Fleur De Lies Page 9

  “I can’t handle the buffet this morning,” Krystal complained. “Too many men waiting to ogle me.”

  “Could be the mascara,” I said as I poured a ramekin of what looked like ketchup over my omelet. “Maybe you should try something less transformational.”

  “So, where’s the bus taking us this morning?” asked Woody as I savored the flavorful herbs of the most appetizing omelet that had ever occupied my mouth.

  “Someplace that begins with an E,” said Krystal. “Which reminds me.” She dug a whole bottle of jumbo softgels out of her totebag and plunked it on the table. “You wanna try one of my supplements, hon?” She unscrewed the cap and offered one to Woody. “I guarantee it’ll work better than those little weenie pills you got with you.”

  “Hell. Why not?” He plopped it into his mouth and downed it with a gulp of coffee.

  “I don’t imagine you’ll be needin’ one, Emily. Yankee women aren’t known for their delicate constitutions.” She downed one herself before tossing her hair back over her shoulder and fanning her face. “This mornin’ sun is an absolute killer. I’m about to burn up.”

  I waved my fork in several directions. “Lots of empty tables in the shade,” I said hopefully.

  “Change places with me,” urged Woody as he got to his feet. “Shoot, I haven’t been hot since the North African campaign in ’42.”

  Krystal grabbed her tote and slid over onto his chair. “So … what was happenin’ in ’42 that sent you to Africa, hon?”

  She’d obviously bypassed the war museum in Arromanches.

  “Were you huntin’ big game? Euw! Did you get to shoot one of those elephant guns? I would kill to pull the trigger on one of those puppies.”

  The dining room started filling up as Woody launched into a detailed history of Axis invasions, Allied strategies, and the best World War II movies available on Netflix. As I devoured my omelet, an army of waiters flew past our table, some wielding beverage carafes and order pads, others carrying chafing dishes of hot food to the central serving station. The noise level increased. The wait staff quickened their steps. By the time a young waiter arrived at our table, Krystal’s attention span was so maxed out with world history, I figured she might even be desperate enough to discuss advanced funeral planning. Specifically, Woody’s.

  “Two breakfast specials.” The waiter slid the plates onto the table and paused a bit breathlessly to ogle Krystal. “Bon appétit.”

  “Did y’all see the way he looked at me?” she whispered when he’d departed. “I get those looks all the time. It’s so annoying.”

  I dabbed my mouth with my napkin and pushed away from the table.

  “Of course you get those looks,” Woody allowed. “I mean, a fella would have to be blind not to stare. Isn’t that right, Emily?”

  “Absolutely.” I stood up. “I’m off. See you guys on the bus. And a word of warning to the faint of tongue: go easy on the horseradish sauce. It’s got a kick.”

  “The hotter the better!” boomed Woody as I grabbed my shoulder bag. “So tell me, little lady,” he asked Krystal, “where was I in my narrative? Had I reached V-E Day yet?”

  As I made my escape, I heard Krystal’s voice cut through the rising din. “Can we save that for another time, darlin’? I’m just dyin’ for y’all to tell me what kind of advanced funeral plannin’ you’ve done for yourself.”

  eight

  “Those of you who are art enthusiasts will notice something very familiar about our next destination.”

  We’d been riding in the bus for about an hour, paralleling the Seine on a river road that ran arrow straight through a broad flood plain. Barges and small cargo vessels plied the waters to our left, while to our right, a forest of young hardwoods marched to the base of a ridge of limestone cliffs. As we veered inland, the landscape grew wilder and more lush, the roads narrower and more corkscrewed, turning the trip into a sightseer’s dream, but a carsick sufferer’s nightmare. I wasn’t sure where Krystal and Woody were sitting, but I sure hoped Krystal’s supplements were working, because unlike cruise ships or airplanes, buses furnished no motion sickness bags in their seat-back pockets.

