French Fried

I couldn’t refuse to ride with Victoire when Gabrielle announced the change of plans, but it did worry me. If the chairman’s wife had tried to run Jason down, she might do the same to me, or poison me if we had lunch together. I slept badly.

The next morning when Jason and I set out from Perrache, instead of burying his nose in a paper about toxins, he asked whether I’d enjoyed my pâté and artichoke salad, and I had to admit that I had, even though I worried about the foie gras. “Well, it didn’t make you sick,” he said cheerfully, “so I guess it wasn’t poisoned.”

“Now, Jason, you’re always saying anything can poison you if you eat too much of it, and it’s true. Catherine de Médicis thought she was going to die after eating too many artichoke hearts at a wedding feast, those and the kidneys and combs of cockerels.”

“Probably the cockerels did the damage,” said Jason. “Artichokes seem pretty benign, unless you get a mouthful of the choke.”

“And you a toxin expert. I read just recently that if you keep a cooked artichoke more than twenty-four hours, it develops a toxic mold.”

When we arrived at the university, Victoire was telling Sylvie that she couldn’t possibly allow Winston Churchill in her car. Her own dog would take offense.

“You think Colette, who has a very sensitive nose, wouldn’t be able to smell your dog? Believe me, the next time we drive together, Colette will be very angry with me.”

Victoire frowned and replied that, being of French manufacture, it was reliable and well made. Then she glanced at Sylvie’s convertible and shuddered.

“I always think that the color of one’s car is significant,” I began, improvising as I searched for information. “For instance, couples who have been married for years often have cars of the same color. Jason and I do.” We didn’t, so I’d have to warn him in case the subject came up. “I’ll bet Professor Laurent has a black car, too. Am I right, Madam Laurent?”

Ah! So the chairman is probably the one who tried to run Jason down, but why would he do that? Jason wasn’t chasing after Mademoiselle Thomas, or showing undue interest in Victoire, as far as I knew. “Then what color is your car?”

“We have only one,” she replied. “The cost of purchasing and running a good car is high.” Again she looked disdainfully toward the ancient, British-made Austin Healy. “We see no need—”

“But how do you manage?” I protested, as if shocked to hear their one-car status. “Yesterday you had appointments. Did Professor Laurent have to take a bus to work?”

Madam Laurent looked exasperated. “I can’t imagine why you are so interested in our transportation arrangements, Madam Blue, but since you insist on knowing, I had appointments with friends who provided transportation, and my husband drove this car to work. This obsession with cars is obviously some American oddity. At least I am happy to see that you took my advice and wore comfortable shoes. I know Americans choose to drive if they have only a few meters to travel, but we French are walkers, which is why obesity is not a problem here.”

So it was her husband. And is she saying I’m fat? I’ve taken off the cruise pounds. “I always wear low-heeled shoes,” I replied.

“Very sensible. Of course, on festive occasions, one wishes to wear a higher heel, but then your husband is short. Perhaps he would object. I pay no attention to Jacques on that subject.”

While this conversation was proceeding, Winston Churchill forsook his interest in Victoire and bounded over to me. I said no immediately, so he didn’t jump on me, and I rewarded him by scratching his ears, which made him wiggle with delight, fall to the cement, and roll onto his back with all four legs waving.

Giggling, Sylvie informed me that Winston Churchill wanted me to scratch his stomach. Then to the chairman’s wife, she said, “Victoire, the obvious solution is that we go in my car. But you must choose whether to sit in front with my dog on your lap or in the back with the cameras.”

I was reluctantly scratching the dog’s stomach because he looked so silly with his legs wiggling in the air. Victoire had to take the backseat because Winston Churchill, when he was placed in Victoire’s lap, jumped out and snuggled up to my ankles like a cat.

“Well, he’s friendly, but he doesn’t usually take immediately to strange women. And that pleading look he’s giving you. As if he expects you to . . . You fed him the sausage, didn’t you?” she asked accusingly.

“Of course it didn’t.” Sylvie burst out laughing. “No wonder he loves you. He probably thinks you’ll be a source of sausage forever, but why would you give him your—”

“No one puts brains in Cervales de Lyon anymore. Once they did, but now—you should have said something.” Then she turned to the chairman’s wife, still sitting in the front seat. “Victoire, it seems that Carolyn has bewitched my dog with sausage. Either we’ll have to take your car, or you’ll have to sit in back with the cameras. For some reason, Winston Churchill throws up if we put him in back, and we can’t let him vomit on our guest.”

Looking quite grim, Victoire swung her long legs out and managed to squeeze herself crossways into the back. Then the dog and I settled down, and off we went to visit the traboules, while he looked up at me soulfully, waiting for more sausage. When it didn’t materialize, he went to sleep.

We only had to stop for repairs twice. A spoke needed replacement on one wheel, and then the car stalled at a busy traffic light. We gained quite an audience of young men to watch both repairs. Victoire stayed inside each time trying to restore order to her hair. Knowing what to expect, I had simply taken the scarf that tied my hair back and tied it under my chin.

When we arrived at our destination, Old Lyon, and set out on foot, I became nervous again and watched every black car on the street as if Albertine might be behind the wheel, unless, of course, the chairman, who knew where we were going, had followed us. But his wife would surely recognize him and the family car. No, he wouldn’t take that chance. Would he? Maybe Laurent wanted to run her down, too, because of her affair with Robert, whom he had managed to poison with the fugu toxin.

“You know what I’d like to have for lunch,” I said impulsively. “Japanese food.” If there was a local source of fugu, I needed to find it. “Do you have Japanese restaurants?”

“Madam Blue,” said Victoire in a long-suffering voice, “one does not come to Lyon, a city known for its French cuisine, and ask to eat at a Japanese establishment.”

Another dead end, I thought. I’d have to search the Lyon telephone book. It had occurred to me that Madam Laurent could be lying about her appointments yesterday. What if she had rented a black car and used it to attack my husband, and before that had poisoned the pâté and sent it to our room. Having poisoned her own lover by mistake, she would be furious with both of us, as well as unwilling to admit knowing a source of tetrodotoxin. But that didn’t explain why she’d send the poisoned pâté in the first place. Her lover was still alive, not dying on my bed, before the poison was added to the pâté and sent to us.