Chapters (24)
- Books by Leslie Meier
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Copyright Page
“Because I don’t think she’d be very happy about renting to people who are under suspicion,” said Lucy.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Rachel. “We’re not under suspicion, for one thing. And she’s really quite nice. She’s a terrific knitter. She was working on an adorable little sweater for her dog. His name is Gounod, and he’s very cute.”
“And what did she say about the apartment?” asked Bob, intent on getting his wife back on track.
“Oh, she said she’d ask the owner,” said Rachel, smiling at the waiter who was setting a steaming plate of cervelles en matelote in front of her.
“Ohmigosh,” said Sue, laughing. “Do you know what that is?”
“Whatever it is, it’s quite good,” said Rachel after she’d swallowed a crusty mouthful.
Sue took a moment to spear a green bean. “They’re brains, sweetie. Brainsss.”
“How offal,” said Pam, unable to resist the joke and giggling at her own cleverness.
“No, really, they’re very good. Anyone want a taste?”
Bill was the only one who was game, agreeing with Rachel that the dish was delicious. “Maybe I’ll have them tomorrow,” he said, “if we eat here again.”
“Norah also said we shouldn’t let this get us down,” said Sue. “She said we should enjoy ourselves while we’re here. So I say, if we don’t get a summons tomorrow, let’s head out to Versailles.”
“I’m beginning to think Marie Antoinette was misunderstood,” said Lucy.
“She was a victim of circumstance, caught up in events she couldn’t control,” said Bob, sighing. “Just like us.”
But the next morning, as they got off the Métro at the Gare d’Austerlitz stop, Lucy felt quite cheerful. Perhaps it was just the fact that they were doing something and going somewhere. It was hard to get too depressed, she thought, standing in line at the ticket counter, when you were in France and on your way to see Versailles, with its Hall of Mirrors and fabulous gardens.
“Château de Versailles,” she told the man at the ticket window, feeling a bit more comfortable with her mastery of French. “Deux billets pour aller et retour,” she added, specifying two round-trip tickets. When he responded with the rapid-fire speech that she still found incomprehensible, she simply handed over her credit card.