Diana grabbed the remote and turned on the television. She flipped through the offerings, mostly cheesy Lifetime movies and Nickelodeon cartoons, all dubbed in French, until she came to the news. Sure enough, Versailles was featured front-and-center, the lead story of the morning. She saw the beautiful gardens she’d been walking through, and then a man began to speak in French. With some difficulty, she translated: “Murder and intrigue at the Versailles yearly costume ball, which is held on the summer solstice every year. It appears a man fell to his death from a balcony, and the priceless Madame Royale diamond, worn by Marie Antoinette’s daughter, is missing. It is not known whether foul play is suspected. Police have not named any suspects and investigations are ongoing.”

Diana winced as a picture of the gorgeous necklace appeared on the screen.

How could she have lost that? Was there foul play? She still didn’t know, but if there wasn’t, that was a big coincidence. All she knew was that they’d asked her about a million questions last night, most of them on repeat, and the whole time they mapped out her movements, they regarded her like the top suspect in both crimes. By the time she’d gotten back to the hotel, it’d been well after one in the morning, and she’d fallen into bed dead asleep almost the second she walked through the door.

She flipped through to another news channel, where she saw the familiar face of Inspector Clouseau. His real name, of course, Lieutenant Pierre Bayans, was on the bottom of the screen in a red ticker as he said, in French, “Yes, we were brought to the scene at just after nine in the evening after receiving reports of a dead man on the grounds of Versailles. He unfortunately fell from a balcony some twenty feet above the stone patio, and we’re looking into whether this was intentional and interviewing possible witnesses. We are also investigating the strong possibility that the death of this individual is connected to the disappearance of the necklace.”

Diana shivered. Strong possibility. There was nothing, really, that connected the two suspicious activities at all.

Nothing, that is, except her.

That thought tangled her stomach, making it rumble. She realized she was probably just hungry since she hadn’t eaten anything from that sumptuous buffet at Versailles, so she picked up her phone and grabbed the room service menu.

She wanted to order one of everything, since she was feeling that miserable, but instead, when the attendant answered, she said, “Yes, can I please have a large carafe of coffee, and I don’t know . . . do you have crepes?”

“For breakfast? Never! I’m sorry, Mme St. James, but crepes are not on our breakfast menu. We offer them for lunch and dinner—as a dessert.”

She sighed. Now that she knew she couldn’t have them, she wanted them more than ever. “Is there any way to bend the rules a bit, maybe?” She checked the clock. “It is almost eleven, after all?”