SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) (19 page)

CHAPTER 37 – FRENCH LESSONS

Two Weeks later

Alice was in full Parisian expatriate student uniform. Tight jeans, back boots, sweater and scarf. Everyone in France wears jeans. I think they are issued by the Government. I felt conspicuous in my khakis. In a manhunt, I’d stand out like a camel at the Kentucky Derby. I could imagine the BOLO the gendarmes would put out: Male, Not Wearing Jeans. Expel on sight.

Of course, Alice looked terrific, as, I am forced to admit, did most of the women I saw. There is something about French women that is unexplainable. I mean, all women are unexplainable, but the French versions take it to another level.

We were sitting in a bistro drinking Café Americanos on Rue de Platre just up the street from my hotel. I had taken a room because Alice was sharing a small flat with another student. We were killing time before walking over to the Latin Quarter for dinner. Alice said she had discovered “an absolutely lovely little restaurant on Rue Gallande with the best bistro food in Paris.” After dinner she wanted to show me St-Séverin, “the most-charming church in Paris.”

This was Alice’s first experience of Paris, and it showed. I’d been to Paris before and could have told her that to get a bad meal in the city was next to impossible. I might have also told her that, given my recent adventures, I could do without any more religious exposure. But I was happy for her, falling in love with what, to my mind, is the greatest non-New York city on the planet. And in my more reflective moments, I think it’s a tie.

“How is your room? The Hotel Britannique is supposed to be lovely.”

“It’s larger than I expected. Last time I was here my room was so small I had to punch air holes in the wall.”

Alice loved the engraved compact I gave her, and the story that went with it.

“I love it even more knowing it’s stolen,” she said.

“And, don’t forget, I got it at a huge discount.”

“You are so romantic, Alton.”

Of course, I also told her about the dead guy in my foyer and everything that had happened with Isabella Donner.

“My God! What a woman. Do you think she would have tried to kill you if you had, well, succumbed to her charms?”

“After seeing what she did with the councilman, I might have succumbed during the succumbing.”

“I’m serious.”

“I assume so. I don’t believe any of her lovers are alive to tell the tale.”

“But you didn’t fit the profile of the men she despised.”

“I think she made exceptions for self preservation. Can’t hold that against her.”

We had been sitting in the bistro for almost an hour, just sipping coffee. One of the delights of Paris is that you can sit all day having a couple of cups of coffee, a glass of wine, perhaps a croissant, and nobody thinks anything of it. For a few francs, or euros, one can feel like a human being. There would have been no Hemingway if that wasn’t the case. He was always broke.

“Her sex drive must have been amazing.”

“Yes. It was obviously chemically enhanced. She may have overdone the Rantox.”

“A drug that makes you look 10 years younger and pumps up your libido at the same time. Where can I buy the stock?”

“I think LexGen has some kinks to work out. Plus there may now be legal issues. Marketing a drug associated with a sex-crazed serial killer might be problematical.”

“Do you think it made her the way she was?”

“No. I think she was just bats. Your French philosophers likely have another name for it.”

“Très bats.”

“Anyway, it certainly made her more attractive to her victims,” I said. “There wouldn’t be many men who could resist her.”

“Lured by meadows starred with flowers,” Alice said.

One of the risks one runs when involved with a philosophy professor is that they occasionally say things that need clarification. I gave Alice a look.

“That’s how the Greeks described the place where the Sirens lived,” she explained, laughing. “Your Isabella would be right at home in Greek mythology. She was certainly as dangerous and devious as any one of them.”

“Except the Sirens lured sailors to their deaths with their songs,” I said, “not with chemically enhanced sex.”

“How did you resist her charms, sailor?”

“I think it was the soda bread. I kept thinking of my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother made soda bread?”

“No. She could hardly boil water. I was thinking of you.”

Her eyes misted at that, which wasn’t my intention.

“Hey,” I said.

Fortunately, we were interrupted by four of Alice’s friends from school. Her roommate, Nicolette, was one of them. There was another girl and two men, none of whose names I caught. Hell, they were all wearing jeans.

A lot of French was spoken but I caught enough, along with Alice’s quick translations, to garner that I was not completely unknown to them, at least the girls, both of whom I soon warmed to, mainly because they thought I looked “dangereux.” The men were another story. They kept looking disparagingly at my khakis and seemed entirely too solicitous of Alice. The French have earned their reputation as seducers. Their recent Presidents married supermodels and juggled wives and mistresses in public, much to the delight of an understanding, and apparently approving, public. I presumed Alice was fair game. I weighed my options. I could shoot all the men in France. I would have to obtain a gun, as mine were back home. That might be a problem. France wasn’t the United States, where there were more guns in private hands than there were private hands.

***

That night, as we lay in my bed at the Hotel Britannique, I mentioned my plan on dealing with potential rivals.

“I believe the Germans tried something similar,” Alice said, “several times. And even with Teutonic efficiency, they failed. What makes you so sure you can succeed?”

“I have greater motivation.”

She cast her eyes down.

“Your motivation appears to be unmotivated.”

“Give me a break.”

She laughed.

“Won’t your plan be awfully expensive, ammunition-wise?”

“What’s the exchange rate with the Euro?”

She told me.

“I’ll have to cash in my 401-k. Mario will be devastated.”

“I can’t be involved with a man without a pension plan.”

“You’re not making this any easier.”

“I see other obstacles. I know you. You will make exceptions.”

