Carolyn

First, I was aware of the terrible pain in my head, pounding, inescapable. It made me want to get away from my own consciousness. Then I realized that I didn’t know where I was. Only confusion met my attempts to think. Confusion multiplied a hundredfold by pain. I heard a whimper and thought it was mine. I tried to open my eyes, and the light cut into them like a razor into flesh. I heard a voice, not speaking my language, and wished it away. The hand on my shoulder, although gentle, terrified me because it might belong to the person who had hurt me.

“Madam?” The voice was female and nonthreatening.

Eyes still closed, I whispered, “Where am I?”

More foreign voices conferred softly. Then a man’s voice in accented English said, “Madam, you are in a hospital.”

“Where?”

“In Lyon, France. Do you know your name?”

Did I? “Carolyn? Carolyn Blue?”

“And you live in Lyon?”

Did I? Memories began to slip through the agony, and I replied, “Charlemagne. On Charlemagne Cour. My hotel.”

“You are a visitor to our city?”

More memories leaked in between the waves of pain. “I’ve been poisoned. Treat me for tetro—tetrotoxin. No. Dotoxin? The poison in fugu. In the pâté at the basilica.”

Several people spoke to each other unintelligibly. “My head hurts. Can’t you do something? At least make me throw up before the poison shuts down my nervous system.”

“Madam,” said the male voice, “it is unlikely you have been poisoned. You were found in a stairway. Without consciousness. An injury to the head.”

“Someone hit me on the head?” It felt like it, but what about Sylvie’s pâté? “Sylvie?”

“She hit you?”

“Made the pâté.”

“You may have fallen on the stair and hit your head on the stone wall.”

“Catherine’s apartment,” I mumbled, remembering now that I had been feeling my way upstairs in the dark.

“However, there was no handbag. Did you carry one?”

“Yes. Oh lord, did they take her key?” Even through the pounding, I now feared that my attacker took Catherine’s key and burglarized her apartment. “And my key? To the hotel room. Did they—” Jason would be very upset if everything was stolen. Our laptops. Our clothes. “And my money and credit cards—are they gone?”

“Your purse was not found. Can you open your eyes?”

“No,” I said firmly. Either a criminal had attacked me, something Catherine had warned me against, or this was another attack on Jason and me. “One man has died of poison meant for us. My husband was injured when a car tried to run him down. Now I’ve been attacked. Call Inspector Theodore Roux. It’s his case. And my husband. Jason Blue. At the Charlemagne. Or at the university.”

“What university, madam?”

I couldn’t remember. Why did these things happen to me? I was a good person. Before I could complain, someone pried one eye open and shone a light in it.

“You have a concussion,” said the male voice.

“Then give me some painkillers.”

“Not yet,” he replied.

“That’s mean.” I felt like crying, but was afraid it would make me feel worse.

“But we will make the calls. Jason Blue at the Hotel Charlemagne and Inspector Theodore Roux. Yes?”

“Yes. And maybe an ice pack if I can’t have any painkillers, but I know why. The French don’t like Americans. That’s why.”

“I assure you, madam, I like many Americans. We will give you painkillers when it is safe.” Then the lights dimmed. I could tell through my eyelids, which seemed transparent for all the good they did. “Does that help? The light.”

“Yes, but I need a guard so the people who want to kill us—”

“You are safe here. French hospitals are very safe.”

“Giverny wasn’t. They sprayed chiles on Professor Childeric,” I mumbled. “If your flower gardens aren’t safe, why should I believe you about your hospitals?” I drifted in confusion and pain, trying to think what could have happened to me. Who knew that I would be at Catherine’s apartment that afternoon? Who . . .

Then a hand held mine. Male. Surely the doctor wasn’t—“Madam Blue. Carolyn. It is I, Theodore Roux.”

“Sylvie poisoned the pâté,” I answered without opening my eyes. It was enough to recognize his voice.

“The pâté Professor Levasseur—”

“The pâté at lunch. She made it for the picnic and practically forced it down my throat.” My head didn’t hurt quite so much now, and I was angry.

“But Madam Blue, the doctor says you have had a bad fall on a stairway, and your head is concussioned. He finds no signs of poison. I will take this Sylvie’s name, but—”

“Yes, do. Sylvie Girard. Husband, Raymond Girard. University. You say I fell? Climbing to Catherine’s?”

“Did someone push you?”

“Why else did I fall backward? I remember that. Backward.”

“Who would know you were to be in the traboule stairway?” he asked. “Why were you there?”

“To see Catherine’s apartment. She’s Italian. From the Renaissance bankers. She knew because she invited me, but she went to Avignon, so it wasn’t her. Sylvie and Gabrielle knew because they took me to churches. Gabrielle Doigne. Husband . . . Doigne. Same department. Catherine’s student Martin le something. He would have heard her, and he was angry because I said he looked like William Rufus.”

“Who is William Rufus?”

“But if Martin pushed me, who poisoned the pâté and tried to hit Jason?” I had to give him Catherine’s last name and position, but couldn’t remember Martin’s last name, even if he didn’t like me. “Also the Fourniers. They were at dinner when Catherine made the offer. Nicole and Bertrand.” I remembered something else. “It must have been Bertrand. He said I had to have the potatoes with the fish because I might not get another chance. How did he know that, unless he planned to finish me off before I could eat another dinner in Lyon? Catherine said they were better with lamb and—and something, but he said . . .”

The inspector was muttering potatoes and fish, and I could hear the scratch of his pen. When he’d written down the names of our gourmet hosts and promised to interview them, too, he said, “Of course it could have been a simple robbery. Are any of these people the type to steal your purse?”

“For goodness sake, Inspector, it’s obvious that my handbag was stolen to make the attack look like a robbery. Can’t you see that?” I opened my eyes to glare at him for his lack of professional reasoning. The eyes were a bad idea. Such a little light to hurt so much.

“Poor madam. You are in pain. I will call the nurse.”

“Why? They won’t give me anything. Just go out and find who did this. You can hit them on the head for me, if you like. And try to get my credit card back so Jason won’t be upset, and Catherine’s key and the hotel key. If Yvette is on duty, she’ll have a fit because I forgot to return the key. She’s so mean.” I paused, drawing a breath against nausea. “Can’t talk anymore. My head hurts. So do a lot of other places. But not as bad as my head.”

“Bonsoir, madam,” said the inspector softly. “I shall begin questioning suspects immediately. Even if I have to wake them up. And a guard at your door. I will get to the top of this.”

“Bottom of this,” I corrected, wishing that he’d go away and leave me in peace and quiet. Talking and listening were painful. Even thinking was. And the worst was his cell phone, which rang close by and sent a wall of blackness right over my head.