"And, Lyle, I know I don't have to tel you Dr. Brennan's name. We cal her Tempe. That's with the long 'e' at the end. People do have trouble with that."

When I al owed Crease to take my hand, he leaned close and kissed me first on the right cheek, then on the left, in traditional Quebec fashion. I stepped back and mumbled something I hoped he'd interpret as cool but polite.

Isabel e introduced Crease to the others, and he shook hands with the men and kissed the ladies. Then she raised her champagne glass in Kit's direction.

"I think in honor of this handsome young Texan, tonight we should al practice our English."

Glasses shot up as everyone cheerful y agreed. Kit looked enormously relieved.

"May I help you with dinner?" I asked in frosty English, eager to get Isabel e alone to share some thoughts with her.

"No, no. Everything is ready. Please, everyone, come to the table. There are little cards beside each plate."

Shit.

Isabel e retreated to the kitchen while the rest of us gathered around to ascertain the seating arrangement. As I'd suspected, I was next to Crease. Kit was on my right.

There were seven in al . An elderly actor sat on Kit's other side. I'd met him on a previous occasion, but couldn't remember his name and hadn't caught it when introduced. I was unfamiliar with the other two guests. It turned out they were a couple, the wife an antiques dealer, the husband a film producer.

We made smal talk as Isabel e shuttled plates from the kitchen. The actor had just finished a run as Polonius in a French production of Hamlet at the Theatre du Rideau Vert. Crease recounted his most recent assignment. The story concerned a sixteen-year-old hacker who had broken into an U.S. Army network, then phoned the RCMP wanting to be caught.

"The kid wanted recognition," said the actor.

"He could have tried out for footbal ," my nephew offered.

Not bad, Kit.

"And what have you two been up to?" Isabel e asked the couple as she circled the table pouring wine.

When she came to Kit she paused and looked at me. I nodded. What the hel . He was legal in Quebec and I was driving. Kit accepted with enthusiasm.

The producer's name was Claude-Henri Brault. He'd just returned from a three-month shoot in Ireland. His wife, Marie-Claire, ran a shop in Old Montreal and had spent the time buying antiques in Provence. She rambled on about the kingdom of Aries, the Angevin dynasty, and at least a dozen Louis, describing how each had changed the face of the furniture industry Between bites of veal I stole peeks at Lyle Crease. His hair and teeth were flawless, his creases as sharp as I remembered. The only imperfection I spotted was a sprinkling of dandruff across his col ar.