Death of a Batty Genius (Stormy Day Mystery #3) Read Free

was hallucinating, remembering the evening we met. I gently asked him to tell me where we were.
    He snorted. “We’re in the hotel, silly. The Lancaster Hotel.”
    “And what are we doing?”
    “Not much. My cousin’s in the bath with your two friends, and I got ditched with you.” Softer, he added, “But I don’t mind. Underneath all that dark makeup, I think you’re pretty.”
    “Christopher, if we’re really in the Lancaster Hotel in Paris right now, can you tell me my name?”
    “You said it’s Stacy, but I think you’re lying. You’re not really a Stacy.”
    I silently mouthed a wow to myself. Whatever drug he’d taken, it was giving him uncanny powers of recall.
    He adjusted his position and wrapped one arm around my legs possessively. “Sleep here at the hotel tonight. It’s getting late, not safe for you to travel back to whatever bed-bug-infested hostel you’re slumming at. Stay with me, and we’ll order room service in the morning.”
    “Room service,” I mused. Buttery, flaky croissants. Fresh strawberries. Bowl-sized lattes. All served on gleaming silver trays in the luxury suite.
    Backpacking across Europe had taken a turn for the glamorous when I met Christopher and his cousin at a rock concert in Paris. The band playing was from Japan and played American Rockabilly music. I was traveling with two other young women, and the five of us danced all night. We left together, with Christopher’s cousin promising us secret access to the catacombs under the city.
    We never did find the entrance to the catacombs, but—conveniently enough—we did end up near enough to the guys’ hotel to make a “pit stop.”
    My thirty-three-year-old self would see right through their plot, but I was young and eager then, with all the wide-eyed wonder of a small-town girl with more enthusiasm than money.
    So, while Christopher’s cousin did some very French things with my two travel companions on the other side of the washroom door, Christopher and I watched dubbed American movies from the eighties. He even let me sit on the bed—after I’d removed the offending army boots.
    When the sun came up, we awoke fully clothed, spooning on top of the covers. I said good morning, he declared that I was more beautiful than all of Paris in the sunshine, and we kissed for the first time.
    “No,” Christopher groaned from my lap, tugging me out of the sunny memory and back into the dark truck.
    “No,” he moaned again.
    “Shh. You’re just having a bad trip.” I smoothed his fine hair, which had gotten damp and curly at the temples. “You took mushrooms again, didn’t you? After you swore you wouldn’t.”
    The driver’s side door opened, and Logan slid in with a pocket of cold air. He looked back at Christopher, who still had his head in my lap.
    “Keep him just like that,” Logan said. “If he throws up, it’ll be on your lap and not my leather seats.”
    “He’s feeling calmer now,” I said crisply. “Thanks for asking.”
    Logan handed back my jacket as well as his, both of which I draped over Christopher.
    “Where to?” Logan asked. “We should blow this popsicle stand before Captain Milano shows up to handcuff me to a freight train leaving town.” He put the engine in gear. “Did your friend happen to tell you where he’s staying?”
    I patted Christopher’s pockets, then dug inside and located his keys, phone, wallet, and a gas station receipt, but no sign of a hotel pass card or motel key.
    With a formal air, I announced, “Mr. Fairchild will be staying at our place.”
    Logan chuckled.
    “Are you laughing at me, Mr. Sanderson?”
    “Not at all. It’s just… I like it when you say ‘our place.’ I don’t know why.”
    I let out an amused huff. “It’s because that duplex is a fantastic investment property in an up-and-coming neighborhood.”
    He glanced back over his shoulder, blue eyes twinkling. “That must be why.” He turned around, stepped on the gas, and pointed us