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at the reception desk. And, Jason, I have the most amazing story to tell you. When I got here—”
    “Carolyn, it will have to wait until later. If you’re to make it to the restaurant by eight—”
    “Oh, all right, Jason. I’ll start getting ready. Did you mean formal, as in long dress and—”
    “No, no. But the men will be wearing suits. See you at eight, love. I’ll let you go now.” I hung up before she could tell me that she didn’t like the hotel. She’d had her doubts when I made the reservation, so I assumed her story was about the Charlemagne’s deficiencies. At least I could count on her enjoying the dinner. Carolyn always responds happily to new culinary experiences.
    I’d had my doubts when she became a food writer, mainly because she grew more interested in eating out than in cooking at home, but her new occupation did avert the onset of empty-nest syndrome when our youngest left for college. Carolyn even makes some money with her writing hobby, not to mention the tax advantages. What man could object when his wife was able to deduct all her travel expenses? We ate in restaurants we could never have afforded before.

Carolyn
    Our replacement room was much like the first, same décor, same leafy trees outside, and the bed was luxuriously comfortable. I’d slept soundly until Jason called. I hadn’t even showered or unpacked before falling into bed. Consequently, I didn’t discover the drawbacks of the bathroom facilities until I began to prepare for dinner. On one side of the hall off the bedroom were a small closet and a room holding a toilet, bidet, and sink. On the other side were another closet and another room with a skimpy, curtained shower and another sink. It had looked fine on my brief visit before going to bed.
    When I actually used the shower, I discovered the problems. While turned on, it sprayed everything in the room—the sink, the shelf for cosmetics above the sink, the towels, the bath mat, the wastebasket under the sink, even the wall socket into which one could plug a razor if one had a razor that worked on French current and was unconcerned with the danger of being electrocuted.
    Imagine stepping from the shower onto a wet tile floor and soggy bath mat, then trying to dry off with a damp towel. I left footprints across to the other half of the bath, and then down the hall into the bedroom, where the telephone began to ring while I was donning my robe. If Jason was calling to hurry me up, I had a thing or two to tell him that couldn’t be said at the dinner table.
    “Madam Blue,” said a French-accented voice. “This is Inspector Theodore Roux. I have very strange news for you.”
    What now? I wondered, sitting down in the orange chair.
    “The man you found in your room. It seems that he is not deceased, as we thought.”
    “But Doctor Petit declared him dead! They carried him out in a body bag.”
    “That is true, madam, but our good doctor was so curious about the case that he scheduled Monsieur Levasseur for immediate autopsy.”
    I shuddered, loath to hear what came next. Something ghoulish seemed likely.
    “Most embarrassing. After all, the gentleman had no signs of life until Doctor Petit made the first cut. You may not be familiar with the practices of autopsy—”
    “Nor is it something I really want described to me.”
    “And I do not wish to upset you, madam. To make short my story, Monsieur Levasseur, upon being cut with the dissecting knife, bled. The dead man does not bleed. Certainly not several hours after being declared dead. Doctor Petit and his assistant were horrified.”
    “I should think,” I replied weakly, wondering how many more bizarre happenings I was to encounter on my first day in Lyon. “What did they do?”
    “They cancelled the autopsy and checked again for signs of life. There were none. Then they bandaged the cut and sent Monsieur Levasseur to the hospital, where he is being examined. We will hear when anything is