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  Blame it on Paris

  a Bennett Sisters Mystery

  Lise McClendon

  Blame it on Paris: a Bennett Sisters Mystery

  © 2018, by Lise McClendon

  Published in the USA by Thalia Press

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Read all the Bennett Sisters Mysteries

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading Blame it on Paris

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Lise McClendon

  Read all the Bennett Sisters Mysteries

  Blackbird Fly

  The Girl in the Empty Dress

  Give Him the Ooh-la-la

  The Things We Said Today

  The Frenchman

  Odette and the Great Fear

  Blame it on Paris

  The Bennett Sisters French Cookbook

  A Bolt from the Blue

  DEDICATION

  To all Parisians, in reality or just in their hearts

  Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the spring,

  I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world

  To be wonderful and youthful after all

  T.S. Eliot

  One

  PARIS

  The sky hung gray and low over Pont Neuf. No twinkling sunshine on the thousands of padlocks attached like barnacles to railings on one end of the bridge. Just the oppressive dark of winter. Francie frowned at the romantic display of the so-called locks of love, more crass in person than she imagined. How did defiling a historic old bridge make love last, lock troubles out of your heart? Were the French so naïve? She wished she had some wire-cutters in her bag.

  Her sister Merle stood next to her, an orange scarf blowing in the breeze off the Seine— rather foul today— looking for all the world like a Frenchwoman. Francie had bought a new red trench coat for Paris. Redheads— or strawberry blond as she preferred— weren’t supposed to wear red but she loved it, the vibrancy of vivid color spoke to her. But it was her older sister who looked the part of the chic sophisticate. Why do I always try too hard, she mused. A real Frenchwoman would simply embody savoir faire.

  “What is it?” Merle asked. She always knew when you were annoyed, or blue.

  Francie gave her a smile. “You look like a real Parisienne.”

  Merle chuckled. “It’s the scarf. And the messy hair.” Francie agreed amiably. “No, really. What is it?” her sister demanded.

  Francie thought of shrugging it off, the way she did most problems. She was strong and capable. She could deal with things; she didn’t need to burden her sisters. But the sudden trip to France was already hanging in the ether, the question of why now. It was late March, hardly the most delightful time in Paris. It was rainy and cold. The flowers were still a wish. The trees were struggling to break out of winter’s doldrums. Maybe that’s all her problems were— winter blues. Cabin fever.

  But no. She slumped against the railing, clanging the love locks. It was more than just the winter.

  Merle nudged her. “Come on. Tell me.”

  “Office politics. Boring stuff.” Francie kept her eyes on the river.

  “Out with it,” Merle demanded.

  Francie took a deep breath. “So Old Ward had a stroke. You heard about that?”

  “No! He was a good old boy, wasn’t he? The last of the originals?”

  “The other one, Bailee, retired a few years ago. There’s some new partners. Two golfing buddies, typical Rotary Club types but good guys, good lawyers. Plus Brenda McFall. You remember her? She hired me.”

  “Of course. Brenda’s great.” Merle glanced at Francie. “Is she still great?”

  “Absolutely. She helped me with the promotion which has been good, more money and all that.” She paused. “Managing the junior associates is a real pain in the ass though.”

  They watched the couples walking along the bridge, arm in arm. Merle had her Frenchman, Pascal. They could legitimately put a lock of love on the bridge. But who did Francie have? She shook off the feeling. She’d never been one for negative thoughts. There just wasn’t the energy, or the time.

  “Managing partner is a big deal.”

  “Assistant managing partner.”

  Merle nodded but she wasn’t giving up. “So that’s it?”

  “There are some problem children. They’ve gotten under my skin. Real hand-holding cases. If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s an associate who has to be told and shown everything, point by point, step by step, ad nauseam.” She glanced at Merle. “So I decided to take a little time off and wash off the stink. That’s all.”

  Merle was squinting at her, unconvinced, but she didn’t ask again. Five asks must be her limit. Francie straightened, glad the interrogation was over. She just wanted to enjoy Paris. She hadn’t been here twenty-four hours yet. To the left was the tip of the little island that was the ancient center of the city, Île de la Cité. She thought she made out the white blush of a blooming tree and took it as a positive sign. Spring was coming.

  “Shall we walk along the river?” Merle asked. They were near the stone steps to the walkway below. Francie glanced down. She wasn’t wearing the best shoes for cobblestones. As she hesitated, peering over the stone balustrade, she saw a man on the sidewalk, next to a green bookseller’s stand. He was staring at them. She blinked and looked away.

  Weird but— “Sure, why not.”

