CHAPTER ONE
Lea Dubot reclined in the padded chesterfield, her head resting against the embroidered seams of swirling blue and white. Above her, a miniature chandelier dangled in the first-class compartment of the Normandie Express. She inhaled the soft odor of bourbon whose glass rested in the cup holder built into the tea table’s frame at her elbow. Every so often, her gaze flitted from the glass baubles of the chandeliers hung throughout the lounging compartment and darted toward the dining car of the train, visible just through the glass partition at the end of the long compartment.
The train itself moved with a surprising quiet—top of the line soundproofing and muffled gear mechanics, according to the mechanical engineering student who was in the room next to Lea’s. Normandie Express boasted a perfect blend of traditional comfort and modern amenities. On the inside of the car, it felt like something out of an old-fashioned movie, with a historic flair from the maps in the dining hall framed on the walls, to the tasseled throw pillows of pure cotton in the lounging area.
Across from Lea, an obviously wealthy lady was sipping from a steaming mug of some sort, muttering about the weather and causing the pearls encircling her neck to clack and shift as she fluffed her fur collar.
“Bonjour,” Lea said, nodding and smiling. The woman had to be three times her age, but it didn’t hurt to make conversation.
The rich older lady didn’t reply. Instead, she turned slowly, her features moving like molasses finally settling in a pan. She inched a nearly nonexistent eyebrow up over a well-wrinkled eye, and then turned once again to peer out the window displaying French countryside to the north—mostly soft hills, green flatland, and a coastal vision of the English channel.
“It’s a new train, you know,” Lea said, quoting the engineering student again if only to make an impression. “It just looks old.”
The woman sighed as if she couldn’t quite be bothered to spare words, but managed to eke out, “Quite,” in a creaking voice like an old chestnut cabinet. Then she turned away again and Lea was left sitting in silence.
Lea sighed, but tried not to take it too personally. She had known it would take a day or two to make friends on the cross-country trip along Northern France into West Germany, then through Poland and Romania. Perhaps the engineering student was still back in the sleeping compartment.
She got to her feet, again surprised at how steady her stance was beneath her. She’d been on trains before, but never one this smooth. The floor itself was even carpeted with a Turkish rug.
She sent a forced little smile toward the standoffish older woman, then began to move toward the dining car, which would lead to the sleeping compartment. She pushed a hand against the door, but before she could press through, it swung inward, toward her, nearly knocking her from her feet.
“Sorry,” came the flustered, muttered voice of a man in a black raincoat. He dipped his head apologetically, and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes as he hurried past her.
She caught her balance against an ornamental trim circling the windows, and then, adjusting her sweater and shooting a reproachful glance back toward the woman who’d ignored her and the man who’d nearly bowled her over, she marched, chin high, through the compartment into the dining hall.
The ornate, hand-carved oak furniture alone would have been spectacle enough, but what really did it was the row after row of immaculate china—now set in a locked glass cabinet pressed to the far wall, but brought out for every mealtime.
Lea smiled as she moved along, nodding to a young Swedish couple from business class who were sitting in the dining car with one of their college-age friends.
As she maneuvered through the dining car, though, Lea froze, barely resisting the urge to curse. Her hand darted toward her elbow on instinct, feeling for the strap of her small clutch purse. Nothing. She glanced down and confirmed.
“Merde,” she muttered, quiet enough so the others couldn’t hear. She did an about-face, then marched back toward the compartment she’d just left to retrieve her forgotten belongings.
As she moved along, pushing back through the glass partition into the lounging area, she frowned. The old woman was still sitting in her pearls and silks on the chesterfield facing the largest window. But the man in the black raincoat had somehow vanished. She peered past the woman toward one of the windows, now open and letting a breeze through, accompanied by the chugging sound of the train.
Leah shook her head and moved to where she spotted her small brown purse resting against the arm of one of the recliners. She winced apologetically at the older woman, as if expecting her to sigh in frustration at the return of a nuisance.
But as Lea neared, the woman in question looked anything but annoyed.
The older woman’s eyes were bugged; in one hand she gripped the coffee mug she’d been sipping. A second later, the mug fell, smashing on the ground and sending steaming liquid and fragments of porcelain every which way.
Leah blinked, her heart jarred, and she stammered, “Are you okay?”
And then, as if jolted by electricity, the older woman catapulted forward, lunging, as if spasming from the seat. She didn’t make it far as her frail legs didn’t have the strength, but one hand reached out, grasping desperately toward Leah. The older woman’s fingers scrambled against Leah’s arm, desperately trying to grip her, and Leah let out a soft scream.
The woman’s mouth was half open, her eyes gaping like those of a fish.
“Oh,” the older woman said. And then her hand, which had been pressing against Leah’s, fell and pushed to her chest. “Oh,” she repeated. And then she keeled over, collapsing to the ground, foaming from the mouth, and after shaking another couple of times, the older woman fell still, her circlet of pearls stained by strands of vomit.
Leah stared for a moment longer, and then, as if suddenly plunged into icy water, the reality of the situation struck her. She raised her voice, and at the top of her lungs, screamed in the old-fashioned train car, her clutch purse momentarily forgotten where it sat against the armrest.
CHAPTER TWO
“So what did you want to tell me?” said the Sergeant, raising a thick eyebrow and running a finger through his walrus mustache. Adele’s father was wearing his trademark white T-shirt instead of a proper sweater. At least this time they weren’t in the Alps, testing his ability to stave off the nip of cold on willpower alone.
Now, though, a familiar frown had crossed the Sergeant’s countenance.
Adele wasn’t sure if her father was more frustrated with returning to France, or because he’d traveled overnight at her insistent request. Now, in Adele’s apartment, standing next to the large floor-to-ceiling window that led onto the small terrace and overlooked the city of Paris, Adele wasn’t sure where to start.
Her own mind whirred, spinning in frustration at how she might broach the news. He wouldn’t take it well. One way or another, she knew her father, and he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. But what else was there to do except tell him?
“We came across Mom’s killer,” Adele murmured, slowly.
Her father’s single carry-on item of luggage rested by his feet. He hadn’t even had time to take a shower since arriving from the airport as he’d only been in her apartment for about ten minutes. But that was the way of things in the Sharp household. Straight to the point. Without much room for undertakings of affection or connection.