She had passed the doors for Compu-Tech and Marie-Ange, Modiste, whatever that was, when she noticed the door to the cooking school was ajar. Good, she thought. Chef Larry must still be here. She called out his name and pushed the door open, but when she stepped inside, she found the classroom empty. It was a bit odd, she thought, but maybe Chef Larry was somewhere else in the building. Perhaps he was chatting up Marie-Ange, or shooting the breeze with the geeks at Compu-Tech, and hadn’t bothered to lock up. Lucky for her. She grabbed her umbrella, which was hanging on the coatrack, where she’d left it, and turned to go, catching a glimpse of a tray of spilled profiteroles on the floor in front of the counter Chef Larry used for his cooking demonstrations.

Taking a closer look, she noticed a trail of red splotches leading behind the counter. A trail, she realized, horrified, that must be blood. Okay, blood. The morning class was a pastry course, but maybe the afternoon class involved some sort of meat recipe, something like bœuf bourguignon. But even a very juicy package of beef wouldn’t produce this much blood, would it? She was already crossing the classroom, thinking she’d better investigate, just in case Chef Larry had accidentally cut himself while chopping up some meat or something. If he’d severed an artery, for instance, he would need immediate medical care.

But when she rounded the corner of the counter, she found Chef Larry was indeed bleeding, lying flat on his back in a growing pool of blood and smashed profiteroles, but he hadn’t accidentally cut himself. Not unless he’d plunged a knife into his own chest.

Lucy immediately began yelling for help, unsure what to do, but nobody seemed to be coming. She started one way and then another, shocked and panicked. At home she would call 9-1-1, but this wasn’t Maine. It was France. This was an emergency, she was yelling her head off, but where were all the other people in the building? She feared he was already dead, but then he groaned, and she realized she had to get help, fast. Looking frantically around the classroom, she noticed a phone on the wall. Beside it was a neat list of numbers: sapeurs-pompiers, médecin. . . . What to dial? The number twenty-five was large and printed in red, so she punched it in the keypad.

A bored voice answered, saying something she didn’t quite catch. “Un homme b-blessé,” she stammered, her voice quavering as she struggled to remember her high school French. “Vite! Vite! Beaucoup de sang!”

“Calmez-vous, madame,” replied the voice. “L’adresse?”

Lucy couldn’t remember the French words for numbers, so she gave the address in English, which didn’t seem to faze the dispatcher at all. “Please hurry! Dépêchez-vous! ” she pleaded. “I’m afraid he’ll die. He was stabbed with a knife.”