Menage à Murder: The Claire Baskerville Mysteries, #4

By Susan Kiernan-Lewis

A shocking murder very near to Claire makes it clear just how far her father will go to get what he wants. Stunned by the brutality of the cold-blooded murder of an innocent, Claire will need to use every skill she possesses if she's going to find the killer before he sets his sights on the next person she loves. This book is a clean read: no graphic violence, sex or strong language Genre: light culinary cozy mystery, women amateur sleuth, cozy animal (dog)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Kiernan-Lewis
• Release date: Sep 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223708537

Susan Kiernan-Lewis

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Susan Kiernan-Lewis is the author of The Maggie Newberry Mysteries, the post-apocalyptic thriller series The Irish End Games, The Mia Kazmaroff Mysteries, The Stranded in Provence Mysteries, The Claire Baskerville Mysteries, and The Savannah Time Travel Mysteries. Visit www.susankiernanlewis.com or follow Author Susan Kiernan-Lewis on Facebook.

Book preview

1

Isat up bolt-straight in my bed, my heart hammering in my chest.

I clutched the phone and felt the tremors race up and down my throat, the wine I’d drunk earlier threatening to come up any moment. It took me long seconds to unwrap my tongue, to unstick my brain and realize who I was speaking to. When I did, a rush of fury and foreboding filled me.

And the worst of it? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wasn’t even surprised. I knew he’d call.

I knew he’d been watching me. I knew he wasn’t done with me.

I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Eleven-thirty Paris time.

Are you there, my darling?

The voice was warm and seductive in my ear.

My father.

My father calling me for the first time in my life. And yet somehow I know his voice like I’d heard it every day of my childhood.

The man who made me.

The man who left.

What do you want? I said, swinging my legs out of bed but with no real intention of going anywhere. I just needed to move. My broken arm throbbed painfully in spite of the pain medication I’d taken earlier in the evening.

So American, he said with a loud sigh. But I suppose that couldn’t be helped. I must say on the one hand I find it charming but I’m sure I won’t for long.

You don’t need to worry about it, Monsieur Moreau, I said, feeling heat flush through my body. You won’t have the chance to get familiar.

That is where you are wrong, daughter, Moreau said—I refuse to refer to him as my father. You and I are just getting started.

The hell we are.

Cursing isn’t becoming in a woman. May I ask you to refrain?

"Sure. May I ask you to shove your head up your ass?"

I stood and stepped away from the bed, fighting the desire to know more about this man especially what I believe he did to Millicent Elicé—the detective who tried to charge me with murder and then ended up dead.

Curiosity won out.

I know that Detective Millicent Elicé was in your employ, I said. And I know you used her to try to have me indicted for murder.

If I’d wanted you in prison, darling, you’d be in prison.

The room felt suddenly too hot. I shook my head in confusion.

So you created a life-threatening complication for me? For what possible reason? So you could remove the threat and be the hero? Kind of like what you did with Bob?

While I hadn’t had strong thoughts before tonight that Moreau was somehow connected to my husband’s death last year, suddenly that theory made all kinds of sense.

I didn’t have your husband killed, he said smoothly.

Forgive me if I don’t believe you.

I don’t know what I believed but I’d be damned if I let him think I accepted a single word out of his mouth.

My only interest is in your best interest.

Said every sociopath ever.

He laughed.

"Mon Dieu, I’m sorry I never got to know you before now, he said, his voice rumbling with his amusement. It never occurred to me that Helen might deliver something so much more interesting than herself."

I hung up. I don’t know why. Maybe it was his loutish words about my mother or the infuriating horror of his admission that he’d deliberately stayed away from me because he assumed I wasn’t worth knowing. I don’t know the exact reason but I dropped that phone like it was a snake.

And I hate snakes.

It rang again and I snatched it up, adrenaline rushing through my body in my mounting fury.

You had Millicent Elicé killed, I said, gripping the phone so tightly I thought it might snap in my hands.

I love your imagination. I am sure you get that from me.

