She nodded, ”Yes! Yes, right. Le meurtrier.”

His jaw dropped, and he mimed, with great amusement, shoving someone. Then he pretended to flail and fall, waving his hands and screaming, “Ahhhhhh!” Then he looked at her, a question on his face.

“Yes. That’s right. That’s the one. I was at the ball. And I know who did it.”

“Ah!” he said, and slammed so hard on the gas that Diana’s body went flying against the vinyl seat back. He swerved, just missing a crossing pedestrian as he barreled a hard right around a corner.

The rest of the trip went by in a blur, with all the sights out the window fading together like the paints from a watercolor left out in the rain. Diana dug her fingernails into the armrest and held on for dear life. The driver only stopped, and barely, when they reached the traffic outside the gate of the palace.

“This is good! I’ll get out here!” Diana said and swiped her card.

The man, who clearly wanted to be in on the action, let out a groan, but she’d already pushed open the door.

“Thank you!” she called, slamming the door and rushing up the drive.

Despite having been here a number of times, she’d forgotten how long the roadway was between the gates and the entrance to the palace. She ran as fast as she ever had, weaving around tourists stepping off of their buses. By the time she got to the main fountain in front of the palace, she had nearly run a half a mile, and she had a stitch in her side.

She climbed the steps and went inside to the ticket desk. “Hello. I need to speak to Monsieur Chevrolet, the concierge, please,” she said hurriedly.

The man behind the desk looked her over. “And who are you?”

Diana was about to answer when she noticed a man passing through the turnstiles at the other side of the vestibule. It was Chevrolet, and he was carrying a small satchel, kind of like a bowling bag. His eyes darted about for a moment like he was up to no good. What is he up to? she wondered, stepping away from the ticket desk and following him outside.

Once there, he started to pick up his pace. She tried to keep up—but was so out of breath from her jog that he quickly started to put distance between them.

Stopping, she shouted, breathless, “Monsieur Chevrolet!”

He stopped and turned, his eyes widening with surprise. She jogged up to meet him.

“Mon cher mademoiselle,” he said, much less enthused than he ever had been before. “What brings you here again? I hope you’re not trying to break into my office again?”

“No. Actually, I came to make sure you got the necklace back. And to see if you had any news about my wrap?” she asked.

“Yes. Everything’s great. We got the necklace back where it belongs. No harm, no foul,” he smiled in a way that seemed false. “Thank you for all your help.”