Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets

Book 3: Happy Hoofers Mystery

by Mary McHugh

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

You can’t tiptoe when murder’s afoot… It’s Bastille Day in Paris. The Happy Hoofers—Tina, Janice, Pat, Mary Louise, and Gini—are all set to kick off the fete by dancing the cancan on a beautiful sightseeing cruise down the Seine. As the leggy ladies soak in the magic of the city of lights, everything is magnifique…until a very important patron goes belly-up on the top deck. On the heels of their French debut, murder takes center stage. The five daring dancers will need to step lively to stop the crafty killer fast…or their grand finale will turn out far more explosive than the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower… Includes Fashion Tips And Tasty Recipes

Release date: September 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Why we decided to arrive in Paris on the fourteenth of July, one of France’s biggest holidays, I’ll never know. We call it Bastille Day because it’s the anniversary of the day in 1789 when the French stormed the prison, the Bastille, to liberate the political prisoners and to celebrate the unity of France, but the French call it La Fête Nationale or le quatorze juillet, which just mean “The National Holiday” or “the fourteenth of July.” It’s a day of parades and closed shops and picnics, and fireworks at night. A day when all of France has a huge party. Kind of like our Fourth of July. A lot like our Fourth of July.

I’m Janice Rogers, and I’m going to tell you the story of our Paris adventure, which took me and my four best friends down the beautiful Seine River and into the heart of a murder mystery that we ended up solving—but not without some danger.

We were hired to dance for seven nights on a dinner cruise on a Bateau Mouche, one of the sightseeing boats that allow visitors to view the beauties of Paris from the Seine River. It would have made sense to come at least one day before the fourteenth, but Tina Powell, our leader, couldn’t get a flight for the five of us Happy Hoofers until the evening before, and since Paris is six hours ahead of us, we arrived early the morning of the fourteenth.

Before we left, Gini complained that we wouldn’t have time to rehearse, but Tina reassured her. “We know what we’re going to do,” she said. “We’ve rehearsed it enough. All we have to do is show up and dance. Everybody will be too full of wine to notice if we make any mistakes anyway. And we’ll be part of one of France’s biggest celebrations.”

We believed her. What did we know? Who thought before the night was over and the last firework burst into the Paris sky that someone would be dead? Who thinks of murder on the biggest, most joyful holiday in all of France, on Bastille Day? Excuse me, La Fête Nationale.

This was my first return to Paris since my honeymoon with my second husband. It was still the same magical city it was twenty-five years before. No matter what they do to Paris, it never loses the beauty and charm that makes it different from all other cities in the world.

“There it is,” Gini said, her voice almost a whisper. “The good old Eiffel Tower. We’re in Paris. My Paris. I can’t believe we’re here.”

The five of us Happy Hoofers were loaded into a van on our way from Orly Airport to the apartment we had rented for a week on Boulevard du Montparnasse, on the Left Bank, while we danced every night on the Bateau Mouche. I was glad we were going to be in an apartment instead of a hotel, because I thought it would be more relaxing.

For Gini Miller, it was a real homecoming. She studied photography for a year in Paris after she graduated from college. Whenever anyone mentioned France or French anything, her face radiated a glow that told us exactly how she felt about this city. “It was a year when I could improvise my life, Jan,” she once told me. “I time-stepped my way through that City of Light, drank sweet vermouth with a twist at the Select café with artists and writers and actors and directors and . . .” She paused for breath. “I was in love with someone different every week.” She became an award-winning filmmaker because of what she learned in this incredible city.

“Does all this bring back memories, Gini?” I asked.

“Wonderful memories, Jan,” she said.

I love Paris too, but my view of it is slightly marred by the memory of my second husband, Derek, who wasn’t all that great after the honeymoon. He spoiled Paris for me because I couldn’t help thinking about the way he turned out when we got back home. That marriage only lasted two years, definitely two years too long.

“Look,” Mary Louise Temple said, pointing to the glass pyramid we were passing. “The Louvre.”

“We have to go there,” Pat Keeler said. “There’s a fantastic exhibit of Renaissance sculpture. Denise said we absolutely must not miss that.”

“We’re going to see everything,” Tina, our planner extraordinaire, said. “I’ve got a list.”

“Are we dancing every night?” I asked.

