“Because nothing says civilized quite like discussing homicide over pastry,” I tease, even though I’m already mentally organizing our suspect list.
“We have three potential killers,” Ransom begins. “Claudette Sterling, the traditional marriage counselor with secrets worth killing for.”
“The woman’s entire career is built on values she was actively violating,” I add, remembering her husband’s devastating revelations. I already filled Bess and Nettie in on the scandalous gossip on the train. “Professional hypocrisy with a side of personal betrayal.”
“Then there’s Jazz,” Bess contributes, finally focusing on something other than her newfound romantic agenda. “The grieving friend who knows suspiciously specific details about medications and has convenient access to psychiatric drugs.”
“And Rex,” Nettie adds pointedly, shooting Bess a look that could strip paint from the Eiffel Tower. “The mysterious pilot with inside knowledge about everyone’s business and timing that’s either incredibly convenient or incredibly suspicious.”
A constellation of tiny red stars materializes over our croissants like supernatural seasoning, as Richard, our friendly ghost, makes his entrance looking sheepish, as if he’s been caught in a cosmic relationship debacle.
“Richard is here! Everyone hold hands,” I announce quickly, extending my palms before anyone can question my sanity. I’m sort of a conduit when it comes to others hearing clearly to the other side, and the threeof them know it.
“I owe you all an apology,” he begins, his ghostly voice carrying regret thick enough to spread on croissants. “For disappearing so abruptly when you mentioned Claudette. I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?” I ask gently.
“The affair,” he admits as his spectral cheeks flush with ethereal embarrassment. “It was foolish, but in truth, we were confiding in one another and comforting one another after our spouses embraced that lascivious lifestyle. Ironic, I know.” He turns his attention to Nettie and sheds a soft smile. “Nettie, your spirited energy reminds me of better times, when relationships were about genuine connection rather than alternative arrangements.”
Nettie practically glows under his supernatural attention, her cheeks turning approximately the same shade as her hot pink beret. “Why, Richard, you old charmer. Death certainly hasn’t dimmed your appreciation for a woman with vitality. Save a dance for me, would you? And maybe a few hot dates that center around margaritas.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Bess mutters. “We’re investigating a murder, not planning your afterlife dating calendar.”
“Says the woman who ditched us for a silver fox,” Nettie fires back. “At least my man can walk through walls—talk about convenient.”
I nod to Richard for him to continue.
“Claudette and I,” Richard gives a heavy sigh, his voice taking on the weight of a confession, “we were both betrayed spouses seeking comfort. It wasn’t love—it was survival. Two people watching their marriages dissolve into something unrecognizable.”
“So you found solace in each other’s arms,” Bess says with understanding because she’s recently discovered the complications of midlife romance herself.
“Until Lavender found out,” Richard says, his expression darkening. “That’s when things became dangerous.”
Before he can elaborate, a familiar voice cuts through our supernatural conversation like a thunder through a storm.
“There’s my beautiful Bessie!”
Rex Hartwell appears beside our table like a romantic hero who’s been personally delivered by central casting, his silver hair catchingthe Parisian afternoon light as he extends his hand to Bess in a gallant manner.
“Rex!” Bess practically levitates from her chair, and just like that, our ghostly conversation is immediately forgotten in favor of flesh-and-blood romantic possibilities.
“I finished my business early,” he says with a laugh. “How about if I steal you away for a private tour of the city?”
“I’ll see you back on the ship!” Bess calls over her shoulder as Rex escorts her away from our table like a pirate absconding with treasure. And Bess floats down the sidewalk without so much as a backward glance at our murder investigation.
“Well,” Nettie observes, watching our friend disappear into the Parisian crowd. “There goes our third musketeer again.”
She turns to Richard with bold confidence that would make women half her age jealous. “Richard, would you mind being my date? I’d love a ghost’s perspective on old Paris—even if I can’t hear a word you’re saying. I always did have a hankering for the strong, silent type.”
“My dear woman,” Richard replies with a gallantry of his own that somehow makes supernatural romance seem perfectly reasonable, “I would be honored to escort such a magnificent lady through the streets of the most romantic city in the world.”
“Catch you back on theQueen!” Nettie announces, linking arms with our resident spirit like she’s done this sort of supernatural thing before. They disappear into the crowd together—an eighty-something American tourist talking to her dead sort of boyfriend as they head off to see the sights.
“It’s going to get awkward when people start asking questions,” I say.
“Nettie will figure it out. She always does,” Ransom says with a curve of his lips as he reaches across the table and picks up my hand. “Looks like it’s just my beautiful bride and me. And I have ideas.”
“Whatever did you have in mind, Detective?” I ask, though the gleam in his eyes suggests I already know the answer.
