"I'd say you're not the type to take second place."

He got that right.

"So you've been the one messing with my pager and sending me threatening messages?"

Gone and opened her big mouth again.

His shoulders tightened. "Threaten you? As if I have time for that, mademoiselle?" A muscle in his cheek twitched. "Desole, my daughter gets carried away sometimes."

Mimi? She could believe it.

"But like I said, you're smart. You should see a wonderful opportunity opening up, I'd imagine. Florent is taken."

Cruel, too, Florent's father. His words stung. "You think it's me chasing Florent? It's the other way around."

There. Let the aristocrat chew on that.

"Be careful not to muddy your January exam scores," said Doctor de Villiers. "Everyone knows cheating's rampant. Any hint or allegation and an exam is void. To the point, mademoiselle, my old friends on the board at Descartes will think as I do."

"I hope that's not a threat," she said with more bravado than she felt. "My godfather's a commissaire in the police."

Fat lot of good that would do her. She grabbed her bag, slung it over her good shoulder, and ran out the door before she could hit him with it. The gall.

At the reception, she wheedled the duty nurse for use of the back office phone. The nurse, who'd been dog-sitting, was happy for a few extra minutes to shower Miles Davis with treats, and Aimee slipped behind the desk.

Her pager showed three pages from Florent. Screw him and his father.

Shaking, she dialed into the Leduc Detective voice mail as she downed a painkiller with several slugs of Evian. Blinked her dilated eyes-damn blurry vision.

A message from Elise, her voice trembling. "Maman's had a stroke. I must see you. The last train from Gare de Lyon leaves at nine twenty-five."

Aimee grabbed her anatomy notebook and a kohl eye pencil, the closest thing to a writing implement she could find in her bag. She wrote down Elise's directions and checked her Tintin watch. Just enough time to leave Miles Davis with her grandfather and grab some clothes. Looked like she was leaving Paris after all.

The branches of an ancient pear tree, Aimee's favorite, spread a shadowy canopy over her courtyard back at home on the Ile Saint-Louis. The pear tree was one of the reasons she loved living here, despite the freezing, wet winters, the sputtering heat, the icicles which hung from her bedroom ceiling in years of record cold.

Miles Davis scampered beside her up the marble steps to the third-floor apartment.

"ca va, ma puce?" Her grandfather stood, an apron around his middle, over the copper pot of something smelling wonderful.

She settled Miles Davis by the radiator. Took a breath, leaned against the counter.

"A run-in with a gypsy taxi."

"The fancy clinique called and said you'd had an accident. Before I could find my keys to come pick you up, they'd rung again and said you'd discharged yourself."

"No accident, Grand-pere," she said. Shivered. "I was attacked by a taxi driver. I'm getting close to the truth about Bruno Peltier, that's why."

"Wait a minute, young lady. You'll tell me what happened."

She condensed it-the corpse's identity, the agenda at the hunting bookstore, how it felt like a front. She tried to keep the trembling out of her voice.

"So this gypsy taxi was a plant; you're being trailed by someone who wants to kill you and followed you to the bookstore?"

The way her grandfather put it opened her eyes. Scared her. The thrill dimmed. But she couldn't give up the chase. And wouldn't know any more until she confronted Elise.

He banged down his stirring spoon on the tiled counter. "Too close for comfort. Back off. Don't throw yourself in danger."

"That's why I'm going la campagne."

"The countryside at this time of year? Don't you need to study? Aren't exams coming up?"

Not this again. Like she didn't worry about it all the time?

Her eyes welled. She didn't want to tell him. Wouldn't tell him.

"Your turn with Miles Davis, Grand-pere. I'll return tomorrow."

She turned away. Wished her shoulders wouldn't shake. Wished she could stay in this warm, fragrant kitchen and feel safe.

"Ah, ma pauvre." His big arms enfolded her. His wiry mustache scratched her cheek. "There's something else. What's really wrong?"

