Fleur De Lies(106)
“Sorry, folks. What you see is what you get.”
“How about a photo?” inquired Alice. “If you send a picture of the map to my email address, I’ll be happy to forward it to everyone.”
Rob guffawed as he handed me my copy. “Come on, people. What have you got against paper?”
Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!
“Check your inboxes,” announced Nana. “I sent it JPEG, but if the image don’t look clear, I can send it again as one a them PDF files.”
“Mine didn’t come through in color,” fussed Margi.
“That’s because the original is in black and white,” said Tilly.
The size of a tourist attraction’s parking lot is usually a good indication of how popular the attraction is with the public. Given the size of Giverny’s, I steeled myself to expect crowds, which, considering our group might be playing host to a killer, could either be a blessing or a curse.
“Our bus is number twenty-one,” Rob announced as our driver pulled into a space and cut the engine. “If you lose the group on your way back, don’t forget that number.”
We filed off the bus into the parking lot, where we began following after Rob like rats after the Pied Piper. As we passed through a pedestrian tunnel, I noticed Bernice a few paces ahead of me, and hurried to catch up.
“So, Bernice, what’s the latest on Victor’s condition?”
“Why’re you asking me?”
“Because you seem to be the person who’s dispersing all the behind-the-scenes information even before the official announcements can be made.”
“I pay attention. You should try it sometime.”
“Who told you? No one was privy to that information except for two people … or three. Okay, maybe five, but none of them was you, so how did you find out?”
She regarded me sourly. “A good newsperson never reveals her sources.”
“You’re not a newsperson.”
She waggled her eyebrows. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not telling you anyway.” That said, she fired up the famous afterburners that kept her a Senior Olympic five-yard sprint champ and left me in the dust.
Regardless of my opinion of Bernice, I grudgingly admired one thing about her: she’d never say anything behind my back that she wouldn’t say directly to my face, no matter how rude the comment.
We followed a circuitous path to the group entrance, where we lined up like school children and filed through the turnstile without pushing or shoving. But once on the property, we faced a nearly impossible decision. What to tour first? Claude Monet’s famous flower garden and house? Or his water garden and even more famous lily pond?
“I don’t wanna step on no one’s toes,” Nana said as the gang gathered off to one side of the path, “but we’re facin’ one a them momentous decisions. Flower garden or water garden? So we’re gonna have to vote.”
All eyes flew to Osmond, who was leaning against a nearby fence, captivated by a message he was texting.
“I don’t think he heard you,” whispered Alice. “Maybe you should say it louder.”
“CHELSVIG!” yelled Dick Teig. “I’M TAKING A VOTE!”
We watched. We waited.
Osmond continued texting.
“I still don’t think he heard you,” fretted Alice.