The gorge rose in my throat at his words.

I want nothing from you, I said.

"I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You’ve got twenty-three chromosomes from me. You’ve got wit and intelligence and courage. You’re essentially me in female form."

Hearing him say that made me feel like I was in a car careening out of control, prompting my stomach to churn yet I was too mesmerized by the sensation to turn away from what was happening.

I need you to leave me alone, I said in a hoarse whisper, wondering where I got the guts to say it since I’m pretty sure I didn’t mean a word of it.

"I am sorry, ma petite. I can’t do that. I only hope that one day you’ll understand why I’m doing what I must do."

And then he disconnected.

2

You’d think after that bizarre late-night phone call the morning would look a little different to me.

I awoke the next day to birdsong outside my bedroom window. I held my breath for a moment, listening for sounds of the baby waking before remembering I’d left him with Geneviève for the night.

I’d broken my arm a few days earlier and dearest Geneviève had volunteered to mind the little fellow until I was able to dress without assistance.

I fumbled for the bottle of Vicodin on my nightstand before attempting to tackle anything more ambitious like making coffee or washing my face.

After I’d taken my prescribed dose, I leaned back into bed for a moment and waited for the meds to kick in. My eye went to my cellphone on the nightstand.

Unbelievable. My father, whom I’d never met, had called just when I was almost at the point where I was willing to believe I’d imagined his interference in my life up to now.

Almost.

My little French bulldog Izzy crept up to me from the foot of the bed where she’d slept. Her worried brown eyes searched mine for some assurance that everything was all right.

We’re all good, sweetie, I said, which prompted her to belly-crawl nearer to me for the customary ear tousling she had come to expect as her morning greeting.

My head tingled, announcing it would not wait much longer for its required caffeine hit before it began to compete with my aching arm for attention.

I pulled the covers back, trying not to subject my arm to too much unnecessary movement.

Why had he called? What did he want from me?

Why now after all these years?

My phone rang and I jumped at the sound, prompting a sudden tsunami of agony that rippled up my arm to my shoulder. I picked up the phone and saw a photo of Geneviève on the screen.

"Bonjour, chérie, she said when I answered the phone. How was your night?"

I glanced at the time and was shocked to see it was after nine.

It was good, I said. I’m just getting dressed now. How’s the baby?

Monsieur Robbie has had his breakfast and he is now awaiting his walk in the park.

I’ll be there in five minutes, I said much more cheerfully than I felt.

The coffee is ready.

That helped.

By the time I washed my face and pulled on a pair of linen slacks and matching top, attached Izzy to a leash and made it down the slippery two hundred year old stairwell steps, it was more like fifteen minutes. Geneviève, being French, had a very loose interpretation of time, so I knew I wouldn’t be accused of being late.

I decided to add another twenty minutes to my tardiness so that Izzy could wet the pavers in the courtyard outside the building lobby on our way to the corner boulangerie for a bag of freshly baked pain au chocolat.

One thing I’ve learned since coming to Paris is that nobody arrives empty-handed at any get-together.

I hurried back to my apartment building with the bag of yeasty chocolate-filled delights. As I neared the door of my apartment building, I saw my downstairs neighbor Luc Remy standing on the corner watching me.

Luc and I have had our ups and downs—admittedly mostly downs of late—but after I’d broken my arm he’d shown himself to be a better man than I’d thought by helping me with packages and even assembling the baby’s highchair.

A handsome man, Luc was fair-haired with high cheekbones and very blue eyes. He stood now, his arms crossed and, I have to say, not looking particularly happy to see me.

"Bonjour, Luc," I said forcing a smile.

He looked at my arm sling and then at Izzy before frowning at me.

"Are you just getting home?" he asked.

He could clearly see I was holding a bag from the bakery, plus I had my dog with me.

This is a respectable building, he said with a curl to his lip. With decent people living in it.

I know, I said cheerfully. Which is one of the reasons I’m glad I live here.

He took a step toward me.

What makes you think you can drag us into your American dramas with the police and all manner of criminal elements?

