Murder Carte Blanche by Kiernan-Lewis Susan

Author:Kiernan-Lewis, Susan [Kiernan-Lewis, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Google: yAbmEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B0BXFDF7TS
Publisher: Susan Kiernan-Lewis
Published: 2023-11-28T17:46:50+00:00

27

The French still eat much later than I was used to, so by the time we finally sat down to dinner, Robbie had wound down a little. But just a little. He was still able to chat a mile a minute about his day at school, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness to tell me everything.

After wolfing her own dinner down, Izzy was parked in her usual spot next to Robbie’s chair in hopes of an accidental or deliberate drop of something from his plate. Jean-Marc and I discouraged the habit, but we also tried not to see it, too.

“You’re still coming to my pageant, right, Grammy?” Robbie asked me earnestly.

“Yes, of course, sweetheart,” I said. “Jean-Marc and I will both be there. Do you want Mémé to come?”

“I already asked her, and she can’t,” he said. “But I said you’d take pictures.”

I glanced at Jean-Marc who smiled but it was one of those annoyingly enigmatic smiles he sometimes gives. Frankly, he specializes in them, and I have to say I don’t really care for them.

After finishing his meal and asking to be excused, Robbie went to the living room to watch television, allowing Jean-Marc and me a few minutes of adults-only dinner time. Normally, we spend the time discussing our case load. I have to say, working with Jean-Marc is as engaging and fun as I’d expected. We always have something to talk about even on those evenings when one of us isn’t really in the mood to talk.

“So, how did the Peterson stakeout go?” I asked as I reached for my wine glass.

“She showed up with her lover,” Jean-Marc said with a shrug.

“You got the pictures?”

“I did. I’ll send them to the client tonight and invoice him tomorrow.”

I couldn’t help but notice that Jean-Marc was a tad more taciturn than usual this evening. He’s typically laconic and unless we’re talking about work, it’s often difficult to get much conversation out of him. Tonight, even work-related topics seemed to require tooth-pulling.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly. “How is the catacombs case going?”

I was surprised he asked. I’d gotten the impression he was unhappy that I took it on—especially since we didn’t have anything in writing about how we would be paid for my time.

“Well, I went back to the residence of my main suspect,” I said.

“That is the husband?”

“Yeah, and then I talked to the two other surviving members of the book club. Turns out they both slept with him—the victim’s husband. One of them still is.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it? Seriously, Jean-Marc, do you know what his alibi is?”

Because of his connection to the Paris police, Jean-Marc was often able to get proprietary information on the cases we worked.

“As I understand it,” Jean-Marc said, glancing into the living room and dropping his voice, “Monsieur Highcastle said he was at work all day after the altercation with his wife on avenue du General Leclerc.”

“Did the cops confirm that? I mean before they arrested Judy for Bethany’s murder?”

“I don’t know, chérie.

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