“Sure.” He drained his glass and crunched on the ice. “We got there a little after midnight. They had a car take them to that Pharoah’s Casino on the river. They came back a little after three . . . I can’t remember if they had that red-haired girl with them in Nice, or in Lyon.”

  “You said the red-haired girl was with Franklin?”

  He nodded.

  “Then probably in Lyon. He brought Tina, the blonde baccarat dealer, back with him at Nice. I interviewed her and she never mentioned a redhead.”

  “Yeah.” He stroked his chin. “Makes sense. Anyway, I never saw her leave, but she must’ve before the plane took off, because she wasn’t around when I found out that Tate was dead.”

  Daisy gnawed on her lip. “Unless she did stay on, and left the first moment the plane was opened in Venice.”

  “Not possible.”

  She opened her file and nodded. “Right. The statement from the flight attendant said that it was only men and the other female flight attendant left on board when the flight landed in Venice.”

  “Right.”

  She rubbed her eyes, her vision blurring again. “I still wish I could talk to those women.”

  “Haven’t been able to get in touch with them?”

  “No, I’ve called a million times, too.” She tilted her head back and let her eyes slip closed.

  “You look tired,” Arlo observed.

  She was tired. But now that she took a moment to sit and breathe, she knew she’d probably never fall asleep. Her mind was whirling with all the details of the case. “I know. You can go back to your room. I’m just going to sit here and think for a minute.”

  “You sure? I can keep you company.”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather you get your rest. I want to head out to the next location early tomorrow. Say, seven?”

  He stood and saluted her. “Sure. Have a good night.”

  When he left, she sat there, holding the black card, trying to run through the details of the case: what she knew, and what she didn’t know. So far, she’d only managed to confirm that indeed, some shady business had been going on that night, on the plane. But as for who’d been responsible, it was still anyone’s guess. Everyone she’d interviewed so far had either been too inebriated or hadn’t seen anything suspicious.

  She really needed to talk to the flight attendants. Grabbing her phone, she looked to see if she’d missed a call from either of them.

  There was only one missed call, and it was from Zachary.

  Even though he was British, he was living close to her hometown. Right then, she could’ve used that taste of home.

  She called him back immediately. When he answered, she said, “I hope it’s an okay time to call? I forgot about the time difference.”

  “Of course, love, it’s perfect timing. I just finished dinner.”

  Did he just call me love? She thought, shifting in alarm. Did he mean something by that, or did he call every girl he knew that?

  “Oh, good. You called me?”

  “That’s right. I wanted to see how you were getting on. Before you left, you said you were on a case?”

  “Yes,” she said, remembering the phone call she’d had with him while she was packing. He’d called to invite her out—dinner, this time—and she’d told him all about Franklin Tate. “It’s not going very well, to be honest. I appear to be in a little rut, at this point. But tomorrow is another day. I was just getting ready to head to bed.”

  “Ah, too bad. I was hoping I’d see your smiling face around here soon. I have tickets to the theater this weekend, and I wanted to see if you would like to accompany me.”

  “Oh . . .” she said. She did like the theater, not that she ever had much of an opportunity to go. “How nice. Thank you. I guess I’ll have to let you know, if I can make it back in time. Right now, it’s looking doubtful.”

  “What seems to be the trouble with the case?”

  She almost laughed. As if he could help her out, all the way across the pond, when she could barely make heads or tails of it herself. “It’s nothing. Just a dead end right now. I’ve gotten the medical report that confirms it’s suspicious, but I have to find a thread to pull. It’s just frustrating when I can’t get in touch with a couple of the best witnesses.”

  “So the man was murdered?”

  “Yeah. Turns out my client wasn’t just grasping at straws. He was poisoned. With something called Batrachotoxin, which is only found naturally in frogs in South America but causes gradual paralysis and death.”

  “Ah, sounds like a pretty nasty way to go. One of the other partygoers on the plane responsible?”

