Lucy felt uneasy when she and Elizabeth returned to the apartment, but she had to admit Elizabeth had a point. The place was tiny, really too small for two people to share. It had been built, she guessed, in the early 1900s as cheap housing for workers leaving the farms and coming to the city to work. An entire family, or perhaps even two, had probably once squeezed into the three small rooms, sharing a toilet on the landing.

As time passed, some improvements had been made, and a miniscule bathroom had been installed when the kitchen was remodeled, sometime in the 1950s. The previous tenant was an old lady who had moved in with her husband many years ago and had remained after his death. Sylvie had moved in when the old lady died, but she hadn’t made any changes apart from the addition of the cheap futon in the salon. The bulky oversize furniture, the mossy green walls, and the busy rug with its faded pattern of roses had all remained in place, along with some ugly green and black mod curtains, which had probably been hung in the swinging sixties.

“A coat of paint will make a big difference,” said Lucy, looking around. “A light color will make the rooms look much bigger.”

“I don’t know how much I can do. I have to check with the landlord,” said Elizabeth.

“Just getting rid of the curtains and this horror of a rug would be a start,” said Lucy. “What’s the bedroom like?”

“About like the salon,” said Elizabeth. “Dark and crowded.”

Elizabeth was right, thought Lucy, taking a good look at the huge armoire and the double bed with its ornate carved headboard and footboard. The bed was covered with a leopard-print duvet. Pulling it back revealed red satin sheets.

“Oh, my,” gasped Lucy. “The cops must have loved these.”

“I don’t think they searched very thoroughly,” said Elizabeth. “They certainly didn’t disturb anything.”

Lucy remembered a series of flashes, indicating the crime-scene investigators had taken photographs, but she had to agree that Sylvie’s room was quite neat and tidy. It must be the policy of the French police to leave things as they found them, she thought, recalling that they had done the same when they searched the friends’ apartment. And Girard had told Elizabeth the police had no further need to examine the apartment, and he’d given her the okay to return.

“Maybe we should get rid of these bedclothes,” suggested Lucy. “How can we pack them up for her parents?”

“Just fold them up and put them all in that hamper,” said Elizabeth, pointing to a wicker trunk in the corner. “If there’s one thing I know about French people, it’s that they keep track of their stuff. If the sheets are missing, there’ll be hell to pay. They’ll think I stole them.”