The Corpse with the Silver Tongue by Cathy Ace Read Free Book Online

antics. It appears she hasn’t. I suspect this is a miracle. Then Madelaine collapses, the paramedics arrive, and all hell breaks loose.
    There. That’s it. I’m done. In more ways than one.
    I must have slept then, because the next thing I was aware of was a dig in my ribs and a nurse telling me, “Go home.”
    Fantastic!
    I was pleased to be getting out of the hospital at last—still alive.

Saturday Morning
    I HAVE A SUSPICION THAT Nicoise hoteliers are used to seeing guests leave on a Friday evening and return on a Saturday morning, looking somewhat the worse for wear. The relatively disinterested yet knowing glance I got from the guy behind reception when I finally got back to my hotel implied as much. When I closed the door to my room and got a good look at myself in the full length mirror, I was surprised that the reception guy hadn’t let out a cry of horror upon my arrival. I know that at five four, weighing one hundred and eighty pounds and being forty-eight years old with greying hair, I’m not anything to write home about at the best of times—but good grief, even I thought that I looked a state!
    I usually keep my hair carefully swept straight back from my forehead into a ponytail and caught with a long scarf tied in a big floppy bow. But now it was a mass of ends and lumps and knots. Yuk. My clothes, my ubiquitous set of black bouncy, drapy layers, that suits most occasions, and which never, ever creases, looked as though I had slept in it—which, of course, I hadn’t; they gave me a delightful little gown to wear—you know the type. My mascara had worked its way down to the middle of each cheek, and the eye shadow had somehow wound up in my hairline. Lipstick smudged my chin, but my lips were completely colorless. No wonder the guy downstairs had that knowing look. Little did he suspect that my state of disarray was not thanks to a session of unbridled debauchery, but courtesy of a night on a gurney. I’d have traded one for the other in a heartbeat.
    I put aside thoughts of all the fun ways I could have ended up looking like such a mess, and set about cleaning myself up. An hour later I was feeling much fresher, and wondering what on earth to wear. When I’d packed my sadly shabby suitcase, I’d given thought to “nibbling salade Nicoise on the sea front” clothes, and even “enjoying a glass of rosé wine at a fine hotel” clothes. “Suitable for an interview as a possible murder suspect” clothes hadn’t really featured in my planning. I was a bit stumped. I decided that navy linen pants and a navy and white striped, boat-necked, lightweight top would do. (Horizontal stripes, in case you’re wondering—because whatever they say about them making you look wider, I still wear them: I firmly believe that people will look at me and think that it’s the stripes that are making me look twenty pounds heavier than I am. Ha! Take that, fashion editors!)
    On my way out of the hotel I stopped at reception to ask for directions to the police station. It hadn’t occurred to me that this would give cause for concern. The guy who’d seen me arrive in such a sorry state earlier on was clearly trying to find out why I needed to know where the police station was. Was Madame well? Had Madame experienced anything unpleasant? Was everything acceptable for Madame at the hotel? His English was really quite good, if a little formal, which was very fortunate given that my brain still wasn’t up to much real effort. I reassured him that everything was just fine, that I was in town to speak at the conference for criminologists, and that I wanted to go to meet with the police to help with some research I was doing. He looked relieved and satisfied. He was also kind enough to draw a map showing me the location of the address I’d given him.
    I followed the little map easily, but I didn’t arrive at the police station