BM03 - Crazy Little Thing Called Dead Read Online Free

but when it came to actual facts they were identical. Crap.
    When I finally climbed the stairs to the office, there was a woman standing on the landing outside our door. She was petite, slim and wearing a coat that clearly came off a New York runway. I instantly morphed into an over-sized Vermont woodchuck. Which I was, and proud of it, but there’s nothing like coming face to face with your polar opposite to make you aware of your weak points. Her dark hair was cut short, the ends of her bob sweeping her cheeks when she turned to look at me coming up the stairs.
    I balanced my sandwich on the cup of soup and unlocked the door. She followed me in, looking around the office as if it had a sour smell.
    “Can I help you?” I asked, wondering what the hell she was doing here. “I’m afraid Meg isn’t in today, but I can take the information if you want an ad.”
    She looked at me strangely. I flashed back to high school when I’d said the principal was an old cow and discovered her standing directly behind me. Not a good sign. But the woman smiled and held out her hand.
    “I am Michèle Ledroit.” She had a distinct European accent. “This is a news agency? Am I correct?”
    “Yes. The Royalton Star .” What was she after? I gestured to the chairs at my desk. “Would you like to sit down?”
    “Thank you.” She sat upright in the chair, her ankles crossed, prim in contrast to Tom’s comfortable sprawl of yesterday.
    “How can I help you?” I was all curiosity. This woman was clearly out of her element, and strangers don’t just wander in to our offices. You kind of have to want to find us to get here.
    “I am looking for a man, my boyfriend, named Victor Puccini.” Her bottom lip trembled.
    “Victor Puccini? I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him? You thought he was here? At the paper?” Could this be another story brewing? First a murder, then a submerged car, now a missing Italian. This was turning out to be a good week.
    “Not here specifically, but I think the car that was found in the lake was his.” Tears gleamed at the corners of her eyes.
    “The white Taurus was Victor Puccini’s?” That’s interesting . What were the chances the three incidents were related?
    “I’m sorry, I really am but I don’t know what I can do for you. Have you talked to the police?”
    “They don’t know anything at all.” The tears trickled down her face and she blotted them with the back of her hand.
    I handed her my box of tissues. “You must know a man was found murdered here as well. Not to be indelicate, but could it have been your boyfriend?”
    “It wasn’t him. They showed me a picture, and it wasn’t him but I don’t know where he is.” She wiped her nose and took another tissue. “He must here somewhere.”
    “I wish I could help you, but I don’t know what I can do. I’m a reporter, not a detective.”
    “Could you just keep your eyes open? You might see someone you don’t recognize… You could tell me?” She handed me a card. “This is my number.”
    “Where are you from?” I asked. There was a phone number on the card, and her name, Michèle Ledroit, but nothing else.
    “I am originally from Paris, but I am currently living in New York City. Victor was expected home a few days ago and did not return.”
    “Victor Puccini,” I said. “I can keep him in mind, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
    “Call me if you find him.” She stood and looked down at me. “There is a reward.”
    “Just out of curiosity, what made you come to me? Why not a private detective?” I dropped my gaze to the business card, considered picking it up, but let it lie.
    “I was asking in the general store about getting help and they said ‘Bree MacGowan’. Then in the cafe downstairs, again it was ‘Bree MacGowan’. The post mistress said you were nosy, so then I knew I had the right person to ask.” She looked me in the eye. “It is an insult to be called ‘nosy,’ no? But today it is the