Carolyn

Albertine drove Jason back to the palais and went in to tell Adrien, belatedly, about the dinner date with the Girards, so I took the opportunity to have a word with my admirer, Pierre. In fact, I had to drag him into a chapel to make my request without being overheard. “Pierre, could you find out who wrote a letter to a journal fifteen or sixteen years ago criticizing the work of Maurice Bellamee, a chemist from Lyon.”

“You have a new beau!” Pierre looked crestfallen. “Here am I, madly in love, and you want me to provide information so you can defend the work of this Maurice. Why, may I ask? Is Maurice—”

“Dead,” I replied, “and keep your voice down. You mustn’t tell anyone I asked. Can you do it? Or is it too long ago?”

“But of course I can. The Internet holds all information if you know how to use it and have access to the necessary websites. You are pining for this dead person? I am hurt. Bad enough to compete with a live husband for your affections, but what man can compete with the memory of one who is dead? I am devastated.”

“You’re an outrageous flirt, Pierre, and this has nothing to do with my affections. However, if you can find the information, I shall hold you in affection forever.”

With that Pierre beamed at me, kissed me on both cheeks, and promised to call once he got to his computer. “Well, well!” said my husband from the door. “Albertine said you’d ducked in here with Lamont. It seems I can’t let you out of my sight, Carolyn.”

“Do not be worried, mon professeur,” said Pierre gaily. “Much as I adore your wife, she has yet to express any return of my affections.”

Jason shook his head as Pierre left the chapel and then turned to me. “I’ll return to the hotel before the Guillots pick us up at seven-forty-five. Does that suit you?”

“Absolutely. Sylvie says they even have Japanese food at this place.”

“Carolyn, this isn’t another tetrodotoxin thing, is it?”

“No, Jason,” I replied meekly. “This is a column about the variety of cuisines to be found in Southern France.”

“And why was Pierre kissing you?”

“The French are cheek kissers. Charles de Gaulle used to do that, and to men.”

“The dog?” asked my husband.

“The general, silly. If you like, I can ask Pierre to kiss you.”

“Oh, thanks.” Jason turned to leave as Albertine arrived to ask where I wanted to have lunch. Since I hadn’t chosen a place, she suggested La Salicorne, where we ate in a dining room that resembled a cave with yellow and green decorative touches and many salads and fondues on the lunch menu. Always mindful of her figure, Albertine ordered a salad. Always tempted by high-calorie treats, I had a wonderful cheese fondue, followed by an equally wonderful chocolate fondue.

Even Albertine was tempted by my dessert and shared it while berating me for being a bad influence. I explained that I had subjected myself and my family all summer to salads and felt that I deserved a reward for now being able to fit into my size-10 clothes after a gluttonous spring cruise. Albertine said that sensible eating at all times was the key to keeping one’s figure. I didn’t pay her much mind since she ate as much chocolate fondue as I did. Charles de Gaulle sat on the floor looking hopeful, but we saved his life by refusing him chocolate.

After lunch we drove by the Church of St. Martial, part of what had once been a Benedictine monastery. I particularly liked the ruins of the cloister, which housed worn statues in the arches and looked ready to tumble down—very scenic. I took a picture. Then we viewed Gallo-Roman foundations, part of a monument in Avignon’s Roman Forum, and finally we visited two museums, the Musée Lapidaire and the Musée Calvet, to see finds from local archeological digs.

My favorites were a third-millennium stela in the Calvet, rather human, with a rough nose and long hair, two holes for eyes, a hole above the nose for goodness knows what, and eight chiseled lines radiating from another hole in the lower right section. There was no mouth.

In the Lapidaire were a bust of Jupiter with frizzy hair and beard, as if someone had taken a curling iron to him and, best of all, a stone carving of a boat with a man and two large barrels being towed down the Durance river by two very gnomish peasants. Peasants are always depicted as short and stocky. I wonder if they were that short in real life, perhaps as a result of poor diet, or if they were depicted that way as a class distinction. At any rate, I’d enjoyed the lunch and the afternoon. I do love to sightsee, although doing it with my foot in an orthopedic boot destroyed some of the joy. Then from the museum to the hotel, Charles de Gaulle pushed his head over the front seat and rested it on my shoulder—shades of Sorrento, but this time he didn’t drool on my blouse. I was glad to be dropped off at the hotel, where I could prop up my leg and rest before dressing for dinner.

Inspector Roux interrupted my nap by calling to tell me their antiterrorism unit knew of a suspect in Lyon with ties to a violent Indonesian organization, but that the man seemed to have left the city. I sighed. That certainly fit with the chief steward on the cruise, now incarcerated. He’d claimed to be Indian, but he was from Indonesia. His designated assassin was probably in Avignon, looking for another chance to kill us.

“I’ve faxed a picture to your hotel. It’s blurry, but it will give you something to look out for. And I called Inspector Villon with the news, but unfortunately, he still thinks you shot the young woman at the palais.”

“But haven’t they finished the gunpowder test.”

“He says you probably washed the residue off. They’re still looking for the gun, which was a target pistol. He imagines you bought it as a souvenir and then had it fixed by a gunsmith so that it would shoot.”

“Who’d want a souvenir pistol?” I asked irritably. “I have another suspect who actually is known to have used target pistols. But I haven’t any evidence against her beyond that and a bit of scientific information that can, according to my husband, be interpreted in a wholly unincriminating way.”

“You think a woman is the culprit?” The inspector obviously, chauvinist that he was, considered a female assassin a peculiar idea, goodness knows why. Women have even gone into the suicide bombing profession in the Middle East. “Villon will never believe you unless there is jealousy involved,” said Inspector Roux. “Is she, too, in love with your husband?”

“I don’t know why you’d say that, as if three women could not possibly be in love with my husband. Jason is very attractive. But no, she isn’t in love with him.”

“Well, keep the eyes open for the man whose picture I send.”

I agreed and called Albertine to tell her. “In that case, I must bring Charles de Gaulle tonight,” she replied. “You’re crippled, I certainly can’t overpower a terrorist by myself if we should see him in the restaurant, and the men will never listen to us.”

I had to agree with that and with bringing the dog, although Sylvie would be furious. They’d had an agreement. I went downstairs for the fax, a dim likeness of a small man with a beard and a large nose.

When Jason got home, I showed him the picture. He was pleased, thinking that the new lead meant Catherine was no longer suspect and he could talk to her about her fascinating research. I had to remind him that he couldn’t for Martin’s sake.

“Well, he shouldn’t be passing around his professor’s work,” said my husband. “If I were the sort, I could publish it myself.”

“Anyone would know, Jason, that you’d never steal a colleague’s research,” I said soothingly. “Martin was just worried about us. Give the paper back to me, and I’ll see that he returns it discreetly. Then she won’t know, and he won’t get in trouble.” Of course, that wasn’t what I had in mind. That paper might well be evidence if I could discover any other clues to implicate Catherine. I was finding it extremely hard to protect the two of us when Jason poohpoohed my hypotheses.