“He yells and screams, sure, but that’s just his style. He’s loud. My father was like that. A lot of bark but no bite.” She smiled at the memory, then raised an eyebrow. “I can tell you, I would rather have a man who gets it all out than some sneaky-Pete who goes around knocking at the neighbor’s back doors when I’m not looking.”

Lucy grinned mischievously. “And who does that?”

“Willie’s husband. What’s his name? Scratch. She maybe loves her horses a little too much because Scratch is definitely looking for love in lots of places.”

Lucy thought Scratch, who was a skinny string bean of a man with thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a stoop was an unlikely Lothario. “Really?”

Frankie was well on her way through her second glass of wine. “He came knocking on my door but I sent him on his way.” She made a little moue with her mouth. “He’s not my type. Too English. No fire.”

“He must have a few smoldering embers,” observed Lucy.

Frankie laughed. “Well, I think Mimi found a way to fan his flames, if you know what I mean.”

“Mimi?”

Frankie nodded.

“Do you think he killed Mimi?”

Frankie shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. He’s a vet, you know. He loves all the fuzzy little creatures.”

Lucy thought she was right. But what about his wife? “Does Willie know about this?”

“Sure. Why do you think she hates me so much? She knows Scratch would hop into bed with me if I gave him the least encouragement.”

“Did she know about Mimi?” asked Lucy, wondering if Willie might have been jealous enough to kill Mimi. If she had, it might explain her recent odd behavior.

“I think she must have. It’s a pretty small street, after all.” Frankie got up and removed the empty plates. “I have a bit of crème brulee left over from last night. Would you like some? And coffee?”

“Sure,” said Lucy, “why not?” If this was how Frenchwomen stayed slim, she was all for it.

When Lucy got home she wasn’t convinced the French diet really worked, not for Americans, anyway. Her pants felt tight and she could definitely use a nap. Libby seemed to sense her guilt, greeting her with a wagging tail and reproachful eyes.

“Okay, I admit it,” she told the Lab. “I had wine at lunch.”

The dog hung her head.

“And crème brulee.”