  We drove through tiny French villages where the houses were completely flush with the road, save for a narrow strip of pavement that wasn’t even wide enough to wheel a pram. We passed fields that were leaf-green with ripening crops, meadows whose grass rippled toward gently rolling hills, ramshackle barns whose crooked clapboards were held together with spit and bailing wire, and formidable embankments that were surmounted by an impenetrable tangle of hedgerows and trees. Country lanes boasted no shoulders, but on more traveled roads, fences abounded—stubby posts with chicken wire between, split-rail fences that looked hand-hewn, fieldstone fences with decorative gates, industrial steel guardrails, white picket fences, livestock fences, and high stone walls overhung with a riot of shrubbery and foliage that closed in on the road like the walls of a tunnel.

  Norway had fjords.

  Holland had canals.

  France had fences.

  “What if art’s not our thing?” Dick Teig called out. “Are we still gonna notice something familiar about this place … whatever it’s called?”

  “Étretat,” replied our tour director, a slightly built, middle-aged expatriate from Idaho whose name was Rob. “If you can’t figure out what the main attraction is, you’ll find information plaques on the promenade that’ll give you a hint. But I’ll provide you with your first clue: beware of elephants.”

  “Where’s the promenade?” asked Dick Stolee.

  “It fronts the beach. Just follow the signposts that say La Mer and they’ll lead you right to it. For those of you who enjoy invigorating hikes, I recommend you follow the paths at either end of the beach. Have your cameras ready, because the views from the hiking trails are spectacular. There’s a good reason why the French call this the Alabaster Coast. We’ll be here for three hours, which should give you plenty of time to shop, eat, hike, or try your luck at the casino, which you’ll find by following the signposts that say Casino d’Étretat.”

  Nana’s iPhone began dinging like a hyperactive pinball machine. I sidled a glance at her as she scrolled through her new messages. “Do you ever get tired of being bombarded with all that texting stuff ?”

  “Nope. I love hearin’ them dings. It means I don’t gotta run out and buy no hearin’ aid yet.”

  “So what’s the scoop?”

  “We’re gonna skip the shoppin’, eatin’, and hikin’ and head directly for the casino. Osmond says he’s feelin’ lucky.”

  “Can’t fault him there.” I smiled a secret smile. “He might be on the biggest lucky streak of his life.”

  She looked up at me, curiosity in her little wrinkled eyes. “What’d you say to him last night anyway, dear? I never seen no one go from sad to glad so fast. He was a whole different fella when he caught up to us in the lounge.”

  “Got his batteries recharged, did he?”

  “I’ll say. He was so fired up, he staked out a spot on the dance floor and done the chicken dance until the musicians packed it in.”

  “Osmond did the chicken dance … to jazz?”

  “He didn’t know what kinda music he was dancin’ to on account of he turned off his hearin’ aids.” She sighed. “Wish I coulda done that. Them polyrhythms kept throwin’ me way off beat.”

  I gave her an incredulous look. “You were doing the chicken dance with him?”

  “We all was, dear. It was the only way we could escape havin’ to look at them photos of Bernice’s.”

  The bus pulled into a parking lot in the center of town, and the minute our driver cut the engine, we grabbed our belongings and poured into the aisle.

  “See you back here in three hours,” Rob reminded us. “If you need the comfort station, it’s at the opposite end of the parking lot, so you’ll
pass it on your way to the beach. And one word of caution. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT remove any stones from the beach. There’s a statute forbidding it, so have fun, but leave the rocks where they are.”

  “You wanna tag along with us to the casino?” Nana asked me as we exited down the stairs.

  “I hate to pass up a chance to lose all my money in a slot machine, but I’m off to the beach to find out why this place is supposed to look familiar.”

  “You want I should Google it for you?”

  “Nope. I want to be surprised.”

  I escorted her to the random spot where the gang was assembling, my eyes widening in alarm when I saw Osmond. “Why is Osmond wearing a cervical collar?”

  “It’s on account of one of them fancy spin moves he done last night, dear. It accidentally got away from him, so he’s got a crick in his neck this mornin’.”

  “Did he seek medical attention?”

  “Yup.”

  I called up a mental picture of the Renoir’s floor plan. “Do we have an infirmary on board?”

  “Nope.”

  “So where did he go?”