I’m a private investigator and admittedly there have been a few incidences where my work has followed me home so to speak, but this was the first time Luc had confronted me with it.

Do you mind, Luc? I said, tersely. I have a date upstairs with a criminal mastermind who likes his coffee hot.

I don’t know what made me say that because of course it wasn’t going to make things better. Some people just bring the worst out in you, you know?

He leaned close to me and I was shocked to realize he’d already been drinking this morning. I pulled back involuntarily.

I think you should find someplace else to live, he hissed.

Izzy began to growl in a steady threatening hum at my feet.

I’ll take it under advisement, I said with a shrug that I immediately paid for with a shooting pain to my injured arm.

Luc made a disgusted snort and turned away to walk down the street.

My arm throbbing now, I entered the security code in the lock panel and struggled with opening the heavy wrought-iron grill door before slipping through it.

So much for détentes, I thought as I walked across the courtyard to the apartment building door that led through the lobby and the building stairs. By the time I knocked on Geneviève’s door, I was panting and the pain in my arm still hadn’t calmed down.

She appeared with a steaming mug of coffee in her hand and plucked Izzy’s leash from mine.

Geneviève had kind velvet brown eyes and curly grey hair. She wore a pink cashmere sweater around her shoulder clasped by a bejeweled peacock brooch.

"Good morning, chérie, she said and then frowned when she saw me. Is everything all right?"

More or less, I said as I entered her apartment, taking the mug of wonderfully fragrant coffee from her.

Geneviève’s apartment was similar to my own but unlike mine it was properly furnished.

Gleaming herringbone hardwood floors in the salon offset the lush green velvet Chesterfield sofa that sat in front of a chocolate antique coffee table. Linen curtain panels hung from the fifteen-foot windows that allowed in a steady stream of golden light and drew your eye to the ceiling which was inset with ivory panels.

It was a classic Paris apartment.

Robbie must have heard my voice because he squealed with delight as soon as I entered the salon. Or maybe he sensed Izzy was with me. The two of them seemed to have developed a special relationship.

Hello, little man, I said as I knelt beside where he sat on Geneviève’s carpet, his back to her couch. He wore his jammies and a bib with remnants of stewed peaches on it.

Robbie Purdue had plopped into my life about six weeks ago when his mother Courtney arrived unannounced on my doorstep with him. After a few days with me, Courtney had fallen into bed with Luc. I don’t know what her motive for that was beyond the fact that she didn’t strike me as someone who gave a whole lot of thought to most things she did.

Luc’s motive was much clearer.

As I said, he and I have had our ups and downs.

After falling in with Luc, Courtney had then promptly fallen in with some German musician she’d met at a club in the Le Marais who she ran off with to Heidelberg. While I had no doubt that she was intensely fond of her son, I also hadn’t heard from her in nearly two weeks.

Did I mention the part where it turns out that Robbie was the product of a year-long affair that Courtney had with my husband?

Probably germane.

Monsieur Robbie is ready for his walk in the park, Geneviève said one more time. I couldn’t blame her really. She was ready to get her morning back and have a little time to herself.

Have I likewise not mentioned the fact that she’s eighty seven years old?

"Can you manage it, chérie?" she asked in a voice that made it clear she was sure I could if I tried.

No worries, I said, easing back into the couch pillows for a sweet blessed moment. My father called me last night.

"Quoi?" she said, startled, and seated herself next to me.

I realized she thought I meant my adoptive father Claude Lapin. Claude and his wife Joelle had lived in my apartment for ten years before I moved in, so of course Geneviève had known them both very well. Claude had died of a heart attack a little over a year ago.

Not that father, I assured her. My biological one.

I’d be damned if I was going to say my real one.

Did I know he was still alive? she asked with a frown.

I may not have mentioned him. I’ve never had any contact with him. He separated from my mother before I was born.

And now he is calling you? Her eyebrows shot up into her silver fringe, framing her blue eyes. Why?

That is a very good question, I said, putting my empty coffee mug down on a side table.