“That’s the plan,” Tina said.

“Look,” Gini said, her face reflecting her delight. “There it is—the Arc de Triomphe. That’s Paris personified. We’re on the Champs-Élysées. Tina, I love you forever for getting this gig for us. How did you do it anyway?”

“It was the publicity about our gig on that train in Spain that landed us in all the papers because the talk show host who was murdered was so famous. We got offers from everywhere. I’m glad we decided to stick with performances closer to home during the winter. But when this offer came in, it seemed like the best one for a midsummer getaway.”

“Where else could we have gone?” I asked.

“Camden, New Jersey, or Winnipeg,” Tina said, trying not to smile.

“Tough choice,” Pat said.

The taxi moved along the busy wide avenue. People were lined up four and five deep on either side.

“What’s going on?” Gini asked the taxi driver in French.

“Madame, c’est le quatorze juillet,” he said and, in French, explained what was happening to her.

Gini translated his words for us. “It’s Bastille Day,” she said. “They’re going to close down the Champs Élyseés in an hour because of the parade. People have been waiting there since early this morning.”

We passed The Gap, Disney, Hugo Boss, Sephora, and Cartier along the crowded sidewalks. There was even a McDonald’s. I’ll never get used to a McDonald’s on Paris’s most glamorous, elegant avenue.

We crossed the Pont Neuf onto the Left Bank, the artistic, bohemian part of Paris. The cafés were all crowded. The red, white, and blue French flag flew from every building. We drove down a narrow street past the Sorbonne, past the Jardin du Luxembourg, to Boulevard du Montparnasse. Everywhere we saw flowers in ceramic planters, graceful shade trees, and people walking dogs that looked clean and well-trained.

“There’s La Coupole,” I said, pointing to the red awning that was almost a block long. “Hemingway’s restaurant. Can we eat there?”

“Of course,” Tina said. “It’s only a block from our apartment. See. That’s where we’re going to stay. The one with the balconies overlooking the boulevard.”

“I lived right next door when I was here,” Gini said. “That’s my café across the street. The Select. I practically lived there. It’s just the same.”

She was almost dancing in her seat in the van. The rest of us had been to Paris once or twice, but it didn’t have the same meaning for us as it did for Gini. I envied her having lived here.

Tina paid the driver a bunch of euros, and we dragged all our bags and assorted belongings to the door of our new temporary home. Tina punched in the entry code and held the door for us as we filed into the foyer. Another code opened the inside door, and we squeezed into the glass elevator that went up to the third floor.

There was one other apartment on this floor. Tina stuck the key in the door of our flat and, after some maneuvering and pulling and pushing, opened the door.

We had only seen pictures online of this place, but it was perfect. It had a large living room with a couch that converted into a bed, several big black, comfortable-looking leather chairs, a coffee table, a basket full of books in English—nice touch—a TV, and a dining table. Off the living room, there was a roomy, bright kitchenette with a combination washer-dryer, a dishwasher, fridge, stove, two sinks, and cabinets with glass doors full of plates, glasses, and serving dishes. There were two bedrooms, a room with a toilet, and a room with a shower and sink and heated towel racks, complete with thick, terry towels. In France, the toilet and the shower are usually in separate rooms.

I could have used another shower stall, but this was Paris. I was grateful for one. We’d just have to bathe in shifts. One bathroom was the only thing particularly French about this apartment, except for the view from the little balcony on one side of the living room. That was spectacular. We could look down on Boulevard du Montparnasse and watch people sipping coffee at the Select across the street, men and women hurrying by on their way to work, cars going by. Very Paris.

The view from our bedrooms was of other apartments close by. So close, in fact, that we kept the blinds down when we were dressing or running around in our underwear. The blinds opened and closed with a remote control, which took some getting used to, but they were fun.

“What do you think, gang?” Tina asked. “Are we OK with this?”

“Who gets to sleep in the living room?” Pat, our practical, always thinking, family therapist asked.

“Any volunteers?” Tina asked.

“I’ll sleep in here,” Mary Louise said. “I don’t mind.” She’s our peace-at-any-price Hoofer. We all love her and take advantage of her good nature all the time. She doesn’t seem to mind, so we keep doing it. People treat you the way you let yourself be treated, I’ve discovered in this life as an actress, director, wife, and mother.