He tilted her quivering chin up with fingers smelling of tarragon. Stared deep into her eyes. She blinked and the tears flowed. She never could hide things from him for long.

"L'amour," he guessed. "Picked the wrong one again? Ah, you take after me." He sighed. Hugged her. "In so many ways, ma chere." With a deft touch, he dried her cheek with the edge of his apron. "It's that Florent, the one who's been calling all afternoon?"

"I hate him. He's getting engaged." She inhaled her grandfather's musky smell. "Can you believe it? Just my luck, his father treated me at the clinique. He warned me off Florent. Threatened if I don't transfer to medical school in Bordeaux, he'll make sure I fail the exam."

"One of those, eh?" Her grandfather kept his arm around her shoulder and guided her to the stool. "You did tell him your grandfather's retired Srete, and your godfather is a commissaire?"

She nodded. "Don't tell Papa, please."

He paused. "Never trust a doctor, Aimee. Hypocrites milking the system. At least with a criminal, you know where you stand."

Sometimes.

He took in her look. "Medical school's making you unhappy, ma puce. Maybe you should do something else. Something you feel passionate about."

He'd never pushed her, unlike her father.

"But I can't give up, Grand-pere."

"You don't have to look at it that way, Aimee. Vous allez trouver votre place."

You will find your place. That common saying. But it made her think. Where was her place? What was she good at?

She looked at the time. Late-she'd miss the train. She ran her fingers through her spiky hair, smoothed it down. Winced at the pain in her shoulder.

"I've got to meet Elise."

"Not a good idea, Aimee."

"Until I do I won't know what's going on." Or about her mother, but she left that out. "No use trying to talk me out of it, Grand-pere. I'm catching the train."

Her grandfather smoothed his mustache, a thing he did when thinking. "Did your father sign a contract with Elise?"

"She paid us a retainer, Grand-pere." Under French law, institutional and archaic as it was, a PI's investigative scope was narrowly defined by contract. Aimee needed to get one to cover her derriere.

"What were you thinking?" said her grandfather. He shook his head.

She changed and threw in a change of clothes in her worn Hermes, along with another pair of boots, her makeup kit, the dossier of her notes, her surveillance log, the photos. She called a taxi. No gypsy taxi for her.

Her grandfather stood waiting for her at the door with her old school lunchbox, which emitted smells of rabbit with mustard sauce, and a contract form. "Take this. It's standard. Have her sign off and come home."

Close to midnight, Aimee, in black leather pants and parka, gripped her bag and climbed from the short platform onto the third train, a diesel engine nicknamed Micheline, finally bound for Chambly-sur-Cher. Elise had painted an optimistic picture when she'd said two train changes. That was on days other than weekends, holidays, or August.

She breathed the acrid fumes and the tang of oil. At least the eyedrops had worn off. A nasal voice over the crackling loudspeaker announced timetable changes, then finally trumpeted their imminent departure.

Biscuit crumbs crunched under her as she sat down. She whisked the mess onto the floor. A young half-Arab man, headphones plugged into his ears over dark sideburns, escorted a bent, white-haired woman into the compartment. He seated her across from Aimee, sat down, then promptly ignored her.

The engine snorted, then chugged off. Aimee peered out the window, but only saw one track, a single-gauge line. What did they do when they met another train?

"Bertrand," the old lady across from her shouted.

No response. The young man's eyes were closed and his head shook rhythmically.

"Bertrand!" A roll to her Rs, typical patois of a Berrichon. The deep country of la France profonde.

She kicked him in the shin and he glared.

"Stick the eggs on top," she commanded, pointing to her shopping bag.

"Oui, Grand-mere," he said, and meekly complied.

Half asleep, Aimee watched the train zigzag past dark clumps that hinted at the lush forests she might see by daylight in the Sologne. They trundled through low-lying mist blanketing what she imagined were wheat fields. She caught glimpses of running deer beside the track in the engine's light. At the dirt road crossings, the train's piercing whistle scattered billows of startled night birds. Only a few hours outside of Paris, yet this region felt like another world.

