Read Online French Fried by NANCY FAIRBANKS - Free Book Online

the circle, jumped the curb, forced him into the recessed doorway, and injured the dog before speeding off without stopping to offer aid.
    How terrifying it must have been. I wondered if I could have jumped out of the way as Jason had. Probably not. But then I wouldn’t have been running up and down the street at dawn. “You’re going to have to give up exercise, Jason, until we’re home. Or at least until the inspector catches the culprit.”
    “Can you describe the car or the driver? Did you see the license plate, Professor?” asked Inspector Roux.
    “Lord, man, I was knocked down in the entry way with the dog on top of me. I couldn’t see the license plate. The car was black. The driver looked tall and was wearing a soft cap with a bill. A man. I had less than a minute to look and get out of the way.”
    Inspector Roux sighed. “Not much information. Perhaps Doctor Petit will discover what killed your friend, and we can find the murderer in that way.”
    “If there is one,” Jason replied.
    “There is. Lyon pâté does not kill. Lyon drivers do not run down tourists. Perhaps the murderer is from Paris.”
    I had to stifle a giggle. Everything bad came from Paris according to the inspector.
    “Happily the dog will recover. It has a cut on the leg, so there may be blood on the car, but how will we find the car? Are you much hurt, Professor?”
    “A bruised knee,” said Jason.
    At that moment the owner came in carrying Henri, followed by the fat veterinarian. “Henri thanks you, monsieur, for bring him to safety.” He leaned down, and Henri, tail wagging behind his owner’s arm, licked Jason on the nose. Then the vet shook Jason’s hand and informed him, through translation, that he had a better opinion of Americans for having met Jason.
    I went to the buffet for another kiwi. They were so good. If I stayed alive long enough, maybe I’d write a column on kiwis, New Zealand’s gift to fruit lovers. Actually, France grows its own, and the average Frenchman eats three pounds a year. That’s a lot of kiwis.
     
    I couldn’t believe it. How many people decide to commit murder and fail twice? Twice! First I killed Robert. Then I waited two hours to spot Jason Blue, and what did I accomplish? I missed him and injured a dog. But I’m not done. I need a new plan, one that won’t fail.

12
    Sylvie’s Suspects

Carolyn
    Jason dropped me at the chairman’s office, where Professor Laurent was absent, but his secretary, Mademoiselle Zoe Thomas sat at her contemporary black and silver desk, her fingers flying over her keyboard and a telephone tucked under her chin, while she spoke rapid-fire French. I dropped into a black chair with a fan back and a hard seat, wondering if these contemporary designers ever tried sitting in their creations. The office looked very smart, but not very welcoming.
    The secretary, on the other hand, was a pretty woman with curly brown hair, her face and figure softly curved, not as fashionable as the gaunt Victoire Laurent, or as chic as the décor of the office. Perhaps the chairman had chosen Mademoiselle Thomas for her gently feminine appearance as well as her typing skills.
    She replaced the telephone and addressed me in French, to which I replied apologetically in English. “No necessity for apologies. The English is easier to understand than the French of Americans. You are Madam Blue, yes? Who has asked about pâté? It did not come from our department. No pâté ordered by me would sicken or kill. But if the pâté is innocent in the death of our Robert, then you and Professor Blue missed a treat.”
    “Maybe someone else in the department sent it to us. Can you think of—”
    “Perhaps the Guillots, but they were to meet you at the airport, so why send the gift? And they are gone. No, I think it was a mistake. You will find that Robert died of something else. America is such a violent country. But do not fret, madam. You are safe here.”
    I was going to tell her about the