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see the place, Monsieur Friant. The perfect location, footage. . . .”
    The last thing Aimée wanted to do was look at real estate.
    “Something’s come up,” René said.
    “Go ahead, René,” she told him.
    The realtor sprang to the other side of the car. “Let me help you out, Mademoiselle. The puddles!”
    “I don’t think—”
    He handed her his oversized card with a smile, P. Boutarel—Immobilier imprinted on it. “Monsieur Friant told me he won’t make a decision without you.”
    “Not right now, Monsieur.”
    Exasperated, Monsieur Boutarel stepped back. “ Tiens, but I canceled another appointment to squeeze you in. I might even lose a sale.”
    Ready to shut the car door on the annoying real estate agent, she registered the disappointment on René’s face. Such bad timing. Yet he’d come through for her on countless occasions. She pushed her reluctance aside. “We’ll have a quick look.”
    Aimée followed René up the winding stairs bordered by a chipped curlicue ironwork banister. From the first floor she heard sewing machines and voices in a Slavic dialect and she smelled cooking oil.
    The third-floor double doors stood open; pewter light streamed onto a scuffed wooden plank floor. She stepped inside into a high-ceilinged series of rooms with carved woodwork, yellowed, turn-of-the-century floral wallpaper still visible in peeling tatters. Even with the period detail and grimy charm, the place looked like squatters had just vacated.
    “Imagine the possibilities. . . .” Monsieur Boutarel was saying.
    “I like the fiber optic lines installed next door,” René said.
    Aimée’s heels clicked on the wooden floor. She wished she hadn’t agreed to enter this abandoned place with the tang of leather hides emanating from it. Yves’s murder . . . right now she should. . . .
    “Aimée, are you all right?” René asked.
    She nodded, swallowing hard.
    “We’ll go in a minute. I’m sorry.”
    “What do you think, Mademoiselle?” Boutarel asked.
    “It’s large.”
    Too large. And dirty, and needed tons of work, if not total gutting, and new electrical wiring and plumbing.
    “Little happens in August, Monsieur Friant, as I mentioned on the phone. However, we’ve had two offers since yesterday,” he said, with a shrug. “I expect another this afternoon.”
    Typical real estate pressure . . . if you don’t make an offer. . . .
    “Serious offers?” René asked, his large green eyes gleaming even larger in the glow of the one hanging electric bulb. He was an astute businessman; she recalled the acumen he demonstrated dealing with clients who neglected to pay up. But she’d never seen him like this . . . displaying all the classic telltale signs of a coup de foudre , love at first sight.
    “It’s hard to say. But not many places come up for sale in this passage. The quartier’s booming, I don’t need to tell you that,” Boutarel said, his words echoing off the walls. “The ‘bones’ are good.” He gestured to the flaking plaster pillars. “Steel behind, eh, you can see that, a sound structure.”
    René was drinking it up. She imagined the wheels turning, calculating figures in his head.
    “You must excuse me. Now I must run or I’ll be late for my next appointment. Monsieur Friant, you come recommended.” He nudged René with an insider’s smile on his face.
    “Show Mademoiselle around, then leave the keys with the concierge. I know you’ve got a train to catch, but Mademoiselle Leduc . . . isn’t it?”
    She nodded.
    “Please revisit tomorrow, spend more time. Though I wouldn’t wait too long.”
    As he put on his suit jacket she noticed that he had a withered arm. And then he’d tucked the sleeve in his pocket and taken off down the stairs.
    “Just look out the back, Aimée. A quiet courtyard, room for a garden, think of the old stable for a garage,” René said.
    She stepped through the rooms with peeling wallpaper, single bulbs hanging from wires in the ceiling,