Do you want to get to know him? she asked. After all this time?

I’m pretty sure I don’t, I said.

Claude had made me his beneficiary which is how I ended up living in my apartment in this gorgeous Haussmann apartment building in the eighth arrondissement.

I’m not sure if I mentioned to you, Geneviève, but after Bob was murdered last year and after the woman who confessed to killing him disappeared, I was sitting at Claude’s graveside when I got a very mysterious text message.

Goodness. What did it say? she asked.

Well, not much of anything really. Except to say they would always be looking out for me.

And you think your real father sent you the text?

I do, I said, feeling like a heavy weight had settled on my shoulders. With no evidence to support it and for reasons I can’t explain, I absolutely do.

3

It turns out that pushing a stroller and managing a leash with a broken arm is not at all conducive to a pleasant morning’s stroll in the park. Who knew?

By the time I found a bench at Parc Monceau and settled onto it—to Izzy’s extreme annoyance since by her count there were still nearly a thousand squirrels to terrorize that now couldn’t be reached—I was already tired and wondering if my pain meds had worn off.

I eased back into the bench. It was late August which meant that the Parisiennes would be coming back to Paris soon from their southern holidays.

By the looks of the park, the kiddies had already gone back to school. It was quiet with just a few sounds of very small children laughing.

I’d gotten in the habit of bringing Robbie here when he first got dumped on my doorstep, and by now—nearly two months later—he knew the drill. He sat upright in his stroller, his eyes wide with wonder as he endeavored to take in everything all at once.

It’s true that taking care of babies is exhausting and unrelenting. But it’s also true that being able to see the wonder and thrill in their faces as they process the world for the first time is a gift that I had long forgotten the joy of.

I have a grandson, Cameron, who is nearly eight years old. He’s a charming child, full of life and questions, the kind of child I would’ve expected my darling girl Catherine to have produced. Because of Bob’s untimely death last summer and my being forced to move overseas, I hadn’t seen much of Cameron this year. As a baby and a toddler, he’d kept his sense of wonder and delight in things; I honestly hadn’t seen him enough to say categorically that he’d begun to lose that.

But I feared it.

Cameron had an overbearing father who didn’t like me and who tightly curated both Catherine and Cameron’s time with me—and had done with Bob too when he was alive—to the point where I had begun to see signs in Cameron of the joy being sucked out of him.

I hope I’m wrong about that. I glanced at Robbie who was happily gazing at the world around him.

But I remember Cameron at this age.

And he’s much more careful and circumspect now.

Fathers, I thought. They can do so much good. And inflict so much damage. I’d never really thought too much about growing up without a father. Or had I? Did I just bury it under a whole lot of growing-up-before-my-time angst that had me protecting my mother by pretending I didn’t need or want one?

Even Claude—the only man my mother had married and the one who’d stood up and allowed himself to be counted—even he had made it clear he didn’t really want to be a part of my life as I grew up. Now that I knew that I wasn’t his biological child, I’m a lot less judgmental of poor old Claude and his lack of fatherly affection for me.

And as I said, in the end, he was there when I needed him.

Even if being there required him to die first.

And then there was my biological dad, Philippe Moreau. As far as my poor mother was concerned Moreau definitely qualified as the love of her life and the one who got away.

I’d originally been told that I’d been conceived as a result of Moreau raping my mother. I should have known better. The lie was delivered to me with evil relish by Joelle Lapin in one of her many attempts last summer to discredit my claim to Claude’s inheritance.

And of course to hurt me in any way she could.

A shimmer of laughter rose up in the distance where I could see children riding the park carrousel. I turned back to Robbie and found a tissue for the drool that incessant grinning seemed to cause in him.

But thinking of Philippe Moreau and my mother inevitably made me think of that cryptic message I’d received last summer in the cemetery. It had been sent from a burner phone so there would be no chance of tracing it. That in itself said volumes.

What kind of law-abiding person uses a burner phone?

