Sacré Bleu

“Oh,” said Gilles, dropping Régine like a poisoned apple. “Your mother is here.”

“Good evening, Gilles,” said Mère Lessard, a dismissive chill in her voice, for although she liked the burly carpenter very much, there was no advantage in letting him know that.

Gilles stepped into the bedroom. “What is wrong with Lucien?”

“That woman,” said Régine.

“What woman?” Gilles had been blissfully oblivious of the goings-on around the bakery for the last month, as he had been away most of the time, working on a public building in Rouen.

“There is a girl lying unconscious in the doorway of the storeroom,” said Mère Lessard. “You were supposed to bring her in.”

“Of course,” said Gilles, as if he’d been a complete cad for not realizing how utterly useless he was. “I will go now.” To Régine, he said, “Keep my crêpes warm, my sweet.” And he was off down the steps.

“The pan was for hitting you,” Régine reminded him.

“I’m sorry,” said Mère Lessard. “I have failed you, my child. I let you marry a complete dimwit.”

“Yes, but he’s strong, and he doesn’t care at all about art,” said Régine.

“There is that,” said Madame.

Downstairs, in the storage-shed-turned-studio, Gilles stood before the painting of Juliette. While it was true he didn’t give a toss about art, he was a great enthusiast when it came to the naked female form.

“Sacré bleu!” he exclaimed, with no irony whatsoever.

“Do you need help?” Régine’s voice came from the bakery kitchen.

Gilles backed away from the painting. “No. She’s not here. There’s no one here.”

“She was right here,” said Régine, now standing in the studio doorway.

Gilles turned so quickly he nearly lost his balance. “Chérie, you startled me. Did you know this shed had a skylight? I’ve never seen a shed with a skylight. Why would you have a skylight here?” He shrugged at the mystery of it all.

Régine held her hand to her mouth as if suppressing a sob, then said, “Come inside, Gilles. I need to tell you something.”

THE COLORMAN HEARD THE KEY RATTLING IN THE LOCK AND OPENED THE door for her.

Bleu entered the apartment and gingerly pried up the brim of her hat. “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“You need to finish with him,” said the Colorman. “Someone is getting suspicious.”

“Ouch!” said Bleu with a great blast of air as she pulled off her hat and tossed it to the hall tree. She bent over until she was eye to eye with the Colorman, whose deep-set eyes bulged out a bit as he got a good look at her puffy, purple forehead. “You think?” she said.

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened? Someone hit me.”

“The baker?”

“No, not the baker. His mother, I think. I didn’t see it coming.”

“Did you kill them?”

“Yes, I don’t know who hit me, but I killed them all the same.”

“You’re cranky when you’re bruised. You want wine?”

“Yes, wine, food.” She collapsed on the divan. “Do we have a maid?”