Free The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro Page A

either. On the contrary, all the information she has provided has been correct so far.’
    Grace sighed, running her hand across her eyes. There were no answers, only more questions. Now her head was beginning to ache. ‘I’m completely at a loss. I honestly have no idea of where to begin.’
    He thought a moment.
    He’d been instructed by the senior partners to deal with this case as quickly and discreetly as possible. They were eager to prevent any scandal that might impact on the remaining Hiver family members. But he hadn’t expected Madame Munroe to be quite so baffled by the situation. And he found her reluctance to simply accept the bequest intriguing. Her insistence to know more hinted at some measure of character; a quality he found increasingly rare these days. And so, despite his instructions, Monsieur Tissot made an unorthodox decision. ‘Well, then.’ He turned on the ignition. ‘You need help,’ he said matter-of-factly.
    ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘Madame Munroe, I’d like to be of assistance but I can’t do anything until I’ve had my supper.’ He pulled out. ‘There’s a bistro round the corner.’
    She looked at him in surprise. ‘And you’re taking me with you?’
    ‘Do you have plans?’
    ‘I . . . No.’
    ‘Then it seems the kindest thing to do.’ And for the first time he smiled; a rather surprising, angular grin, punctuated by two dimples. ‘I cannot solve your mystery, but at least I can feed you.’
     
    Monsieur Tissot took Grace to a café with a bistro on one side and a more formal restaurant on the other. The staff seemed to know him there and quickly seated them at a corner table, where they sat, side by side, looking out on to the rest of the room. Grace hadn’t dined alone with a man who wasn’t her husband since her marriage. But perhaps because of the circumstances, or the strangeness of the country, it was easier than she imagined. Monsieur Tissot didn’t seem to require or expect conversation. Instead they sat, watching the other diners – a fascinating occupation in itself.
    Grace surveyed the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the ragout de cou d’agneau ,’ she decided, closing it.
    ‘The lamb’s neck stew? Excellent choice.’
    ‘Lamb’s neck?’ She picked up the menu again.
    He grinned. ‘Shall I order for both of us?’
    ‘Well . . .’ She scanned the entrées again, searching for something familiar. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a very sophisticated palate. By French standards, that is.’
    ‘Well then,’ he leaned back, stretching out his long legs, ‘tell me what you like to eat at home and I will advise you.’
    ‘Well, I suppose I eat a great deal of . . . toast.’
    ‘Toast?’ He cocked his head, as if perhaps he hadn’t heard her correctly. ‘I’m sorry. Out of choice?’
    ‘The thing is, I’m not used to anything too . . . too French.’
    ‘You are in Paris, madame.’
    ‘Yes, but you know what I mean, don’t you? Dishes with too much flavour?’
    ‘How can anything possibly have too much flavour?’
    ‘What I mean is too many strong flavours, like onions and garlic . . .’
    They gazed at each other across a great cultural divide.
    Grace gave up; put the menu down. ‘Yes. I trust you.’
    The waiter came up and M Tissot ordered for both of them – salade mixte, poule au pot , and a bottle of vin rouge .
    He poured her a glass, passing the bread. And she realized that she was very hungry. Lunch had passed and she’d forgotten about it. She tore off a piece of baguette; it was both crusty and soft, still warm in the centre. It was amazing how something so simple, so basic could be this delicious. And so completely different from its counterpart in England.
    ‘Who is this woman?’ Grace wondered aloud, devouring the bread. ‘That’s the question. And why on earth is she giving me this money?’
    ‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘But what I’d like to know is – what do you propose to do with it?’
    She hadn’t