And then there was the little matter of the detective with the Paris homicide bureau who had done everything she could last spring to indict me for a murder I didn’t do and, when that failed, quit the force and moved to the South of France.

Where she died.

Detective Millicent Elicé. The question of why she went after me and the circumstances of her death had since gone unanswered. I have to admit that in the interim three months since she died I’d developed a fairly life-sized obsession with her.

I never believed Elicé killed herself.

Which is just another way of saying I know she was murdered.

The fact is, whether it was murder or not, Elicé died under suspicious circumstances. But every time I tried to discuss it with Jean-Marc, the detective on the case, he shut down and wouldn’t talk about it.

Which only made my own theory-machine go into hyperdrive.

Back in Atlanta I worked as a skip tracer while also attempting to be the best wife and mother I could be. Today I make my living in Paris tracking down runaways and dead-beat dads in the expat community.

When I think of Elicé and her determination to put me in prison for life, I inevitably think of my stepmother Joelle Lapin.

And that’s because Joelle, it turns out, was the reason Elicé had developed her psychotic enmity against me in the first place.

Or so I’d been led to believe.

Since then all my investigations into Moreau—and any possible connection to Elicé—had come to a dead end.

So why did I continue to believe my father was involved in Elicé’s death?

Had I seriously combined the receipt of a mysterious text message promising to look out for me with the demise of a sinister threat in the form of a deranged homicide detective and come up with a picture of a benevolent loving father looking for his daughter?

I guess I really do have some very serious Daddy issues to work through.

4

For someone who had to be forced to go to the park in the first place, I was shocked when two hours later I realized I’d relaxed so much into the pleasure of the experience that I was now running late for everything else that I needed to do today.

Robbie had nodded off while I sat and fell into my thoughts. While Izzy couldn’t allow herself to do that—the squirrels—neither had she done anything to alert me to the fact that time had gotten away from me.

Maybe that’s something that’s peculiarly specific to Paris. Nowhere else in the world can you set out to do a single basic thing like buy a bag of peaches at the market and end up spending two hours in a café reviewing your life, and then an hour wandering the park smelling the flowers, and another hour discovering an intriguing shop or boutique.

And voila! The day is gone!

I gathered up my umbrella and cotton cardigan, dug out a water bottle, and took another pain pill. When I began to move the stroller, Robbie woke up and instead of being annoyed that we were leaving the park, he instantly gripped the guard rail of his stroller and began to watch everything we were passing.

I don’t know much about babies or how what you see in them at six months is an indication of how they’ll turn out, but I swear this child is destined to be the most cheerful, optimistic and good-natured human being I ever met.

I’m honestly sorry I won’t know him when he’s older.

As I wound my way out of the park, mindful that I still needed to hit Monoprix and the boulangerie on the way home, I thought about the fact that Courtney, Robbie’s mother, was in my opinion a fairly seriously crappy mother. Then I spent some time wondering about my responsibility in the whole situation.

Regardless of how adorable he was and of the fact that Robbie was my dead husband’s son, he was no relation to me. I think what I owed him was somewhere at the limits of what any decent person owed a child who was needy but not theirs. But I wasn’t exactly sure what that was.

I felt a tremor of foreboding when I thought of Robbie’s mother. It was strange—even for Courtney who was as carefree and irresponsible a person as I’d ever met in my life—for her not to have at least called to see how her son was doing. I’m sure she had every confidence in my ability to keep him alive, but still, it was at best extremely thoughtless.

Monoprix is a combination supermarket and housewares chain store that’s honestly like nothing else in the world. Among all the wonderful things that it is, it’s a deli shop, a grocery store, a trendy franchise clothing boutique and a home interior design store.

Like a lot of people in France, I literally cannot live without it.

As I shopped the store with Robbie and Izzy I found that I seemed to have shaken off the effects from last night’s phone call enough to focus on the important things. Like what I was serving for dinner tonight.

My dinner guest this evening was Jean-Marc who was French so food was important to him. I often cooked for us, or more accurately, I often purchased the ingredients for our dinners and watched him cook. Because of Jean-Marc’s marital status we didn’t typically go to restaurants and of course we couldn’t go to his place.