The train finally chugged into Chambly-sur-Cher's white stone station. A line of washing hung limply between the rafters in the lit station house. The station mistress, in jeans, gold loafers, and a tight Lakers jacket, approached with a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth. With muscular arms she pulled the chute that swung the main track aside, then waved back to the engineer.

Aimee descended, relieved to have finally arrived. Her heeled boots crunched on the dusty gravel in front of the station. The way to the village was illuminated by a string of lantern lights. Her heart dropped-no Elise.

The old woman drew near, leaning on her cane. Her grandson had shouldered their large shopping bag.

"I'm visiting the Peltiers," Aimee said. "Know them?"

Her grandson looked up. "Who doesn't?"

"If you have trouble finding them, let me know." The old woman winked. "Everyone knows me."

"Merci, I will. Your name is . . . ?"

"Madame Jagametti," she said, spitting the Ts sharply.

Madame Jagametti, with her darkly handsome grandson escorting her, shuffled down past Chambly-sur-Cher's old village wall, which was crumbling and plastered with faded circus posters. In some places bald stones were all that remained of the ancient Roman wall curving into the neighboring forest and beyond. The three-quarter moon illuminated rolling hills, slate-roofed farmhouses, and lines of cypress trees. The silver-green of a river snaked in the distance.

A battered blue Renault screeched to a halt by the row of bare-branched plane trees. The car door swung open and a large man lumbered out. He was in his fifties, his shiny bald crown ringed by thinning dark hair, reminiscent of Friar Tuck. His overalls needed patching.

"Bonjour, I'm Clement. Mademoiselle Peltier asked me to pick you up. I'm a friend of the family." He extended a large paw-like hand, which Aimee shook. "ca va? Easy trip?"

His tone was light, but Aimee noticed his guarded look.

"Plenty of local color," she said and nodded toward the retreating figures of the limping madame and her grandson. Clement grunted and heaved her luggage onto the cracked upholstery of the back seat, which released a few chicken feathers. He climbed behind the wheel and ground the transmission into first gear.

Aimee gripped the door handle as the car lurched forward. Already she had a bad feeling about Clement's driving. From the way his mouth was screwed up, she could see it didn't come easily to him.

"I'm used to a tractor." He shrugged. "But driving is like riding a bike, n'est-ce pas? You never forget."

Aimee gave him a thin smile. She didn't have a car or want one, but she knew how to drive, more or less.

"Why didn't Elise meet me? Has her mother's condition worsened?"

Clement narrowly missed a late-night yellow mail van that turned out of an alley. He shrugged. "Gone to the emergency room. That's all I know."

Sounded serious. But weren't all strokes? "Best you drop me at the hospital."

"That's all the way in Vierzon."

Vierzon? She could have gotten off before the last transfer-she'd be talking to Elise right now.

"Wouldn't it make it easier if I caught the train back to Vierzon?"

"The last one left an hour ago."

Great. So now she'd be stuck here for the night without getting answers from Elise?

Chambly-sur-Cher's main square was bordered by a late-century mairie with a limestone facade, the town hall, la poste, and a shuttered cafe, deserted in the night. Twisted, narrow streets radiated from the square, vestiges of a market town's medieval grid. The place felt lifeless, so unlike her grandmother's village in the Auvergne.

She might as well try to get what information she could from this Clement.

"You said a family friend-how do you know the Peltiers?"

"When hasn't my family known them?" he replied.

"So you're a local, a Berrichon," she said. "Then you know messieurs Baret and Dufard."

He hunched his shoulders. "Me, I live across the river in Givaray now, where there's work."

What had once been a thriving river town, Aimee imagined by the look of the many shuttered houses, had dwindled to an almost deserted village. The Renault passed a boulangerie, its windows lined with blue, white, and red bunting. Next door was an abandoned shopfront with several battered bicycles leaning against it.