Murder. She shivered at the thought. For what reason? Why kill a professor? Or was there some shady business he was involved in?

Well, shady business other than pretending to be a count and hitting on women who weren’t his wife?

He couldn’t have taken the diamond, she decided as the taxi turned a corner and Notre Dame came into view, the gargoyles poised on the pedestals everywhere staring down at her, mocking her. She’d had the necklace on when she’d left him on the dance floor, and the next time she saw him, he was dead.

But maybe he’d been hoping to lure her out there—to charm it from her. Who knew? Maybe it was a conspiracy. Maybe the man who’d given it to her to wear was involved too.

The cab pulled up to the curb, and she swiped her card. “Merci beaucoup,” she said, stepping out and looking at the row of modest flats. Not nearly as nice as the stately homes in the neighborhood Stéphane had called home but pleasant and well-kept. There wasn’t a bit of garbage on the street or a broken window anywhere.

As she moved out of the shade of a willow tree planted at the curb, she checked up and down the street, half-expecting to see Inspector Clouseau with his magnifying glass raised to his eye surveying her every move. But the only thing she saw was an old woman, walking a teacup poodle down the sidewalk, and a couple of delivery men, struggling with a piano, a few doors down.

She checked the numbers, found the house that belonged to the Lachances, climbed the stout stone staircase, and rang the doorbell.

She saw movement inside beyond the gauzy curtains and, as she took a deep breath, readying herself to speak, realized she hadn’t thought of a story. Hi, I danced with your husband last night before he was murdered. Oh, and he invited me for a little tete-a-tete on the balcony, a little rendezvous, if you will. But don’t worry, he died before we could do anything that would jeopardize your marriage vows.

No, that probably wouldn’t go over too well.

But the door had already swung open and standing there was the same woman Diana had seen on the television. Though there were no tears in her eyes, they were bloodshot, her face ruddy. She blinked, a little confused, and her voice was barely audible. “Oui?”

A number of possible lead-ins had crashed into Diana’s head in the moments before the woman spoke. I can be her husband’s insurance broken? Collecting for charity? Home inspector? Selling magazine subscriptions? My car broke down, and I wondered if I could borrow your phone?

Nothing seemed to work, so she finally blurted, “Veronique?”

The woman nodded. She was wearing a big shapeless cardigan over a daintily flowered silky sundress, squeezing it closed at the throat in a slightly defensive posture. “Oui. Vous désirez?

Diana nearly choked. If she was going to pretend to be any of those things, she’d need more than the two years of conversational French she’d had in high school and the romantic phrases that Stéphane had uttered to her once a thousand years ago—that were now so embarrassingly etched in her head.