At first it bothered me that Jean-Marc was married with no apparent intention of divorcing. Well, honestly, at first it didn’t bother me because when I first met him I hated him. After all, in the beginning, he’d arrested me a couple of times for murder.

Well, that’s an exaggeration. He’d brought me in for questioning is I suppose more accurate. In any case, for however it snuck up on both of us, we are presently in a kind of relationship. I say that because it’s not like anything I’ve ever had before and perhaps that’s good. Since my last big relationship was with a man who cheated on me and spent all my retirement savings before being murdered as he attempted to pay someone for sex, any distance from that experience was probably all to the good.

By the time I got back to the apartment, put Robbie down for a nap he didn’t really need and one I’m sure I’d be sorry he took when I tried to get him to go down later tonight, and then fed Izzy, I could have used a nap myself.

I showered, being careful not to get my broken arm wet and was just about to close my eyes for a few minutes when there was a light tap at the door.

Because of the security system set up in the apartment building most people can’t take me by surprise because they live in the building. Luc, who lives two floors below me, doesn’t usually visit and I can tell Geneviève’s light tapping by now.

I opened the door to find her with an armful of tulips, refreshed and cheerful from her day alone. Izzy ran to her and jumped up against her knees in greeting.

"Did you have a good day, chérie? Geneviève asked as she came into the apartment. You are having dinner with Jean-Marc tonight, n’est-ce pas? Where is Monsieur Robbie?"

Asleep, I said, reaching for the flowers, but she took them into the kitchen.

I will find a vase, she said. You must get off your feet. How is your arm?

Have I mentioned how grateful I am to have a friend like Geneviève? She not only takes care of a six-month-old baby when I need her to, but she’s always mother-henning me in the bargain.

It’s good, I said. As long as my pain meds hold out.

And still no word from Madame Courtney?

Clearly Geneviève was more worried than I was about Courtney’s lack of communication. I think because she loved Robbie so much herself, it was just unfathomable to her how anyone could not miss him. In Courtney’s defense, when she was around him, she couldn’t keep her hands off him. He was like the adorable puppy she loved desperately but then forgot she had.

Nope, I said.

Geneviève brought the flowers into the dining room and placed them in the center of the table.

They’re beautiful, Geneviève, I said. Thank you.

She turned and glanced in the direction of where she knew Robbie must be taking his nap in his crib in the guest room.

"What will you do, chérie?" she asked.

If Courtney doesn’t come back? She will. Eventually.

She nodded but I couldn’t tell what she really thought. Geneviève had twin sons and all I knew was that they’d grown up and gone and were rarely if ever in touch.

I thought the whole situation very mysterious and I was exceedingly curious about it. I thought it contributed to the sadness I occasionally saw in Geneviève, especially when she was watching Robbie. But I could be wrong about that. One of these days I’d get to the bottom of it.

Or one of these days she’d trust me enough to tell me the story.

Have you thought more about your father? she said as she sat down next to me on the couch. I hope you are not letting his phone call trouble you.

No, not really, I said. But I admit I’m curious. Why is he calling now? I’m sixty one years old. He must be in his eighties. What does he want?

Perhaps he wants to know his daughter.

After all this time?

She shrugged and then patted my hand.

What time is Jean-Marc coming? she asked.

He’ll be here in an hour, I said.

She nodded and then stood up to take her leave.

I know he will not let you overtire tonight, she said. Jean-Marc is a good man.

I tried to remember if I’d ever mentioned to Geneviève that Jean-Marc was married. I wondered if that would matter to her. She was French after all.

I agree, he is, I said.

"Get some rest, chérie, she said going to the door. And enjoy your night."

I will. What are you doing tonight?

I am reading and perhaps watching an English mystery on TV.

She’d been married to a Brit for fifty years. From the things she’d said, they’d been very happy together.

"Wanting a father, chérie," she said, pausing in