Monday, March 18, 2013

Miss Savannah's Secret

       Isabelle watched as Michael stepped up to the wall and then closer to Charlotte’s photographs.  After a moment, he adjusted the masking tape to straighten out the one of the black and white checked shoes.  “There,” he said.  “Better.”

            Charlotte smiled and sighed.  “Thank you,” she told him, with her southern drawl.
            “I like that one,” Isabelle said, not because she really did, but because she thought she ought to remind them that there was another person in the room, and plus she thought she should lay down a laurel branch.  Although she didn’t really know why.  It wasn’t like they were in a battle over Michael.  Or were they?
            Michael smiled at her and was about to say something like oh, are you still here, Mademoiselle Eeesabelle? Although, that was just her imagination.  Thank goodness, Lucy walked in the door at this moment, carrying a half-eaten baguette, trailing bread crumbs behind her and looking particularly discombobuled, even for dear Lucy. 

            “Have you seen Trish?” she demanded, holding up the baguette as if it were a sword and was prepared to go to battle to rescue her friend.  “Isabelle, she never came home last night.”
            Isabelle pulled Lucy away from Michael and the girl from Savannah Art and Design.  There was no reason for them to hear about their wayward friend.  Plus, the rest of the class was beginning to filter into the room.  “I’m sure she’s just had a little adventure.  She’ll be back.”
            “But that man,” Lucy pleaded.
            “The Veuve Clicquot guy?”

            “Yes,” Lucy whispered, trying to lower her voice, but not doing a very good job of it.
            “Well, I don’t know.”  Lucy took a big bite of her baguette, as if bread would comfort her.  “Maybe he kidnapped her!  Maybe she’s on a ship right now, headed out of the Port de Marseilles for who-knows-where!”
            Isabelle grabbed Lucy’s arm and squeezed just a bit, to quiet her.  “Stop it, now,” she told her friend, and then gently released Lucy’s arm.  “Trish can take care of herself.  Come on.  She’s a big girl.  She’s twenty-eight!”
            “She’s only twenty-eight!”
            “Lucy,” Isabelle said, using her stern, mother-knows-best voice.  “She knows zumba.”
            “How’s that going to help!?”
            “Well, she’s strong.  And she’s can kick.  That’s something, isn’t it?”
            Lucy didn’t seem at all comforted by this thought, but before Isabelle could say anything, Miss Savannah interrupted with a kind of cat that ate the canary smile.  “Is she the girl in the Betsy Johnson frock?" she asked, referring to the hot pink sequin number Trish had worn to Le Cave, the night before.

     Miss Savannah smiled slightly.  "I know exactly where your friend, Trish, is.  I was with her last night,” and then she paused for effect.  “Along with your Monsieur Veuve Clicquot!”
To be continued....
P.S.  How is it that Miss Savannah knows where Trish was last night?  Any suggestions?


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