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"That is how he looked, Miranda, as if he wished he could kill me and have you all to himself. Oui. I remember." His face darkened. "You are not saying it was he who did this thing?"
"No. No, it wasn't him. But he came to the door, right after I found—right after I got in last night." She reached out, touched the tip of her finger to a scattering of crumbs on the table top. "In fact, when the bell rang, I thought it was you."
"Instead, it was this stranger?"
"Yes. His name's Conor O'Neil. He's American."
"And what does he want with you?"
"Well, he's a detective. He's working for my—for Eva."
"But why does she need the services of a detective? And why has he come to see you? Cherie, I am confused. Perhaps you had best start at the beginning and explain, yes?"
"Yes." Miranda's eyes met his. "Could we go someplace else? I thought it would be easy to talk here, but—"
Jean-Phillipe was already on his feet, draping her coat over her shoulders, pulling back her chair.
"We will go to my apartment," he said, and Miranda nodded, let him slip his arm protectively around her waist, and lead her away.
* * *
Jean-Phillipe lived in a handsome duplex with a wonderful view of the Luxembourg Gardens. By the time they reached it, Miranda had told him the entire story, not once but twice, and still he wasn't satisfied.
"You should have called the police," he said, as he flung their coats onto a curved leather sofa.
"No, I shouldn't," she answered wearily. She sank down on the sofa and leaned her head back against the cushions. "Would you want that kind of publicity? Well, neither do I. And what's the point? Nothing had been stolen. Besides, what could they have done?"
"There might have been clues."
She sighed, kicked off her boots and put her feet up on the low table that stood in front of the sofa.
"This isn't a movie script, Jean-Phillipe. Nobody left a telltale match book behind. Besides, if they had, O'Neil would have found it."
"O'Neil," Jean-Phillipe said, and scowled. "The man claimed to be a detective and you believed him, just like that."
"He showed me identification."
"I carried identification certifying that I was a gendarme during my last film. Did that make me one? Mon Dieu, did it not occur to you to telephone your mother and inquire about this man?"
"There's no reason to phone Eva." Miranda smiled tightly. "It's not her birthday, or mine."
"That is a poor attempt at humor, cherie, considering the situation."
"All right, maybe I should have called her. Maybe O'Neil's not what he claims he is. But he's not the person who ransacked my bedroom, I'm certain of it."
"There can be no mistake about what happened? You could not, perhaps, have left things in disorder?"
Miranda shook her head. "This wasn't disorder. It was mayhem. Whoever did this
wanted to be sure I knew it."
Jean-Phillipe came up behind her and lay his hands lightly on her shoulders. Gently, he began kneading the taut muscles.
"I am so sorry, cherie. If only I had gone upstairs with you..."
"Don't be silly. It wouldn't have changed anything." She let out a deep sigh. "Mmm," she said, letting her head droop forward, "that feels wonderful."
"I cannot imagine who would have done such a thing, or why."
