Fleur De Lies(65)

            “You will find some very nice souvenir shops along the Rue de Gros Horloge,” Madeleine announced, waggling her umbrella toward the pedestrian mall in front of us. “If you would like to see the cathedral without the scaffolding, you should purchase a postcard that shows what it looked like before the war. There are many selections to choose from.”

            “Oh, sure,” whined Bernice. “And I suppose there are no kickbacks involved in that little deal. You can bet someone’s going to be reading about this on your evaluation.”

            Madeleine shrugged. “D’accord.”

            As we trekked down the cobblestoned mall, I wove my way forward through the group until I caught up with Woody.

            “You’ll never guess what I just saw,” I exclaimed as I quickened my pace to keep up with his unexpectedly long stride.

            He let out a burst of laughter. “Cal handing out business cards?”

            “Uhhh—No.”

            “Of course not. That was a trick question. Cal never hands out business cards. That would be too much like advertising.”

            Talk about dog with bone. “I saw a picture of your fleur-de-lis ring.”

            “Did you now?”

            “In fact, you might have seen it, too. At Madeleine’s house on our home visit. On her sideboard. It was a needlepoint piece in a frame. Same fleur-de-lis. Same broken petal.”

            “Never saw it.”

            “Bernice has a picture of it among her photos. Isn’t that weird that the Saint-Sauveurs would have an embroidery of your ring?”

            “Why is it weird? Look around. Everything over here has some kind of fleur-de-lis on it.”

            “But they don’t have broken petals, which is what makes your ring and her embroidery rather unique.”

            “So … what’s your point?”

            “Well, I was thinking that if you’re curious about your ring’s history, Madeleine might have some insight into both the embroidery and the ring. Wouldn’t it be interesting to learn the story behind—”

            “Why would I care?” His voice bristled with irritation. “I told you. It’s always been in the family, so why would I need to know its history? It’s mine. End of story.”

            “I … I just thought—”

            He fluttered his hand in annoyance, as if shooing me away. “No disrespect, Emily, but when I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Okay? Hell, you seem to be taking up where Cal left off, and I don’t appreciate it.”

            I slowed my steps, allowing him to forge ahead of me. Euw. Cal was right. Woody’s temper really was kind of volatile. I just hoped his cantankerous outbursts turned out to be a passing phase and not an indication of a more serious mental health problem.

            Halfway down the mall, we stopped before an ornately sculpted stone arch that acted like an entrance tunnel to the street beyond. A tower in the style of a French chateau sat atop the arch, and in the center of this was a giant clock face, housed in a frame of gold scrolls and fretwork, with a wreath of blue frills circling it like a medieval ruff. It was far more grand than Big Ben, but Big Ben probably kept better time, given that this clock only boasted one hand. As Madeleine began her spiel, we inched around her in tight formation, partially to be less of an obstruction to foot traffic, but mostly because we’d all ditched our earbuds, so we were hoping to improve our chances of hearing her.

            “The Great Clock, known as Le Gros Horloge, was placed in its present location in 1527,” she told us, “but its inner mechanism dates from the 1300s, when it was first lodged in the belfry of the attached building.”