“Such as.”

“Chefs.”

“Then it’s Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“This,” I said, as I moved my hand between her legs. “Followed by 24/7 long-distance phone sex to keep you busy.”

Alice giggled and then began squirming.

“That might work,” she said and let out a small moan, “but long distance will probably be as costly as ammunition.”

“You’re worth it, kid,” I said, rolling on top of her.

“I like Plan B,” she gasped. “But I’d like to try something.”

Ten minutes later, after I got my breath back, I said, “Where did that come from?”

“Nicole showed me.”

“Showed you?”

“Well, told me. But she was very graphic. She taught me some other stuff. When you’re ready again, we can try them.”

After the first Nicole maneuver, I figured I’d be ready in a month or so.

“How about you just tell me about it,” I said, trying to buy time.

Alice did, colorfully, using a ribald mixture of French and English, and I discovered I didn’t need the month. 

THE END

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***

Alton Rhode returns in SISTER. This is an excerpt:

CHAPTER 1 - PROM CHECK

Sister Veronica leaned forward and smiled into Carole MacQuaid’s nervous, pretty face.

“Really, Carole? Your Mom said this dress was appropriate?”

“I swear, Sister. She said it was just like the one she wore to her own prom.”

The principal of Ave Maria Academy for Girls in Worcester, Massachusetts, held her tongue. But what she wanted to say was that if Mrs. MacQuaid had worn a similar dress to her prom it was probably the night she conceived Carole. Instead, she said, “OK. Let’s give her a call.”

The girl sighed heavily, defeat on her face.

“Well, maybe not just like the dress she wore. But it is the same color.”

The dress was purple. Bad taste apparently ran in the MacQuaid family.

“I don’t think your mom’s boobs were falling out.”

The girl looked down at her chest.

“I don’t think they are so bad, Sister.”

“They aren’t bad, Carole. You have a wonderful figure. But there is a difference between cleavage and the Grand Canyon.” Sister Veronica was quite sure some of the boys in town had seen the girl’s breasts in all their naked glory, but that was no reason she should look trashy on prom night, purple dress notwithstanding. “You are a lovely girl. Let the boys concentrate on your face for a change.”

All the seniors had to pass inspection. One by one the girls came by the principal’s office, changing in the bathroom, to preview their prom dresses. Sister Veronica was halfway through the senior class. The prom was two weeks away but she wanted to give the kids enough time to make the necessary adjustments. In Carole MacQuaid’s case, she thought, steel cables might be in order.

The dresses did not have to be suits of armor. But they couldn’t be strapless, and the straps had to be at least one and a half inches wide. Sister Veronica had nothing against her girls showing a little feminine pulchritude. It was not unheard of for her to tell a girl she might want to be a little more daring. Cleavage depended on each girl’s attributes. Small-breasted girls were given slightly more leeway in that department. High heels were permitted. Telling a teen-age girl she couldn’t show off her legs would be cruel. But not too high. The girls would probably be scandalized if they found out their principal knew that ultra-high heels were called “fuck me” shoes. I didn’t always wear these skirts, jackets and high-collared blouses that make me look like, well, Angela Lansbury in
Murder, She Wrote
. These kids should have seen me in a bathing suit. And they’d be really shocked to know I wasn’t a virgin, although it’s been many years since I’ve been with a man. None since long before I took my vows. But I remember how it was. The intensity. The need. A blurry image of a handsome young man swam into her consciousness. I wonder how he is?

“Earth to Sister,” Carole said.

“What’s that?”

The principal realized that her mind had wandered.

“You were staring off into space,” the girl said. “I thought you were spazzing out.”

“Sorry. I was thinking of something. Not that you girls aren’t capable of giving me a stroke. Now, are you going to the prom with that boy from Holy Cross?”

“Tom? Yes, Sister.” The girl looked at her principal for a sign of disapproval. “He’s only a freshman.”

“Nice-looking boy, and polite as I recall. Freshman, huh. Way to go, girl.”

They both laughed. Who am I to cast stones, Sister Veronica mused. Mine was a college sophomore. A Holy Cross boy, too, although neither of us lived anywhere near here back then. Funny I wound up here.

Carole MacQuaid left, disappointed about the dress, but not angry. None of the 133 girls in the school could ever be angry at Sister Veronica. She ran a tight ship, but she was eminently fair, doling out help and praise just as often as discipline. Every week she made it a point to call the parents of at least five students, always finding something positive to say about their children. She only had two decades on her seniors but they, and other students, came to her for everything. Boy troubles, drunken fathers, academic problems. Ave Maria graduated all its students and every single girl went on to a four-year college, including some Ivies. A couple went to military academies. She cherished a wonderful letter from one of her girls, who credited the discipline and guidance she received at Ave Maria for her success in surviving her first year at West Point.

Sister Veronica was only one of three nuns still at the school. They lived on a stipend, with their salaries going back to their religious order with the understanding that it would be used to bolster the pay of lay teachers, and the occasional scholarship for a needy girl. Ave Maria didn’t graduate ingrates. The kids, and their parents, knew how lucky they all were.

The Ave Maria principal was still a very attractive woman, kept trim by 80-hour work weeks and jogging, augmented by long walks in the woods and hills surrounding the school’s 10-acre campus. She also used the treadmill in the small gym in the main school building, which was, in fact, the former mansion of a local Irish bootlegger, who stored Canadian liquor in the basement and a series of Asian mistresses upstairs.