You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I’m tough. I had my daughter when I was seventeen, divorced her father a year later, and supported my child as a waitress while I auditioned for acting jobs in New York. I’m blond with a little help from my hairdresser. People tell me I’m beautiful, but I don’t really believe them because my mother never missed a chance to tell me that I was “average-looking” when I was growing up. She thought telling me I was pretty would spoil me.

My father was too busy chasing after other women to pay much attention to me. Before he left my mother for a younger woman when I was twelve, he would occasionally take me to movies and baseball games at Yankee Stadium. I adored him. I guess I’ve been looking for him ever since, through three marriages and countless love affairs.

My daughter and I have had some rocky times, probably because she felt neglected during her childhood. She didn’t talk to me for a long time, until last year when she asked me to collaborate on a book with her about the Gypsy Robe on Broadway, a tradition among chorus dancers where at the opening of every new musical in New York, the robe is passed on to the dancer who has appeared in the most shows on Broadway. I cherish my time with my daughter.

Gini and I unpacked in the bedroom we would share. I plopped down on one of the beds to test it. It had the kind of firm mattress I like. There was no dresser, just a stack of baskets to keep our things in. No closet either. We would have to hang our clothes in the closet by the entrance door to the apartment. The mirror was weird—sort of wavy and distorted—but I checked and there was a good one in the bathroom and a full-length mirror in the living room. Not great, but you can’t have everything.

I was grateful that I would be sharing a room with Gini. I like her. She always says what she means. That can be like a kick in the stomach at times, but I prefer her directness to Mary Louise’s attempt to find sunshine in every disaster that comes our way. I love Mary Louise dearly, just like I love our whole gang, but I need a rest from her sometimes.

Tina and Pat shared the other bedroom. It was almost as bare-bones as ours, but there was a dresser and a mirror that you could actually see yourself in. Tina gets along with everybody. That’s why she’s our leader. She’s the travel editor at a bridal magazine and is the most organized of all of us. She’s the best one to deal with Pat’s never-ending search for flaws in every situation. Pat’s philosophy is that if you find things that need to be fixed ahead of time and fix them, you’ll never have any problems. I don’t think life works like that. Half the time, disasters that you think are going to happen don’t happen, and even if they do, they’re never what you expected. They just land on you with a thump, and you figure out what to do then. You improvise. Maybe because I’m an actress, I’m pretty good at improvising.

It was ten in the morning in Paris, but my body clock was still back in New Jersey and set at four a.m. I was jet-lagged. I conked out on the twin bed in the room I shared with Gini. The last thing I saw before I drifted into sleep was the framed historic map of Paris hanging on the opposite wall. Oh, you beautiful city, I thought. For one week you are mine.

We woke up ravenously hungry and headed across the street to the Select café for omelets and coffee or tea—and hot chocolate for me. Paris bustled by us on this glorious morning in July.

“What time do we dance tonight, Tina?” I asked.

“At eight-thirty, but we have to check in at our bateau this morning and find out who’s in charge, what kind of music they have, what else we have to do,” she said.

Well-fed and fairly presentable-looking, we headed for the nearest Metro station. “Let’s get a carnet,” Gini said.

My French is limited to “oui,” “non,” “bonjour,” “combien?” and “Ou est la toilette?” so I asked Gini what a carnet was.

“A booklet of Metro tickets instead of one ticket at a time,” she said. “It’s much cheaper.”

We checked the map for the nearest stop to our boat, bought carnets, and jumped on the Metro car that had just arrived. It was a lot cleaner than the subways in New York, but then, what isn’t? It was also a lot easier to find our way because of the easy-to-follow maps everywhere in the system. I love New York, but the subway system could use a lot of help.

Our Bateau Mouche was anchored a short distance from our Metro stop. It was a long, sleek boat with glass windows all around the lower portion and an open deck at the top. Several other Bateaux Mouches were anchored in front of it. The river teemed with other sightseeing boats gliding by during the holiday week in Paris.

“Bonjour,” the woman behind the ticket desk said. “Je regrette, mais il n’y a pas un bateau cette après-midi.”

Even those of us who don’t speak much French understood that she was telling us there was no tour that afternoon.

Gini explained to her in French that we were looking for Henri Fouchet, the. . .