like rabbit hole that opened up into a trove of unexpected treasures: a garden of pink hydrangeas tucked behind a wrought-iron fence. A half-timbered house painted the scarlet red and white of a Christmas candy cane. Arcane wooden doors built into a solid brick wall that was half-hidden beneath overhanging vines. By the time we circled around toward the ginormous cathedral whose steeple reached halfway to the stratosphere, it was raining so hard, we ran for cover beneath the columned portico of a furniture shop that stood opposite the church. Huddling together, we collapsed our umbrellas, flicked water off our raingear, and detached our earbuds so we could enjoy the symphonic effect of rain pounding eight-hundred-year-old pavers.

  “If I’d known the weather was going to be this foul, I wouldn’t have come,” Virginia Martin complained to Madeleine. “You should cancel these walking tours when storms are predicted. Everyone is miserable. Why don’t you just take us back to the boat and be done with it?”

  Madeleine shrugged, palms skyward. “The rain starts, and then it stops. If you go back, there is so much you will miss.”

  “How many people demand to be taken back to the boat?” asked Virginia. “Show of hands.”

  “Hey, she’s not authorized to do that,” protested Bernice, apparently incensed on Osmond’s behalf.

  “You’re overstepping your authority, my pet,” Victor warned in a tight voice.

  Virginia shot a defiant hand into the air. “Anyone else?”

  “According to the weather radar, this thing should blow over in about five minutes.” A man standing near Cal held up his cell phone. “Did anyone else download a local weather app?”

  “Five minutes is not so long, yes?” said Madeleine. “I will tell you about the Cathédrale of Notre-Dame while we wait.” She gestured toward the behemoth across the walkway. “The first cathedral on this site was consecrated in 1063, but a fire in 1200—”

  “I thought Notre Dame was in Paris,” a woman called out.

  “The very famous Notre Dame cathedral, with its storied gargoyles and hunchback, is in Paris,” said Madeleine, “but throughout France, there are many, many churches dedicated to Our Lady, and they are all called Notre Dame. Rouen’s cathedral was rebuilt after the fire and completed in 1250, but it underwent an expansion that lasted for three centuries, and even now—”

  BONGbongbongbongbongBONGBONGbongbongBONGBONGBONG!

  Madeleine spoke more loudly into her transmitter, channeling her voice with absolute clarity into the uncomfortable earbuds that everyone had removed from their ears. I caught a few informative phrases blasting through the wires dangling around my neck, but mostly, I heard the unrelenting clash and clang of bells.

  … bongbongbong … “… painted by Monet…” BONGBONG …

  “… tomb of Richard the Lionheart …” bong BONG BONGbong …

  “heavily damaged in World War II …” BONG BONGBONG …

  “This is a good time for you to look at my pictures,” said Bernice as she sidled up to me.

  “But—” I pointed in Madeleine’s direction and leaned close to Bernice’s ear. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’s that working out for you?” She hit the power button on her camera and stuck the screen in front of my face. “Here I am in front of the china cabinet while Osmond was reminiscing with that old broad on our home visit.”

  I blinked to refocus my eyes. “Bernice, how would you feel if someone referred to you as an old—”

  “Here I am by the sofa. Osmond’s head completely ruins the shot, but I should be able to Photoshop him out of the picture.”

  She looked absolutely dazzling in the screen image, her smile engaging, her complexion youthful. Even her wiry tangle of hair looked sleek and elegant. How did she do that?

  “The lighting was great by the east window, so this one really showcases my high cheekbones and expressive eyes. Cindy Crawford used to look like this before she went to seed.”

  “I don’t think Cindy Crawford has to worry about going to seed for a very long ti—”

  “Here I am in the doorway”—zzzzzt—“beside a floor lamp”—zzzzzt—“under one of the ugly paintings they had on the wall”— zzzzzt—“in front of the sideboard with the gazillion picture frames.” She frowned at the image. “That clutter is really distracting.” She pressed a lever that caused the camera to whir and the picture to supersize her face. “There. More of my bone structure and less of the other stuff. I won’t even have to zap the background.” She pursed her lips. “Other than this thing that looks like a cookie sheet growing out of my head.”

