Lucy took a deep breath. This was embarrassing, for sure, but she knew there was no option but to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I looked around a bit,” she began, inwardly wincing as she recounted her foolish behavior. “His eyes opened. He asked me to call a friend for him, to ask Serge to pay him a visit. He gave me a phone number. Then a nurse came, and I left. That’s all. I didn’t do anything to Chef Larry. He was definitely alive when I left the room.”

“Where did you go after leaving the hospital?”

“I went to visit my daughter, who works at the Cavendish Hotel.”

“Mon Dieu! You walked all that way! Why, may I ask?”

“Well, because I recognized the number he gave me as the number for the hotel. I thought Elizabeth might know this Serge.”

“And did she?”

“Yes. I met him. His name is Serge d’Amboise, and he’s the assistant manager.”

“Did you tell him Larry wanted to see him?”

“Sort of. I said there was still a police guard, but perhaps in a few days he would be able to have visitors.”

“And his reaction to your suggestion?”

“Definitely noncommittal.”

“This is good information. Do you think he is the one who killed Monsieur Bruneau?”

“I certainly hope not,” said Lucy, finding it was one thing to harbor a vague suspicion and quite another to hear an official investigator voice it. She didn’t want to entertain the possibility that Elizabeth had stumbled into a ring of criminals and was working beside thieves and murderers.

“Are you certain it was murder?” asked Lucy. “Perhaps Larry simply took a turn for the worse.”

“I suppose that is possible, but unlikely,” said the proc. “We must wait for the medical examiner’s report.”

“Serge has a position of some responsibility at the Cavendish,” Lucy said, quickly adding, “But I can tell you that nobody in my group had anything at all to do with Chef Larry’s death. Nothing. We are simply tourists, nothing more. I understand your investigation has to be thorough, and I don’t mind that the police searched our apartment, but it would have been better if we had been notified and could have been present for the search. And I really don’t think they should have left it in such a mess.”

For the first time in the interview the proc showed a flicker of emotion. She furrowed her beautifully shaped brows, as if troubled. “But that is impossible,” she said. “I was just going to inform you of the necessity of a search and arrange a time.”

“Well, you can do it again, of course, but this time we’d really appreciate it if the searchers would leave things the way they found them. I mean, dumping bags of flour into the sink and spilling coffee all over the floor . . .”