“Well, I didn’t get to talk to Lapointe this time. Instead, they sent me to see his boss, the proc. She was a really scary woman. She didn’t throw me in jail, but I think she would have liked to,” said Lucy, unwilling to confess that the police knew she’d gone to the hospital to see Chef Larry. She sat down on the other sofa, slipping out of her plaid coat. “But get this. It wasn’t the police who searched the apartment.”

Bill swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. “Who was it, then?”

“I don’t know, but probably somebody involved in the murder, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Bill.

“It only came to light when the proc wanted to arrange a search and I said it had already been done.”

“So the police are going to search again?”

“Well, not again. This will be the first time for the cops, but another search. We can be here and observe this time. It’s set for three o’clock tomorrow.”

“This sucks,” said Bill, clicking off the TV with the remote. “And you know what? The game’s over, and the score is nil. That means nobody scored. Nobody. What kind of sport is that? I ask you. Like they never heard of sudden death overtime?”

“No more talk of death,” said Lucy. “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

“My interview isn’t until five o’clock, so in the meantime, let’s forget all this,” said Bill, pulling her to her feet and wrapping his arms around her. “Let’s wander where we will and see where we end up.”

“We’ll be flaneurs,” she said, causing Bill to adopt his Groucho Marx impression.

“Speak for yourself,” he said, waggling his eyebrows and pretending to tap ash from a cigar.

It was corny, but Lucy found herself laughing as they left the apartment, practically skipping down the stairs.

Water presented an irresistible attraction to these homesick Mainers, and Lucy and Bill soon found themselves walking once again on the quais that bordered the Seine. It was a gray day, but not dark, and the soft light gave a monochromatic hue to the cityscape. The river streamed by, lapping at the stone quais, offering changing patterns of light and dark. It was also a surprisingly busy thoroughfare, and they watched with interest as bateaux-mouches and tugboats and barges all chugged by. They passed the Louvre and wandered on into the Jardin des Tuileries, buying sandwiches and drinks from a snack bar for lunch. They ate at an outside table, watching the passing parade, mostly old people, young children with caretakers, and the inevitable tourists.

“The Orangerie is just over there,” said Lucy. “It has Monet’s water lily paintings. I’ve always wanted to see them.”

“Okay,” said Bill, draining his glass of beer and getting to his feet. “I’m game.”