“At Château Clement.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.
“Yes.”
“Fabrice asked you to stay with him?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly, no. We made an arrangement: I have someplace to stay in exchange for walking his dog andcooking. And now I’m grocery shopping. I’m sort of an all-around Girl Friday.”
He looked nonplussed.
“He needs help, Jean-Paul, you know that,” Cady said in a quiet voice. “He’s a cranky old man but he’s on his own and shouldn’t be. He needs someone.”
“I realize that. It is why I came from Paris in the first place.”
“But it’s been a couple of days.”
“One full day.”
“Still.”
“I was picking up bread before going over there right now. We take our time; this is how we do it in our family. He has to get used to the idea of permitting me to help.”
“After you left that night I tried to go, too, but my tires were slashed, and it was raining. Fabrice allowed me to spend the night, and—”
“What do you mean, your tires were slashed?”
“Just what I said. I don’t know the wordslashedin French; do you know it in English? Like... cut?”
“Who would do something like that?”
“At first I thought I might be caught up in a movie plot. Like a newcomer’s tires are slashed so she has to stay at the creepy old château.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know, to be murdered... Sorry, I was making a joke, but I don’t think my humor translates across languages. My guess is a kid named Johnny, who apparently had a falling-out with Fabrice and has been vandalizing the place.”
He took a deep breath. “I’ll have a talk with his father.”
“No! No, please don’t. I have no proof, none, zero. It wouldn’t be fair to get the boy in trouble for something he may not have done. And anyway, he’s going to make it up to me—to Fabrice, I mean.”
“How’s he going to do that?”
“I’ll deal with it is my point.”
The old woman at the head of the line finally shuffled off with amassive bag full of baguettes, boules, and croissants, so Cady stepped up to the register and ordered apain au chocolat, two baguettes, and a large brioche.
“My cousin likespain de mie.”
Jean-Paul had moved up behind her as though they were together, placing one arm atop the glass case as he ordered thepain de mie. He stood close enough for Cady to inhale his scent: a slightly citrus musk. Talk about ambrosia.
“Also,” Jean-Paul said to Cady, “you aren’t allowed to leave town without trying the escargot. It is our custom.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m up for snails. Where I come from we step on snails; we don’t eat them.”
He scoffed. “You really must try true escargots before you leave France, but the escargot I am speaking of now is a pastry. You’ll thank me.”
Jean-Paul spoke rapidly in French and the baker’s wife handed Cady a coiled roll filled with pistachio and chocolate.
Jean-Paul insisted on paying for everything. “What is happening with your car?”
