Free French Fried by NANCY FAIRBANKS

have eaten every part of the animals they killed, including the brains.
    “. . . Bibliothèque de la Cité ,” Sylvie was saying. She planned to take me to a library? Instead of a real one, it was a library painted on the outside of a building. On each floor were books, manuscripts, quill pens, and even a beak-nosed bird reading in a window. Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken in front of the trompe l’oeil library.
    Sylvie was illegally parked when her engine sputtered and a policeman stopped to reprimand her. “What bloody bad luck,” she muttered and hopped out, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry. I can fix it.” She then turned to the policeman and chatted with him in French while Winston Churchill stood on my lap, barking with excitement.
    We’ll probably end up in jail , I thought, but it didn’t happen. The policeman, obviously smitten with Sylvie, helped her raise the hood, then came around to pat the dog while Sylvie stuck her head underneath and banged on things with a tool from her trunk. “Carolyn,” she called, “try the engine now.”
    “I don’t know how,” I called back, having observed that the car required shifting and depressing a clutch.
    The officer filled in. “Voila!” cried Sylvie, slamming down the hood. Then he, beaming with admiration, waved as we drove away without a ticket for illegal parking.
    “I have had a thought,” she said, “about who sent the foie gras. Maybe Professor Laurent found out that his wife was having an affair with Robert, so he sent Robert to your hotel with the poisoned pâté, knowing that Robert could not resist it. The man adored pâté, even more than he adored Zoe, the chairman’s mistress.”
    “Mademoiselle Thomas is Professor Laurent’s mistress?” I asked, shocked. Was there no end to the sexual liaisons in this department? The chairman’s wife and a professor. The chairman and his secretary. Jason thinks professors should set a good example, which reminded me that he himself had given me moments of unhappiness over Mercedes, his doctoral student from Mexico City. He made several scientific trips with her, although she was not with him on this one.
    “Of course,” said Sylvie. “It makes excellent sense. Not only does the chairman dislike the affair of his wife, but he also would dislike the fact that Robert hangs around Zoe, looking besotted. Two reasons to poison Robert.”
    “But the clerk at the hotel said a messenger brought the pâté.”
    “So Laurent had the pâté sent and then dispatched Robert to greet you. Robert would not be suspicious. He knew your husband, and the Guillots were out of town. Yes, either the Guillots or the Laurents are behind these attacks. Poor Robert. I’m sure he’d much rather have had an affair with Zoe than with Madam Laurent, and now he’s dead. Ah, here is La Fresque des Lyonnais.”
    Bemused by Sylvie’s speculations, I got out of the car and studied the new example of Lyonnais building painting. On the first floor was a shop with windows displaying the food of the city, and on the floors above, standing on their balconies were famous citizens from different centuries in the city’s history—Roman emperors, painters, poetesses, soldiers, and politicians. They covered the walls, wearing period clothes. Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken in front of Gastronomie Lyonnaise, with its painted sausages and other comestibles.
     
    As soon as Sylvie dropped me off, I rushed up to my room and called Inspector Roux to ask what progress he had made and to pass on Sylvie’s suspects. Jason would probably disapprove of my pointing a finger at our hosts, but I did have our safety to consider, not to mention my citizen’s duty to be helpful to law enforcement. He wasn’t in his office, so I tried his cell phone. All Europeans have cell phones. “Inspector, this is Carolyn Blue, the woman who discovered the Canadian in her room. I wondered if you’ve made headway.”
    “We