  They walked toward the steps. When they reached the sidewalk, Francie looked up again. The man was still there. And still staring, hands in his jacket pockets. He looked familiar. Francie grabbed Merle’s arm.

  “Wait.” She turned her sister toward her. “You see that guy? Staring at us? Don’t look. You see him?”

  “How can I see him if I don’t look?” Merle whispered.

  “Just a glance then.”

  Merle flicked her eyes over Francie’s shoulder. “Which guy?” she whispered.

  “Dark hair, glasses, leather jacket, jeans. Ogling us.”

  Merle pushed back her hair and took another look. “Oh, the ogler. How rude. Do you have a stalker? Is that why you came to Paris?”

  Francie smiled. “No, silly. That’s— I think that’s Dylan Hardy. From law school?”

  Merle looked skeptical. “Someone you know from home? That’s unlikely. Anyway, who is Dylan Hardy from law school?”

  Francie grabbed her sister’s arm and turned them back the way they’d come. “There are stairs on the other side of the bridge, right?”

  She hustled her sister back across the street and down the opposite steps. The wide cobbled walkway wasn’t as romantic in the dreary gray light as it lo
oked in movies, no magical glow and white dresses. But it was still lovely, like a walk through history. Except for the rotting banana peels under the bridge.

  Merle came to a halt. “Okay, who is Dylan Hardy and why are we avoiding him?”

  Francie pouted. “I never mentioned him?” She knew she hadn’t. It was so long ago anyway. Merle put her hands on her hips impatiently. “So, you remember Annie’s short engagement during law school? The one she never told us about?”

  Merle’s eyes widened. “You were engaged to Dylan Hardy?”

  “Not quite.” She shrugged and looked at the dirty water of the Seine rushing by. “Almost but no. It was around the time you were pregnant with Tristan. A long time ago.”

  “Eighteen years, give or take.”

  “We dated during second year. Some of third. It got pretty— intense.”

  “Too intense?”

  “For me, yes. He was fantastic in bed, honestly. Completely focused on— you know, all the right stuff.”

  “But—?”

  “We were polar opposites.”

  Francie looked at her sister, silently begging her to understand why she could have broken up with such a— how to describe Dylan? A decent man. Even though she didn’t really know why she’d broken it off herself. Yes, Dylan Hardy was a good man. He didn’t get the best grades in law school because he had to work nights, paying his own way. But he was honest, solid. Was he too boring for her? Not in bed.

  She suddenly felt a little lost. And stupid. God, she was an idiot in her youth.

  “In what way?” Merle asked.

  “Oh, you know me. Flighty and superficial. A social butterfly. Always the good-time girl.” As she said those words the law firm problems hit her hard. She was too flirty, too nice to everyone, trying to charm everyone, male and female. Why was she so eager for everyone’s good opinion? She was to blame for many of the things that happened. “And he was serious. Intense and serious.”

  Merle tipped her head thoughtfully. “You know, he looks a little like Tom. Tall, dark, and handsome. He’s a little gray now though, over the temples.”

  Tom Ramey was Francie’s ex-husband, and, although they’d been divorced for ages and he’d died a year ago, Tom was nevertheless the reason she found herself in Paris. She really had to tell Merle all about that.

  She sighed. “Maybe I married Tom on the rebound. Or maybe that’s just my type.”

  “He’s aged well, Francie,” Merle whispered, looking over her shoulder. Francie straightened and spun around. Dylan Hardy stood a few feet behind her.

  He stared into her eyes, causing her to be momentarily speechless, an odd feeling for Francie. She always had something to say.

  “Bennett,” he said in his low, musical voice. “I thought that was you.”

  Two

  Connecticut

  One Month Earlier

  The letter came registered, signed for by the receptionist. This was not unusual in the law firm of Ward & Bailee, Esq., as they were often given official notice from the courts, other lawyers, clients, and cranks. That it had sat since Thursday in the pile of mail, a small white fish swimming in a sea of manila sharks, could be written off as typical as well. Francine Bennett’s in-box tray often overflowed.

  She fished it from the tray and set it up against her upright pen in its granite base, a graduation gift from her parents. A white envelope, blue ink, hand-lettered with her name, the law firm, and the address. The return address was tiny, nearly illegible. She put on her hated reading glasses and held it close.

  Nobody she knew. Probably a crank then. Monday in the office was a hardworking day in general. Everyone was refreshed by the weekend and ready to tackle litigation, disagreements, and oddballs. She returned to her work, a motion in the divorce and contested prenuptial agreement of her client, the wife of a wealthy banker in Greenwich. Wealthy bankers were their bread, butter, and jam at Ward & Bailee. This woman was subject to the usual crap: a young mistress, public humiliation, and now, the prospect of being cut off from the banker’s millions and the good life to which she was accustomed.

