“She was too busy carryin’ on about nosebleeds. You seen her. No one on earth gets more of a buzz talkin’ about blood than Margi.”
“So is she planning to spend some of her winnings in Paris? Think of the shopping spree she can have, Nana. Yves Saint Laurent. Chanel. Christian Dior. Givenchy.”
“She don’t plan to try on no clothes in Paris.”
“Why not?”
“’Cuz gettin’ in and outta clothes is a pain. The fun part for Margi is pickin’ up the phone and makin’ that call. The one-on-one contact with the gal what takes her order makes her feel like she’s gettin’ real old-fashioned customer service.”
She checked her watch again and leaped to her feet, panic in her eyes. “Dang. Tilly’s probably havin’ to use her cane to fend off folks what’s fightin’ for my chair. I gotta run.”
I hurried ahead of her to open the door.
“Are you goin’ on the walkin’ tour?” she asked as she rushed into the corridor.
“You bet.”
“Would you take a picture of the site where them fellas burned St. Joan of Arc? I promised the gals at the Legion of Mary that I’d bring back authentic photos, so they’ll revoke my membership if I show up empty-handed.”
“I’m sure they won’t penalize you for weather-related issues beyond your control.”
“They might. I forced ’em to brush up on the life of St. Joan by makin’ ’em sit through that 1948 tearjerker movie with Ingrid Bergman. At the end of two and a half hours, Lena Eggebraaten was so worn out from cryin’, her eyes swelled shut behind her trifocals.”
“She didn’t realize St. Joan was going to die?”
“She didn’t realize the dang movie was gonna be so borin’. There wasn’t no special effects. Not a one. Lena takes her grandkids to see them Transformer flicks, so she was missin’ the thrill of watchin’ the screen explode in digital 3-D and Dolby surround sound.”
The corridor started getting congested as passengers ventured out of their cabins toting raingear and umbrellas.
KREEEOOOO! Bzzzzt … Bzzzzzt. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Rouen. A reminder to those of you who’ll be participating in our port walk this morning. Please stop by the front desk to pick up your port passes, headphones, and receivers. The tour is set to commence in fifteen minutes. Thank you.”
I hurried back into my cabin, riffled through my shoes, jammed my feet into my least favorite pair of wedges, threw on my raincoat, stuffed my umbrella into my shoulder bag, and joined the crowd that was surging toward the lobby.
Mayhem surrounded the front desk. Hands yanking pre-packaged earbuds out of bins. Cellophane wrappers being ripped. Port passes flying out of mailbox slots. Receivers being slapped into waiting hands. Names being yelled to the purser and her assistant over the counter. I’d intended to inquire about the status of our email request before leaving the boat, but the situation was so chaotic, I figured I’d have better luck when I got back.
I announced my name to the assistant purser, picked up my port pass, hung a receiver around my neck, pulled a package of earbuds from the bin, snugged my hood over my head, and headed down the gangway to join the guests clustered beneath their umbrellas along the embankment. Happily, the pelting rain had dwindled to a light but steady shower, so my feet weren’t getting as wet as I thought they would. Rob stood off to the side, studying a clipboard beneath his oversized tour director’s umbrella. I hastened over to him.
“Any word back on Krystal’s autopsy report yet?”