  “Margi’s cabin. She give his head a crank both ways, said, ‘Aha!’ and slapped the collar on ’im.” She gave a little suck on her uppers. “She always leaves plenty of space in her grip for medical supplies.”

  I shook my head. Yup. That’s exactly what we needed. Unauthorized medical personnel diagnosing and treating potentially serious geriatric ailments.

  “Have all of you pulled up the map of Étretat on your phones?” Tilly called out as we joined everyone on the sidewalk.

  Nods. Yups.

  “And you’ve located the casino?”

  More nods and yups. Excited foot shuffling.

  “All right then. Time’s a wastin’. Forwarrrrd … march!”

  “Don’t forget,” I cautioned Nana. “If you don’t understand what the locals are saying, just smile. Smiles are a universal language.”

  “You bet. But we don’t gotta worry too much about no language barrier. Margi took a French language course at the Senior Center what’s s’posed to help all of us muddle our way through the country.”

  “Wow. Good for Margi.” I was embarrassed to admit that my main preparation for the trip had been to have a French manicure.

  “She can ask directions and introduce folks real good. I’m dyin’ for her to ask someone where the public potty is, but she can’t do it right now on account of I can see it from here.”

  I could see it, too—a light brick building with a decorative roof extending over the two entry doors. A dozen women were already lined up outside the ladies’ room door, but what caught my attention were the four at the head of the queue.

  Jackie and the three blondes? What in the world were they doing together? Well, other than yanking tissues out of their shoulder bags, fussing over Krystal’s snakeskin top, and schmoozing with each other as if they were the best of friends again. They’d obviously undergone some serious attitude adjustment since breakfast, but if this had been Jackie’s idea, one thing was painfully clear.

  She didn’t know squat about revenge.

  “Did you get the number, Emily?” Osmond was suddenly standing in front of me, his little head perched on his cervical collar like a six-minute egg on an egg cup.

  “I’ve set the wheels in motion, so the minute I hear something, I’ll let you know. Okay?”

  He flashed a goofy smile, looking deliriously happy despite being unable to bend, nod, or swivel.

  “Osmond, do you need to see a doctor?”

  “For what?”

  I flicked my finger toward his collar. “Your neck?”

  “This?” He chuckled as he patted the Velcro strips that secured the heavy foam brace. “Shoot, I don’t need this thing. It’s just decorative. But I didn’t wanna see the look on Margi’s face if I told her I didn’t wanna wear it. She would’ve been crushed.” He shrugged. “I’m kinda hoping I twist my ankle sometime though, ’cuz I wouldn’t mind trying out the collapsible crutches she brought with her.”

  Oh, God. “Just a suggestion, but could you possibly take them for a test run without twisting your ankle first?”

  He rubbed his forehead in thought. “Why would I need to take them for a test run if there’s nothing wrong with my ankle?”

  “Okey-dokey. You have me there.” I’d come to realize that arguing logic with a post-octogenarian was about as effective as trying to eat Jell-O with chopsticks. “But promise me if you’re still having problems tomorrow, you’ll let me know so we can get you in to see a professional.”

  “You bet.” He dashed off as fast as his spindly legs would take him, catching up to the gang as they trooped down a street that was posted with a red and white one-way sign. I paused a moment to get my bearings, found the La Mer sign, and followed my nose toward the smell of salt water and french fries.

  Étretat appeared to be a typical seaside resort town that catered to tourists with an appetite for two-star hotels, T-shirts, postcards, outdoor cafés, novelty flags, and pizza. Shops were densely packed together and boasted three stories, dormered roofs, window boxes, and striped canopies overhanging sidewalk displays of must-have souvenirs. Half-timbered structures hunkered between brick buildings that flaunted a cake frosting façade of cream-colored stone embedded with flint. Cafés overran the sidewalks and spilled into the street where they were cordoned off like jury boxes behind wooden barriers and flower pots. Neon signs glowed in red and blue, advertising the specialties of the house: Crêperie. Bar. Brasserie. Moule Frites. Pizzeria. Kebabs.

  “Emily! Hey, wait up!”