  I eyed the “thing” to discover that it was neither kitchenware nor photo, but an intricate piece of needlepoint displayed in a small, ornate frame. The zoom function had blown it up to a size where the details were clearly visible, but the realization of what I was looking at left me a bit baffled. Was I seeing it correctly?

  “Can you tell what’s in the picture frame?” I asked Bernice.

  “Looks like some ratty piece of embroidery.”

  “Of what?”

  She studied the image. “Looks like a funny-shaped iris with a broken petal. Or maybe a lily.”

  Or a fleur-de-lis, imperfect and stylized—just like the one that graced the ring on Woody Jolly’s finger.

  twelve

  Why would Woody be wearing a piece of jewelry whose embroidered likeness occupied a place of honor on Madeleine Saint-Sauveur’s sideboard?

  The question kept floating through my head as we soldiered on toward the site where St. Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake.

  The rain had stopped abruptly, allowing us to scoot back onto the walkway without our umbrellas raised. We followed a shortcut through a walled courtyard on the side of the cathedral and arrived at a broad plaza fronting the west façade, where we discovered that the pinnacled doorways and colonnades once immortalized by Claude Monet were now obscured by an Eiffel Tower of metal staging.

  “What a scam!” Bernice griped. “What are we supposed to take pictures of ? The scaffolding?”

  “You will find some very nice souvenir shops along the Rue de Gros Horloge,” Madeleine announced, waggling her umbrella toward the pedestrian mall in front of us. “If you would like to see the cathedral without the scaffolding, you should purchase a postcard that shows what it looked like before the war. There are many selections to choose from.”

  “Oh, sure,” whined Bernice. “And I suppose there are no kickbacks involved in that little deal. You can bet someone’s going to be reading about this on your evaluation.”

  Madeleine shrugged. “D’accord.”

  As we trekked down the cobblestoned mall, I wove my way forward through the group until I caught up with Woody.

  “You’ll never guess what I just saw,” I exclaimed as I quickened my pace to keep up with his unexpectedly long stride.

  He let out a burst of laughter. “Cal handing out business cards?”

  “Uhhh—No.”

  “O
f course not. That was a trick question. Cal never hands out business cards. That would be too much like advertising.”

  Talk about dog with bone. “I saw a picture of your fleur-de-lis ring.”

  “Did you now?”

  “In fact, you might have seen it, too. At Madeleine’s house on our home visit. On her sideboard. It was a needlepoint piece in a frame. Same fleur-de-lis. Same broken petal.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “Bernice has a picture of it among her photos. Isn’t that weird that the Saint-Sauveurs would have an embroidery of your ring?”

  “Why is it weird? Look around. Everything over here has some kind of fleur-de-lis on it.”

  “But they don’t have broken petals, which is what makes your ring and her embroidery rather unique.”

  “So … what’s your point?”

  “Well, I was thinking that if you’re curious about your ring’s history, Madeleine might have some insight into both the embroidery and the ring. Wouldn’t it be interesting to learn the story behind—”

  “Why would I care?” His voice bristled with irritation. “I told you. It’s always been in the family, so why would I need to know its history? It’s mine. End of story.”

  “I … I just thought—”

  He fluttered his hand in annoyance, as if shooing me away. “No disrespect, Emily, but when I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Okay? Hell, you seem to be taking up where Cal left off, and I don’t appreciate it.”

  I slowed my steps, allowing him to forge ahead of me. Euw. Cal was right. Woody’s temper really was kind of volatile. I just hoped his cantankerous outbursts turned out to be a passing phase and not an indication of a more serious mental health problem.

  Halfway down the mall, we stopped before an ornately sculpted stone arch that acted like an entrance tunnel to the street beyond. A tower in the style of a French chateau sat atop the arch, and in the center of this was a giant clock face, housed in a frame of gold scrolls and fretwork, with a wreath of blue frills circling it like a medieval ruff. It was far more grand than Big Ben, but Big Ben probably kept better time, given that this clock only boasted one hand. As Madeleine began her spiel, we inched around her in tight formation, partially to be less of an obstruction to foot traffic, but mostly because we’d all ditched our earbuds, so we were hoping to improve our chances of hearing her.