“Did your friend mention what Miss Daniels was doing in the park?” I ask as he jots the address down.
“Crying, for part of the time.” He pauses, then blurts out, as if he’s just remembered, “And writing. She was writing something, quite furiously.”
My heart races at these additional tidbits, presumably heretofore unknown. Or, if reported to the police by Mr. Marks, ignored. I’m about to ask for more details when I hear the jangle of bells and feel a cold current of air. I glance over at the restaurant entrance to see the expectant faces of Agatha, Emma, Ngaio, and Margery.
A picture is forming in my mind of the day May disappeared, but the shape has not fully materialized. But we will fit the puzzle pieces together. I excuse myself to welcome the Queens.
Chapter Fifteen
MARCH 24, 1931
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,FRANCE
“Mr. Fleming! Mr. Fleming! There is a telegram for you.”
I hear the heavily accented words as if in a dream. Sleep retains its hold until I hear a loud bang on the door and feel a shudder pass through the thin walls of our room. I know then that I’m awake, back in our tiny Boulogne hotel room. And this summoning is real.
Mac stirs but doesn’t rise. I nudge him awake. He rubs his eyes, reaches for a dressing gown, and stands to open the door a sliver.
“Whatever is it, Madame Bonheur?” I hear him ask. “The hour is early.”
Her voice is low, so I cannot make out her reply. I loll about on the bed, dozing a bit. The night had been anything but restful. Yesterday had been long and tiring, physically and emotionally. Although I crawled into my lumpy bed at ten o’clock, Mac returned at God knows what hour. When he finally rolled into the little room, he scribbled away on his pad of paper for hours as he drafted his article forNews of the World.This led to tossing and turning for me. Then Mac collapsed into the bed and promptly started snoring like one of Dante’s hellhounds. Sleep wasn’t exactly forthcoming for me afterward.
Neither is it now. “Jesus,” Mac says as he plops back down on the bed.
“What is it?” I croak, too tired to scold him for taking the Lord’s name in vain. It is a bugaboo of mine.
“Just got a telegram from my editor.”
“And?”
“I’ve been called off the Daniels case.”
“Oh, darling, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“For now, anyway.”
I don’t just feel forhim. I feel for myself and the other women. If Mac is no longer on the case, I assume my article will be canceled, and I’m uncertain how long we can afford to stay in Boulogne ifNews of the Worldisn’t picking up the tab. The investigation I’ve begun with the Queens will be over before it’s really gotten underway. All the plans we made last evening would go by the wayside.
I sit up, my hair falling around my shoulders like a heavy weight. “Why? From the sound of your pencil on paper last night, you’ve prepared an article for him already.”
He tuts. “Nothing to do with my efforts. My article was well-received. Apparently, my editor got a hot tip that Lord Tarrington is in Boulogne and about to be extradited to England. He wants me to cover that ‘newer news,’ according to him.”
“You’re joking.” I nudge him playfully. The case of Lord Tarrington has captured the attention of the reading public since last summer. The aristocratic solicitor fled to the Continent after he misappropriated clients’ funds, and the slippery Tarrington has evaded the authorities’ grasp ever since.
“No,” he answers, his eyes now bright with the possibility of this scoop. He strides across the room, washes his face in the basin, combs his hair, and trades his dressing gown and pajamas for a new suit, shirt, and tie.
“Oh, Mac, how magnificent.”
“There’s one bit of bad news, my love. I don’t thinkNews of the Worldwill pay for an article from you if I’m not writing a companion piece. We’ll have the room here for tonight, at least, but beyondthat I can’t say. Particularly if the rumors are true and Tarrington will be returned to England very soon.”
“Not to worry. I’ll enjoy today, sitting at some delightful café near the beach and working onHave His Carcaseor my outline forHangman’s Holiday.Then I’ll leave tomorrow if you’re heading back.” I add teasingly, “Does it ever bother you that I’ve got projects of my own and that I’m not just slavishly devoted to your needs?”
“You know that’s one of the things that attracted me to you from the start, my love. I’d be bored silly with a bored housewife.” He leans down to kiss me. “All right, I may see you this evening—or I may not.”
“We will let the Fates decide,” I call out, then he’s gone. And I’m up.
Mac’s reassignment is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I’ll have much more freedom to roam about Boulogne, assuming I can sidestep the journalists. But on the other hand, my access to insider information and reporters’ briefings will be curtailed. As might my time in Boulogne.