  As Francie worked her mind drifted to her sister Merle’s similar situation a few years before. Merle didn’t find out about the other woman until her husband died of a heart attack. In a way, that was lucky. Not for Harry, of course. Or the other woman who got very little of the inheritance. But for her sister, things had worked out in the end. Harry was a bastard, a rich one like this banker. Harry had squandered and gambled away his fortune. He was gone. It was pointless to hate him now.

  This guy however: Francie despised this banker. He was vindictive and cruel. His lawyers were pit bulls. His soon-to-be ex-wife wasn’t the most pleasant woman in the world and had subjected herself to too much plastic surgery to keep the banker interested, but she didn’t deserve this. She’d given him twenty-five years of her life, and for what? To be stabbed in the back.

  Worked up to the proper level of indignation Francie wrote out the motion longhand. She was almost done, rising a crest of righteous anger, when the knock came. Her door stood open. In the doorway was the latest thorn in her side as assistant managing partner. Greg Leonard had been a junior associate for almost two years. He made a habit of interrupting her mid-flow.

  She kept writing, trying to keep her concentration going. Greg opened his mouth to speak and she held up one finger. “Hold it,” she said, writing furiously. Finally she set down her pen. “What’s up?”

  Greg was a bland but decent-looking guy, late 20s, with thinning blond hair, a middle-weight in every sense. He had a couple good recommendations from his profs in law school but he’d proven to be what could charitably be called a whiner. He made it his duty to complain about something or somebody weekly.

  “I’m sorry, Francie,” he shrugged, tugging his caterpillar eyebrows together as if he just couldn’t help himself. “It’s the fridge in the break room again. Somebody keeps turning down the temperature on the freezer and now it’s not even keeping stuff frozen. I had three frozen dinners in there and— ”

  Francie stood up, causing him to stutter to a stop. “Seriously, Greg? Figure it out for yourself. I’m not your mother.”

  “But the HR manual says I should bring issues to you as assistant managing partner. Is there another one?”

  He surprised her with his quick comeback. A sly look washed quickly over his face. What was he up to? She didn’t have time to figure it out.

  “You brought it to me already. I did what I could. I took it to the office manager. She said she was calling a repairman. I know you can figure this out, Greg. Maybe don’t bring frozen dinners to work? Check out peanut butter? I don’t know.”

  He raised his hands in surrender and backed out silently. Good, she thought. Maybe he won’t show up here every day with some asinine request. She sat down again and remembered his interview. Brenda McFall, her mentor and supervisor as managing partner, had recommended Greg. She knew his parents or something. He didn’t stand out to Francie, either good or bad, but that was okay. Junior associates were like clay, a raw material to be formed into a lawyer, like Pinocchio becoming a real boy. Now though she wished she’d passed on Greg. What a pain.

  She called in her legal assistant, Alice, and handed her the legal pad with the motion on it. Then she sat back in her chair, letting the Greg Annoyance seep out of her. She had second and third and fourth thoughts about taking on the new position as assistant managing partner. The raise was certainly welcome but it came with significant headaches. She glanced at her calendar. She had an interview with the local newspaper at three. She was now also the public face of the firm. Oh joy.

  Her eye caught the small envelope again. She ripped open the flap and pulled out a sheet of lined student notebook paper, folded into fourths. She smoothed out the wrinkles.

  Dear Ms. Bennett,

  You don’t know me but I am a friend of Reece Pugh. I don’t know where else to turn so am writing to you.

  Reece was arrested in
Paris. He went over there about six months ago and got arrested about three months ago. I just got a letter from him, postmarked December 23. It had been opened and taped shut again. I guess the prison people read it or something. Anyway they got him on a drug rap, I guess, which doesn’t particularly surprise me. Well, you know Reece. He’s kind of a stoner. But I never knew him to sell drugs or get in trouble with the cops. Until now.

  Reece lived with me last year for awhile and we knew each other back in prep school. I won’t lie to you, he’s kind of a fuck-up but he needs a lawyer just the same. When I went through the stuff he left here when he took off for Europe I found your name in some documents. I hope it’s okay to write. I sent you two letters last week to another address but they came back.

  So here’s what I know. He’s being held at a place called Fresnes Prison. He’s been there awhile and I don’t think he’s got a lawyer, at least not a good one because he’s still in jail. The jail sounds really bad, like— horrible. His parents aren’t helping him, I guess? That’s what he says. They’re Harlan and Claudia. Divorced, I think. And then there’s Tom, but you know about that.

  Well, that’s it. I hope you can help him because he’s a good guy really. Thanks for reading this.