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Overview
Private investigator Sydney Sloane is reluctantly on vacation in France to visit with her niece Vickie. But she is unpleasantly surprised to find that not only has Vickie secretly married, but her new husband Gavin's parents were just killed in a suspicious car accident. So suspicious that the police are looking for the now-missing Gavin. Wrapped up in a murder investigation in a country where she doesn't speak the language, Sydney must find both Gavin and the truth. But someone out there is determined to stop her from doing just that...by any means necessary
"Lordon keeps the pages turning, transporting readers into a world of two-hour lunch breaks on sunny, lemon-scented patios; of eating warm bread and cheese for breakfast; and, of course, of cold-blooded murder." - Booklist
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466848177 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 07/02/2013 |
| Series: | Sydney Sloane Mysteries , #6 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 343 KB |
About the Author
Randye Lordon is the author of five previous Sydney Sloane mysteries, winner of the Lambda Literary Award, and a finalist for the Shamus Award. She lives in Amagansett, New York.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
I don't like to travel. I never have. Apart from the odious task of trying to predict precisely what you'll wear on holiday (and finding a way to fit it all neatly into luggage you can carry without getting a hernia), it is guaranteed that when you return from your week at the beach or your excursion through the Pyrenees, you will need a week of R and R to recover. If a vacation from your vacation is inevitable, then I pose the lucid question, Why vacation?
My attitude has branded me a curmudgeon by my partner, Leslie, who can't think of anything more alluring than travel. Leslie's the sort who carries a change of undergarments and a toothbrush in her bag just in case she winds up someplace unexpectedly. In the seven years that I've known her, this actually happened—once—when she found herself trapped in Long Island with a broken-down car (mine), and a wealthy Frenchman (not me).
As far as I'm concerned, if I have to travel, the ideal holiday would work something like this:
1. I journey like Samantha in Bewitched—a simple tweak of my nose and, voilà, I am there.
2. Someone else makes all (first-class) hotel arrangements.
3. I carry nothing more taxing than my shoulder bag.
4. The perfect wardrobe awaits me upon my arrival and I can leave it there when I return.
5. Champagne is served nightly.
6. My dog, Auggie, gets toaccompany us wherever we go.
7. Someone else pays for the trip.
I was repeating this list again for Leslie as I steered our rental Peugeot along the Moyenne Corniche, a nineteen-mile stretch of winding mountainous road between Nice (where we had just arrived) and Menton (where we were headed to visit my niece, Vickie).
"Sydney, you need this vacation, trust me. I am telling you, the detective business is turning you into a cranky old poot." Leslie smiled, amazingly unfazed by our ten hours of travel.
"'Cranky old poot.' Thank you, thank you very much. I needed that. Just like I need to be stuck in traffic in France rather than in Manhattan. I mean, after all, there are no emission controls here, are there? Shall we just roll down our windows and take a good whiff? Would you look at this; at least in New York, it moves. At this rate, we should get to Vickie's by early next month." Deep breath. Sigh. Oh poor beleaguered me, a vacation in the south of France to see one of my favorite people, and I complain.
"Do you want me to drive?" Leslie lowered her sunglasses and peered at me with her enormous blue-green eyes fringed with black lashes. It is, I admit, impossible for me to maintain any vexation when peering into them there eyes.
"Nooo," I said like a brat. "Besides, this isn't driving, darling. This is called parking."
Thirty minutes later, we approached the reason for the tie-up. Three police cars, a tow truck, and an ambulance were parked on the other side of the road, next to a gap in the railing. Clearly, a vehicle must have careened over the side of the bluff into the bank of trees below. Accidents like that are a sobering sight at any time, but when one is embarking on a vacation that will entail a lot of driving in the land of no speed limits, it is particularly sobering. As I see it, this is another reason to stay home.
"Oh my God," Leslie whispered as she brought her hand to her mouth. "How awful."
"That's strange." I followed what ought to have been the path of the ill-fated car as I inched our Peugeot past the site.
"What?"
"There are no skid marks." My years as a private detective have made suspicion one of my primary instincts.
"So?"
I took a deep breath. "So no skid marks mean the driver didn't attempt to stop. It could have been a suicide, or maybe the driver had a heart attack." Once past the accident site, traffic picked up.
"What about murder?" Leslie asked almost lightly. Though Leslie and I met during the course of an investigation, my line of work has always been a bone of contention between us. She doesn't like the hours I keep, or what she perceives as a dangerous lifestyle; or the karmic impact of dealing with crazy, angry people on a daily basis. (The last theory I shot down by simply turning it back on her; after all, she decorates interiors for the rich and meshugah). However, in the last year—ever since my business partner, Max Cabe, and I took on a new associate, Miguel—our lives have changed considerably. I find it only somewhat puzzling that cutting down on my workload seems to have fostered Leslie's interest in the world of detection.
I shrugged, unwilling to admit out loud that my first thought had been that someone had tampered with the brakes. I don't know if I'm a cynic or a realist, but I understand all too well that there are people in the world who are quite facile at taking other lives without so much as a second thought. I understand that they exist, that they have always existed, and that they oftentimes become world leaders and will continue to survive and thrive in this world until they destroy it. I understand that they are usually men, and sometimes I even understand their motives. I understand a lot—but I just don't get it. Which is why I do what I do, or maybe did what I did. This trip was meant to provide a couple of answers and maybe even a few comprehensive questions. All I knew was that this was a time of transition in my life, and if Leslie wanted to start the journey with me, what did I care if it was on the Riviera?
"Honey?" Leslie's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I mumbled as I repositioned my hand on the steering wheel, gave the car a little gas, and cleared my throat. "A little tired. But let's face it, I'm in France, with all our luggage intact. I am traveling with my love during the off-season, while the sun is shining. My niece will be our tour guide; you both parlez français. I ask you, what could possibly go wrong?"