French Fried

The Guillots were gone when I left the hospital. And I—so tired, worried about my wife, and disheartened because she’d sent me away—didn’t feel like being frugal. I took a cab to the hotel and blackmailed food from Yvette by threatening to contact the manager and demand that she be fired if it wasn’t provided. Scowling ferociously, she led me to the kitchen and arranged for a tray I could take to my room—two sandwiches, a limp salad, and a glass of wine poured from an unlabeled bottle. The chef apologized in person for the fare.

I went upstairs with my “dinner” and found the telephone registering four calls—the Girards, the Doignes, Martin le Blanc, and the Fourniers, all of whom had been questioned as suspects in the attack on my wife. All were confused and angry. All demanded that I call back.

I dropped my head into my hands, no longer hungry, just wanting to sleep, but I called. Bertrand Fornier seemed to think that he had been accused because he recommended that Carolyn order the gratin potatoes with the fish in butter sauce. “I realize,” he said, “that both dishes contain milk or butter, but when she said she had not yet sampled our wonderful Gratin Lyonnais—well, what could I do but be sure she did not miss it? And I was not, I assure you, in Old Lyon this afternoon. I took the afternoon off so that Nicole and I could choose the best restaurants to visit in Avignon.” I calmed Bertrand by saying that my wife, having suffered a concussion, probably had no idea what she was saying to the inspector.

Then I called Catherine’s student, who thought Carolyn had reported him to the police for objecting to her remark about William Rufus. “I admit that I am inclined to seek the company of men rather than women,” he said, sounding anxious, “and that I do not want that discussed in the department. There are prejudices. Such gossip could ruin my chances of a faculty position after I leave Lyon. Still, I would not push your wife down Professor de Firenze’s stairs to protect my . . . private life.” I sighed and assured Le Blanc that neither Carolyn nor I had anything against homosexuals, and that my wife had been astonished, not angry, to find that she had offended him because of her interest in medieval history.

Charles Doigne was very grumpy. He couldn’t understand what Carolyn might have against them, unless it was that they were Catholics. “Why would we push your wife down a flight of stairs? Especially Catherine’s stairs. We don’t even know where Catherine lives. She no longer socializes, and hasn’t since her husband’s death, after which she moved from their home to an apartment.” I apologized for the inconvenience they had suffered and began to wonder if any of these people would speak to us when we got to the meeting. If we got there. Obviously I couldn’t leave Carolyn in a French hospital by herself.

Last I called the Girards. Sylvie answered, close to hysterics. “She thinks I poisoned the pâté?” she demanded in a high, trembling voice. “My pâté was delicious. I am not sick. Gabrielle is not sick. Even Winston Churchill is not sick. I gave him the slice with the fly stuck in it. Why would Carolyn think such a thing?

“I have been driving her through Lyon for three days, taking pictures, which I am developing to make up an album so that she can remember her visit with pleasure. Of course the album is a surprise. You are not to tell her. Maybe I will not give it to her. I thought we were friends. Winston Churchill thinks he is her friend. If she felt ill and stumbled down some steps, it was not because of my pâté.”

“So I gathered. And Carolyn is in the hospital with a concussion and bruises and scrapes all over her body. I am sorry that Sylvie was distressed by the visit from the inspector, but perhaps you will understand that my wife is not herself when I tell you that she would not allow me to stay in her hospital room.”

“She thinks you pushed her down the steps?” Raymond asked, amazed. “But I can testify that you were in the department. Poor woman. What does her doctor say?”

“Nothing. He’d gone home before I left Carolyn’s hospital room. The thing is, Raymond, Robert died from eating pâté meant for us, according to the police. Their whole scenario sounds peculiar to me, but then the next day I just escaped being run down, and today—well, you can see that Carolyn might be seriously stressed at this point, and of course, she has a terrible headache.”

“This is all very strange,” Raymond admitted, “but each happening could have been unrelated, not an incident pre-planned by someone who means you ill. Why would anyone? You didn’t know anyone here except the Guillots, who were in Paris. Has your wife accused them to the inspector, as well?”

I’d have agreed, but I had no cognac, just the meal on the bed, whose salad looked even more pathetic than when the chef scraped it out of the bottom of a bowl. As I ate, it occurred to me that if Carolyn had been attacked, she might also have been robbed, in which case, there might be someone out there using our credit cards. I drained the last of my wine and called Inspector Roux, asleep after conducting an investigation that alienated everyone I knew in the city.

“This is Jason Blue. I’m calling about Carolyn’s purse. The lady who sent you off to accuse everyone we know of attempted murder. Was her purse found at the scene of her fall? Or with her when she was brought to the hospital?”

“No,” said the inspector. “Why are you worrying about her purse? The poor lady is suffering terribly, and without medication for her pain. Her handbag is hardly a matter for—”

“It is if some thief has her credit card. Perhaps you can catch the person who attacked her by seeing if charges have been made on her card this evening.”

“I wish I were.” I mumbled and gave him the information on the one card I let Carolyn carry when we are traveling. I carried our other card, and each of us had the numbers of the card we didn’t personally use. More cards than two, in my opinion, are too many, although Carolyn disagrees. She reads those endless offers and passes them on to me for consideration because of low interest rates or airline miles or money back at the end of the year. There’s usually something in the small print that makes them undesirable, even if I wanted another card.

Having made what I hoped would be my second-to-last call, I then dialed the 800 number to report the loss of Carolyn’s card. Calling an 800 number from a foreign country is a problematic endeavor, but I did finally reach the Visa office and was able to cancel Carolyn’s card, which, it occurred to me, was not a bad idea. Without a card, she wouldn’t be able to make any shockingly expensive purchases when we got to Avignon—French shoes and clothing; expensive, heavy books on the history of the Avignon Papacy; shopping lunches in three-star Michelin restaurants she just had to visit for her column and which are, as she always points out, tax deductible.