Read Online Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad - Free Book Online

wound the duvet mercilessly around her torso. Perhaps she should confide in Peter. That would be the logical thing. Amy, stop it. Stop thinking. But she couldn’t.
    Peter, if she told him, would probably be logical and say it was a coincidence. That’s what Peter did. It was his strong suit, to see everything as normal, and she often admired this quality. But what if everything wasn’t normal?
    That’s where someone like Marcus would be better, wouldn’t he? Impulsive, conniving Marcus—someone who refused to just stick his head in the sand. So, should she confide in Peter, after all, or should she . . . Augh, stop thinking. Why couldn’t she stop thinking?

CHAPTER 8
    B y mid-morning everything seemed fine again.
    It was surprising what a perfect April day in Paris, along with a little shopping, could do to a girl’s mood. There were three of them sharing this excursion: Laila Steinberg, Nicole Marconi, and Amy, who had beguiled them with the promise of some exquisite little shops hidden among the steep, twisting alleys of Montmartre.
    She made a single purchase that morning, an irresistible set of antique buttons, etched silver with mother-of-pearl inlays, which could just possibly renew her Lanvin silk jacket for a few more years. While the others continued to comb through every nook and cranny of the boutique, Amy accepted an espresso from the gracious owner and stood in the doorway, observing Parisian life on the street.
    Just a few doors down, a woman with a shaved head and a neck tattoo was sitting on a stoop, rolling a cigarette with expert ease. Across the street, a pair of grandparents alternately laughed and panicked and did their best to chase down a three-year-old on a tricycle. Young girls in uniform skipped by arm in arm and absently played with a few handfuls of grape leaves. They were only a block or so away from Clos Montmartre, Amy seemed to recall, a tiny hillside vineyard, the last vineyard left in Paris.
    â€œWe got some real steals,” Nicole whispered as she sprang through the doorway, her string bag full with half a dozen colorfully wrapped baubles.
    Laila Steinberg followed with another string bag, plus two large shopping bags. “I am so ready for lunch,” she laughed, gasping out the words, as if she’d just completed a marathon.
    Lunch was at Le Moulin Orange, a trendy brasserie on rue Lepic. The place had been hard to track down. Laila’s husband had seen a rave review in the Times praising its unusual blend of French and Italian, a heretical concept for a Parisian brasserie. They settled in at a window table, and Laila ordered a lamb chop, highly recommended in the same Times review, according to Maury. Nicole stuck to her diet with a salade niçoise , dressing on the side. And Amy, who never worried much about weight, ordered a traditional cassoulet, a sentimental favorite and a surprising find on a springtime menu. Paisley, of course, would be paying.
    â€œHelp me understand.” Amy was sipping more than her share of the cru Beaujolais and feeling emboldened. “Why all this fuss about a maid? I know it sounds callous. She was quite wonderful, and this is a free trip. I get it. But all of you . . . most of you . . .” She avoided glancing over at Nicole. “You can afford your own first-class travel. And you have such busy lives.”
    â€œSo why are we taking off eleven days to spread her ashes around the world?” Laila stared out over the rims of her narrow, enviable maroon frames. “Because she asked, I guess. It never occurred to us to say no. I can’t speak for Nicole. . . .”
    â€œThe same,” Nicole said with a nod. “Paisley would do anything for you, no questions, no judgments. That becomes very seductive. Inside a week this woman would be your best friend. Inside a month, you couldn’t live without her, which is stupid.”
    â€œNot that she would ever betray a confidence,”