Read Murder in the Rue De Paradis for Free Online Page A

doors leaning from broken hinges. Below spread a vast weed-choked cobbled courtyard littered with a rusted bicycle and piles of rotted wood. A lifetime project, as far she could see. Bordering the courtyard wall stood soot-stained sculpted lions’ heads adorning the front of the adjoining hôtel particulier . A jewel in a state of exquisite decay.
    “We could carve out several work areas, there’s so much room.”
    True. To the right was a wing with more dilapidated rooms holding the scent of mold. She had to choose her words with care. Extreme care. Living in a one-room studio, René dreamed of space. But she lived in a cavernous 17th-century hôtel parti-culier and faced the daily headache of ancient plumbing.
    “Full of charm and possiblities, I agree,” she said.
    He rocked on the heels of his handmade Italian loafers. “You don’t like it.”
    “Liking it doesn’t matter, René,” she said. “It’s my bank balance that counts. I still owe my own contractor.”
    When last heard from, her contractor was on vacation in St. Bart’s.
    “How can I commit to another contractor?”
    “That’s the reason for my trip,” he said. “My mother’s sold property, she wants to help me buy something in Paris.”
    Another bill, another commitment she couldn’t deal with. Or did René envision going off on his own? Someday, with his talent and skill, she feared he would. Yet she couldn’t face throwing obstacles in his way.
    “Think about it. I did a little groundwork.” He handed her a sheaf of papers with calculations and contractors,’ plumbers,’ and electricians’ estimates.
    Aimée shrugged.
    In the narrow passage below, puddled with rain, bright sun rays parted the clouds.
    René took a large step to avoid a puddle. He almost made it. A chocolate-gray spray splashed his cream-colored linen-clad calf. “ Merde! Just had them dry-cleaned.”
    A late model Jaguar pulled up, the strain of Senegalese hip-hop vibrating from its open window. A woman climbed out of the car, her head shaved except for the strip of rainbow dreadlocks arranged in a mohawk descending to her shoulders. She flicked a thin brown cigarillo onto the pavement, ground it out with the heel of her red platform boot, and gave them a sidelong glance before clomping through the doorway.
    “Interesting neighbors, René.”
    “ I’ LL CHANGE MY tickets, Aimée, and go later. . . .” René said. “You need some support.”
    “And miss your trip?” She managed a smile. René had planned this for months. “ Non , René, I won’t let you do that.”
    René idled the Citroën in front of the Gare du Nord’s columned front near the taxi rank. In the era of split vacations, half in July, half in August, those Parisians who’d left were returning and those who hadn’t were now leaving. In the crosswalk, couples pulled roller suitcases and dragged protesting small toddlers.
    “Hurry, René, or you’ll miss your train,” she said. Somehow she’d manage.
    He hesitated. “Will you talk to the Brigade?”
    She nodded. “Something’s way off, wrong.”
    “I’m sorry, Aimée . . . you’re in shock. Promise me you’ll go home and rest.”
    As if she could. Yet after the disbelief, the shock, a drifting numbness was taking over. Maybe René was right.
    “How well did you know him?” René said.
    “I slept with him last night, René, for God’s sake,” she said. “He asked me to marry him.”
    René blinked.
    “I mean really know him, Aimée.”
    She knew his scent, the tan birthmark behind his knee, the way his lopsided smile erupted into a grin.
    “He’d been in Cairo more than a year . . . I don’t know how to say this any way but the wrong way.” René averted his eyes, tongue tied. “What if Yves had another life?”
    “And went both ways?” Her voice rose.
    “Did I say that?” René’s eyes clouded.
    “You don’t have to,” she said, and hit the steering wheel. ”You sound like Maillol, implying—”
    “I’m saying