  “I interviewed a few of them. Everyone was pretty drunk, so it’s like patching together a quilt where none of the seams line up perfectly. Trying to reconstruct a night when no one remembers anything quite right. There were people coming on and off the plane at each stop, too. So I don’t know anything for sure. I have to head to Lyon tomorrow.”

  “Lyon? And why’s that?”

  “Well, I’m in Nice, now. I’m following the route that he took that night. He was on a gambling trip with his friends. But everything I uncover isn’t good. He had a lot of debts. A lot of enemies, I think. One of them even pulled a gun on me.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am.”

  “Daisy. You need to get out of there. You don’t deal with a dead man’s debts. If anyone has any cause to associate you with them, you’ll be dead, too.”

  “I’m fine. When I told him it was a misunderstanding, he--”

  “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. I don’t know how much this lady is paying you, but it’s not enough.”

  “Zachary. I’m fine. And it’s not as bad as it seems. It’s just . . .” She sighed. “If my father was here, he probably would’ve already solved it by now.”

  “Don’t give him that much credit. Yes, your father was a great one, but he didn’t have all the answers. Give yourself time and a little grace, all right? Don’t go overboard. You have to stay safe, first.”

  She appreciated what he was trying to do, but it didn’t help. “I wish I did have time. My father’s all right, but I can’t chance that something might happen to him while I’m gone. I need to get back there as quickly as possible, in case he has another episode. I feel like it’s a time bomb, waiting to go off.”

  “If you don’t find anything in Lyon, then you’ll be coming home?”

  She gritted her teeth. “I need to find the person responsible for Franklin Tate’s murder. I can’t come back empty-handed. Goldie already won’t be happy because I think she wanted the killer to be the new wife, and it isn’t. I’ll feel like I failed if I don’t find out who it really is. And . . . .”

  She stopped when she heard a strange sound. It was a sigh, followed by a click.

  “Zachary? Are you there?” Would he have hung up on her?

  Then he said, “Yes, I’m here. Blimey. Are you listening to yourself?”

  She paused. She hadn’t really been listening to herself, but she knew from her breathlessness that she’d been talking a mile a minute. She probably sounded crazy. And at this point, she nearly was. “I know, I know. But—"

  “You know, Daisy, you sound like you’re letting the pressure fall on your head, and it’s weighing you down. I never could think when I’m under that kind of pressure. You need to take a deep breath and try to get into a better space,” he advised.

  He was right. She closed her eyes. Her father always said that she was too excitable, which got in the way of the level head she needed to solve these cases. She was over-excited now, because she felt like she had to solve this case in a day so she could get home. Because of that ticking time bomb in her head, she had been running around like a headless chicken, barely giving herself time to ponder the case. She was never going to be any use to anyone unless she learned to calm herself down and think.

  “Thanks for the reminder,” she said sincerely. “I’ll do that. And thanks for talking me down from the ledge. I needed someone to do that.”

  He paused. “Yeah, and if you can’t find anything after Lyon, why not toddle on back home? Goldie hired you to because she thought the wife was in on it. You don’t think she is. Come home and tell her that. No one will think any less of you if you don’t have all the answers. You have the one she was looking for. That’s all that matters.”

  She frowned. Maybe Zachary, and her father, wouldn’t think anything less of her . . . but she would. This was only her second real case, and she wanted to bring it to a successful conclusion, to reveal answers that even the police couldn’t find. She’d gotten such a high from it, last time. But not only that . . . it just wouldn’t feel right to stop now.

  Not when the answers were out there. Somewhere.

  “I’ll think about it,” she lied.

  “Good. And then you’ll have no excuse not to come with me to see the show. It’s a great one. One of my favorites.”

  “Sounds great,” she said listlessly. “Thanks for everything. I’ll give you a call when I’m back in town.”

  She ended the call and stared at her phone. She hated lying to him, especially since he was just trying to help. And he was right. It already had been much more dangerous than she’d expected. It wasn’t wise to get involved trying to find out who’d killed a man that had amassed serious debt with some powerful people. But she needed to see this through.