  I turned around to find Cal Jolly barreling past a spinner of postcards to catch up with me.

  “Are you heading for the beach?” He stopped beside me, cheeks flushed from his little jog.

  “Sure am. I’m a sucker for a good mystery.”

  “So you don’t know why Étretat is supposed to look familiar either?”

  “Don’t have a clue. I confess complete ignorance on the subject of French coastal towns and their significance.”

  “Oh, good. I thought I was the only one. Would you mind if I tag along with you?”

  “Heck, no. I’m happy for the company.” I pointed north. “I guess we just keep walking thataway. So where’s your dad?” I asked as we got underway again. “I’ve eaten my last two meals with him, so I think we’re becoming something of an item.”

  “Actually, it’s my dad I wanted to talk to you about. You were in the room yesterday when Madeleine’s grandmother suffered her meltdown, weren’t you?”

  “Oh, Lord. It was heart wrenching.”

  “Do you have any idea what set her off ? I caught the tail end when I poked my head back in the door to hurry you guys up, but I missed the main event, and Dad has clammed up completely. Refuses to talk about it. And he’s been avoiding me ever since, which is probably why he’s pestering you at meals. I apologize if he’s been harassing you and your tablemates about funeral arrangements. I’m afraid he sees every chance encounter as a marketing opportunity.”

  “Victor threatened him with eviction from the table last night, and one of the Mona Michelle blondes muzzled him at breakfast, so there’s no need for apologies. The poor guy isn’t making much headway. As to the incident with Madeleine’s grandmother, I’m still baffled. Your dad went into his spiel about his website and online funeral planning services, and when he tried to hand Solange a brochure, all hell broke loose. She kept crying, ‘My God, my God,’ in French, and then she started screaming a whole barrage of stuff at him, which is about the time you stuck your head in the room. I think it shook him up pretty badly. He dropped the brochure on a table and hightailed it out the door. Madeleine did what she could to calm Solange, but at that point, the poor woman almost seemed beyond help.”

  We veered into the street
to avoid running into a sidewalk display of Hello Kitty balloons, Étretat placemats, and key chains. Cal grumbled something inaudible and threw an angry hand into the air.

  “You know, I keep harping about the fact that some people don’t like to talk about end-of-life issues. The death and dying stuff really frightens them, so you have to softpedal your approach. But Dad just blows me off. I don’t understand how he’s had as much success as he’s had in the business.”

  “Lack of competition?”

  “Yeah, there’s that. He was the only show in town for decades. Say, can I treat you to an ice cream?” He paused before the Le Glacier d’Étretat shop, with its glass counter offering frontal views of treats so enticing, I doubted the ability of any tourist to pass by without indulging. “I won’t feel so guilty about splurging if I can tempt you, too.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have to twist my arm. But the next one’s on me, okay?”

  After a fun twenty minutes spent taste-testing every flavor in the shop, Cal purchased a Pomme Verte cone for me and a dish of Fleur d’Oranger for himself. As we continued our trek to the beach, he picked up the thread of our conversation exactly where we’d left off.

  “So did you happen to understand any of the barrage of stuff that Solange was yelling at my dad?”

  “You mean, besides mon Dieu?” I rotated my cone, licking up all the drips. “She yelled, ‘C’est toi’ at him as he ran out the door. You probably heard that part. She said it a couple of times. Pretty vehemently.”

  “And that means what?”

  “ ‘It’s you.’ ”

  “Right.” He heaved a sigh. “I’m open for insights if you have any.”

  “Well, my initial thought was that she recognized him from somewhere, and not in a good way. But that’s probably a stretch. I know your dad fought in the war, but he said he was in North Africa and then Italy, so he wasn’t anywhere near France, was he?”

  “Not that I’m aware. As far as I know, this is his first foray onto French soil. But he sure doesn’t want to be questioned about what happened with Solange, which is really unlike Dad. He’s so talkative, my main problem is usually trying to find a way to shut him up. I guess it goes with the territory. If you can talk a person’s ear off about the benefits of writing his own obituary, you can talk his ear off about anything.”