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Daisy flipped through her notes. “What about the others? Anyone else that you could remember him being with?”
“Just the regular people he was usually with.”
Something suddenly occurred to her. Daisy found what she was looking for in her notes. “Do you know a Lionel . . . a Mooch? Apparently they went with him and stayed on here in Lyon because they live here. It’s possible that he went to one of their homes.”
“Oh, yes. Of course I know where one of them lives, at least. Monsieur Mousette is his real name. He has a flat not far from here, but he’s rarely in it because he travels so much. I can give you the address?”
Daisy sighed. The rich were definitely slippery, with their busy schedules. But maybe, luck would be on her side. “Yes, please.”
She set her tray down, pulled out her pad, and scribbled a few lines, which she tore off and passed to Daisy. “Here it is. It’s the big building on the corner, just a block from here. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
Daisy went outside and followed her GPS to the address. As the waitress promised, the place was only about a quarter-mile away, and it was a pleasant walk along the river. When she climbed the steps, she was surprised to find the door open, and a sign at the elevator with the names of the occupants of each apartment. There was no security or doorman. This person known as “Mooch” was on the fourth floor.
She took the elevator up to a small lobby, with a single door. When she knocked, a voice called that she couldn’t hear clearly, and then the door opened to a middle-aged man with glasses and gray hair that curled around his ears, giving him the appearance of a koala bear. He was dressed casually in a button-down shirt, untucked, jeans, and loafers, and was cradling a small laptop in his arm. He stared at her expectantly.
“Mr. Mousette?”
He spoke in an American accent. “Yeah, I don’t buy anything from door-to-door . . . did you see the sign in the window downstairs? No soliciting?”
“I’m not here to sell you anything. I’m a private eye, who was hired by Goldie Tate. You were traveling with Franklin Tate four days ago?”
“Yes . . .” he said tentatively. “What’s old Goldie want with her ex?”
“She wants to help him. Well, as much as he can be helped, now. I’m sorry to report that when he returned to Venice after your trip, he was found dead on the plane.”
His eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Mr. Mousette, I—”
“Mooch. Everyone calls me Mooch,” he said, motioning her in. “Come and sit down. Can I get you anything?”
“Uh, no,” she fumbled a response, a little taken aback by his kindness. Most people hadn’t taken too kindly to her asking questions. “Thank you.”
She stepped into his apartment, a large, modern studio with towering ceilings and battered hardwood floors, light on furniture. He directed her to sit at the breakfast bar on the peninsula separating the kitchen from the enormous living area. Noting the lack of any real feminine touch, Daisy gathered that he lived there alone.
He snapped his laptop closed and stood across from her. “What happened to him?”
“I was hoping you can tell me that. The medical report came in, and it appears he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” he mouthed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What? How? By whom?”
Before she could say anything more, he let out a heavy sigh.
“Right, you’re trying to figure that out. I’m sorry, it’s just such a shock to me. I mean, who would poison him? Why would anyone take that chance?” Again, he caught himself. “I guess that’s what you’re trying to determine, huh?”
She nodded.
He crossed his arms over his slight chest, thinking. “Okay, well, there were a lot of drugs that night. Possible he could’ve accidentally overdosed on something?”
“Not on what he had in his system. Apparently, it’s a rare chemical only found naturally in certain animals in South America.”
“South America?” he asked, still dazed. “Wow. And to think I was with him right before . . .”
“I was hoping you could help me fill in some blanks about your time here.”
“Sure, sure,” Mooch said, getting up and going to a sleek coffee machine, opening the top to add a pod. “Can I get you coffee, first?”
