Fleur De Lies(105)
I cupped my hand around my mouth. “He was talking about Irv Orr,” I whispered. “I don’t think he’s had a sober moment since he boarded.”
“I seen him in the lounge all day yesterday knockin’ back cocktails,” said Nana. “I don’t rightly know if he’s even stepped off the boat to see nuthin’ yet. How come the bartender don’t cut him off ?”
“Probably because he’s not attempting to drive a vehicle. Oh, before I forget.” I pulled the note with Solange’s contact information out of my shoulder bag. “Could you text this to Osmond at your earliest possible convenience? He specifically asked that you do it because he appreciates your discretion and knows you won’t blab to everyone.”
“You bet.” She studied the note. “Is this the lady what he met durin’ the war?”
“Yup. I tried to hand him the note yesterday, but he wouldn’t take it.”
“’Course he wouldn’t take it.” She yanked her cell phone out of her pocketbook. “He’s gone paperless.”
As I watched her thumbs fly over the screen, I mulled over what she’d said about Victor and the mysterious gap in his background. Was it as innocent as she suggested it might be? Or had Victor Martin deliberately tried to hide something in his past? Something that might explain why he’d want Krystal dead.
My mind drifted back to Virginia Martin, who had every reason in the world to want Krystal dead, but who was under no suspicion from the police. She would have had just as much access to Victor’s blood thinner as he had, wouldn’t she? At least, that was my thinking, but I wasn’t a member of the French police force.
Maybe the incompetency of Inspector Clouseau was closer to the truth than I realized.
eighteen
From our moorage on the river, Vernon appeared less historic than Rouen, less quaint than Caudebec, and less picturesque than Étretat. Nondescript apartment buildings and public parking lots fronted the river. A busy highway ran parallel to its banks, and speeding along this artery were drivers who seemed to delight in revving their engines, squealing their tires, blaring their horns, and boasting their faulty mufflers. We boarded our coach at promptly nine o’clock and, after crossing the long bridge that spanned the Seine, headed down the narrow, two-lane road that would take us to Giverny.
The countryside was similar to what we’d encountered on our way to Étretat—open fields that sloped down to the river. Shrubs giving way to a few trees. Trees weaving themselves into forests. Houses popped up alongside the road at varying intervals—houses made of stone or stucco, with steep roofs and painted shutters, sheltered behind hedges, masonry walls, split-rail fences, or decorative gates.
I sat at the back of the bus, where I could keep an eye on what was happening in front of me, because like it or not, I felt as if I needed to keep my guard up. Victor might be in the hospital, but Krystal’s killer could still be among us, targeting his or her next victim. I just hoped my guys were off the killer’s radar.
“We’ll be arriving at the parking lot in a few minutes,” Rob announced over the mike, “so I’m handing out maps to give you a chance to study them before we leave the bus.” He proceeded down the center aisle, distributing sheets of white paper while he talked. “We’ll be here for a total of three hours, which should give you plenty of time to tour the gardens and house, buy souvenirs in the gift shop, and pick up a cup of coffee in one of the cafés. At twelve thirty we’ll meet in front of the museum on Main Street, which is marked on your maps, and walk back to the bus together. The path back to the parking lot is a little tricky, so I don’t want anyone to get lost. Any questions?”
“Could you send your map to us as an email attachment?” asked Osmond.