  Pushing off of her chair, she opened her phone and tried to make calls to the flight attendants. Again, the phone rang through, so she left a message for each of them. Then she went to the lobby of the hotel to get a room for the night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, bright and early, Daisy’s plane touched down in the city of Lyon.

  As expected, she hadn’t slept much in the hotel, since she couldn’t stop thinking of the case. She wanted to get to Lyon as soon as possible, so when she walked into the lobby at just after six to get some coffee, she was happy to see Arlo waiting there, ready to go. As the plane landed, Arlo told her he was going to use the time to catch up on his sleep. “Take your time,” he said with a yawn as he climbed back into the cockpit. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  It also helped that she was chartering his plane by the hour. “Thanks.”

  Lyon itself was a more cosmopolitan city than a resort escape for the rich and famous; it wasn’t as ultra-flashy or ritzy as the other places they’d visited. Homes ranged from extravagant mansions to hovels. There were people around in modest clothes and looking rather bland, just like she felt. But Daisy found herself feeling just as out-of-place as the cab took her to the casino. All the old cathedrals and ancient architecture were a stark reminder that she was still very far from home.

  As the cab pulled up to the sprawling, Egyptian-themed casino overlooking the Rhône, she saw a couple of shifty-looking men in dark suits, whispering together, and thought again about what Zachary had said. This could be dangerous.

  Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the cab and went through the front revolving door, which was flanked by giant sphinxes.

  The casino seemed to stretch on forever. Despite the early hour, it was packed with people at the tables, and using the slot machines. Most of them looked as if they hadn’t slept at all last night.

  All the staff in the place had the misfortune of wearing flowing white garments and golden headdresses like those of ancient Egypt. She stopped a waitress wearing gladiator sandals. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

  She nodded. “What can I help you with?”

  Daisy pulled out her phone and found the photograph of Franklin Tate. “I’m wondering if you might have seen this man, and the people he was with, about four nights ago?”

  She stared at the picture and nodded. “Monsieur Tate. Yes, he comes here quite often. But they were not here long. Only about ten minutes.”

  “Ten?” That was a surprise. According to Arlo, they’d spent a few hours in Lyon. So where else had they been the rest of the time?

  “Oui, I suspect they must’ve gone somewhere else, but I don’t know where.”

  “Do you remember anything unusual about what he was doing, who he was with . . . ?”

  “I remember bringing him a cocktail while he and his friends were at the tables. He was with a large party, from what I remember. Many men and women. But he usually travels with many people.”

  “Was he with a woman? A woman with red hair?”

  She nodded. “Now that you mention it, I think he was. They seemed very close. I’d never seen her before. She was not a regular here.”

  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?”

  “No,” she said, wondering if that was a delay tactic, if he was stalling in order to construct a story. But if he really was the killer, wouldn’t he have had a story, already? “I do have somewhere to be after this,” she lied.

  “Okay,” he said, running the machine and bringing a mug with his brew to the table. “So, it was just us guys at first. Then some women came on. I didn’t know them, and they weren’t really my type, if you know what I mean. So Lionel—he’s my business partner--- he and I just talked shop at the bar while the other guys went at it, gambling and trying to impress the girls.”

  “So you weren’t with Tate the whole time?”

  “No. Very little, actually. I was in the bar across the way, with Lionel. I only met up with him on the promenade, by the shops, when he and the other guys were done.”

  “The other guys . . . you mean Franklin, Matteo Frenzi, Dirk Buckner, and . . .”

  “Dorry. Dorrance Calloway. He’s kind of a self-important little snot. The only one of us from old money. Thinks it’s his job to teach us how to act upper-crust.” He rolled his eyes.

  Daisy skimmed her notes. So Dorry was the only unemployed, perpetually rich one of them? The rest of them were self-made? “That brings me to another question . . . how do you all know each other?”

 

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