The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol Read Free Page A

forward in order to read the officer’s nametag. Noting it, he nods. “How may we help you, Captain Duclos?”  
    The younger officer hides his smirk in a cough. Perhaps it has something to do with Jack’s generous promotion for his partner, a mere beat cop.
    “Jean-Pierre Gambon claims he has spent the last few hours here, with you. Can you confirm this?” Duclos’s way to silence Jean-Pierre before he says anything is to clamp his hand so hard on our cabana boy’s shoulder that he winces.
    Jack looks to me, then to Jean-Pierre.  
    Jean-Pierre’s eyes say it all: Help me.
    Before Jack opens his mouth, I purr, “He gives wonderful massages, Captain. You should try one some time.”
    Duclos’s response to my suggestion is a wary glare. “This is not a joking matter, Madame. Jean-Pierre was found on the beach, clinging to the body of a dead woman: Nicolette Beauchamp.”
    Jack’s smile fades. “But—if she has drowned, why detain Jean-Pierre?”  
    Duclos shakes his head. “Drowned? Non. She was strangled. The coroner will soon determine the time of death.” Duclos turns to me. “I ask you again, Madame: when exactly did you receive your massage?”
    Jean-Pierre’s mouth gapes open, but nothing comes out. His eyes implore me to save him.
    To believe him.
    For some reason, I do. When Jean-Pierre looked at Nicolette, his eyes were filled with adoration. With love.  
    And, sadly, regret.  
    He has so much more to regret now.
    “Jack’s massage was first. It ran over an hour, didn’t it, Jack?” I turn innocently to my husband.
    His eyebrow arches. Still, he nods his head. “Yours was immediately afterward. And about the same amount of time.” His tone leaves no room for doubt.
    The younger officer takes a pad from his pocket and scribbles this down.
    Duclos scowls. “Again, Monsieur, what time were these massages?”
    “Well…” Jack looks skyward, as if searching his memory. “Jean-Pierre left only, say, a half hour before the sirens began.”
    “And only because I asked him to walk out onto the beach. I’d misplaced my sun hat. It’s black, with a white band around the rim,” I add. I tilt my head in Jean-Pierre’s direction. “By the way, did you find it?”
    Slowly, Jean-Pierre shakes his head. Still stunned, he says nothing.
    Inspector Duclos is no idiot. He realizes his number one suspect has not just one alibi, but two. His grip loosens on Jean-Pierre. With a tip to the brim of his hat, he growls, “Good night , Madame and Monsieur.”
    “Wait! Officer, aren’t you going to ask us what we might know about Nicolette’s whereabouts?”
    This stops Duclos in his tracks. “ Oui, Madame. And what may that be?”
    “Late this afternoon, the young lady was sunbathing beside us, along with two of her friends. When a humongous yacht dropped anchor, they ran over to the owner’s helicopter and flew back to it with him—what is his name again? You know, the Middle-Eastern gentleman that owns the big pink monstrosity on the hill?”
    The color drains from Duclos’s face. “Salem al-Sadah?”
    So, it is Salem after all.  
    But how could that be?
    “Yes, that’s the man,” I assure him. “She welcomed him on the beach. Everyone around saw it. In fact, she was talking to him on his phone as his helicopter landed beside us. I remember this because I lost my hat because of it.”
    “I’m sure what my wife said can be verified by Mademoiselle Beauchamp’s cell phone records,” Jack adds. “Since Mr. al-Sadah may have been the last person to see her alive, why don’t you start your investigation there?”
    Duclos’s lips pucker at this new information, and no wonder. If what Jean-Pierre said earlier—that the local police are paid to look the other way at al-Sadah’s indiscretions—I assume he’s not too eager to poke at that bear.  
    Well, too bad. It beats blaming an innocent man.
    Finally, Duclos shrugs. “The gentleman is having a private party on his yacht, as we speak. A