The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel Read Free Page B

Allô? Oui, chéri .” Monique cupped her lips and whispered to Anna. “It’s Georges. He’s at the office.” The conversation was typical between the couple. From Monique’s side, lots of “ Oui , chéri. Non, chéri. Mais non. Mais oui .” And then a dramatic demonstration of kisses interspersed with “ Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime ” before signing off with a quick “ Salut .” Monique kissed the phone and put it gently back in her pocket as if, Anna mused, it were Georges.
    “Georges has to make a last-minute drive today to check out a film location on the coast. We’re leaving shortly. Why don’t you join us?”
     
    Within the hour, Monique, Georges, Anna, and Sabastien were on their way to the port of Le Havre. As Georges maneuvered the big, black Mercedes onto the A13 expressway, a box truck whizzed past, followed closely by two motorcyclists with riders.
    “Why do the French always drive like bats out of hell?” Anna wondered out loud from the back seat. Sabastien was curled up and asleep with his paws tucked under him on the seat beside her.
    “Because we’re dying to get to heaven,” Georges countered in English with a slight British accent. He was older than Monique, handsomely dressed, expensively shod, and his silver gray sideburns glistened in the sunlight streaming into the car.
    “By the way, do you two know what all those sirens were about last night?” Anna asked.
    Monique and Georges looked at each other and nonchalantly shrugged their shoulders.
    “We don’t concern ourselves much with the news on Sundays,” Monique explained. “It’s our day to enjoy each other, n’est-ce pas, chéri ?
    Georges nodded and blew her an affectionate kiss.
    “ Oui , chérie , I only have eyes for you on Sundays.”
    “Oh, you two. You must have heard the sirens. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
    They smirked. “Actually,” Georges confessed, raising his eyebrows, “we did turn on the TV a bit this morning. There was an incident in a tunnel near the Eiffel Tower. The Alma Tunnel. The TV announced that Princess Diana was killed.”
    “Killed? You mean, murdered?”
    Georges shook his head. “They said it was an accident.”

CHAPTER 5
     
    T he unmarked SAMU entered the outskirts of Rouen and followed the quay until it reached rue Jeanne-d’Arc. Two motorcycles with riders followed at a distance. Diamanté watched them in the rearview mirror. Just short of the rue du Gros-Horloge, he instructed the driver to make a sharp turn into a back alley. They pulled alongside another truck and waited. Then, with a roar, the first motorcycle spun around the corner. The man on the pillion held a camera with a large lens perched on his shoulder.
    “Paparazzi,” yelled Diamanté to the driver. “Hit it.”
    Lucie La Forêt spotted the truck and the motorcycle. She shouted at her kitchen assistants, who were busy unpacking crates of produce. “ Tout le monde ! Everyone, vite ! Vite ! Toss your crates into the alley behind that truck. Maintenant !”
    They did as told, and just as the truck passed, the motorcyclists saw a storm of produce and crates, some still unpacked, come hurtling towards them.
    Jacques saluted Diamanté and motioned to the driver not to stop. The SAMU zoomed off just as the second motorcycle, its rider hanging precariously off to the side, turned the corner.
    Lucie amassed her army behind her. “ Hé, les commis, à la sortie !”
    The small army of kitchen assistants positioned themselves behind the massive body of their head chef, standing in her white apron with her hands on her hips, legs spread apart, frizzy white hair protruding under her chef’s cap. Jacques, a rather hesitant Father Truette, and the portly La Bergère joined her.
    The first motorcycle plummeted into a sea of wooden crates, and its two riders were thrown into the mess. They lay moaning, covered with cabbages, cauliflowers, leeks, and carrots. The next two arrived, braked, and skidded to a