The evening began with another round of apologies and forgiveness, then suddenly had charged well beyond what either party had first imagined. The initial fumbled kiss that quickly became a passionate, clutching embrace that left articles of clothing scattered behind the awkward dance down the hall to the bedroom.

Barbara watched from her window as Keith hurried down the street to his car. He looked back up at her building briefly then got in and drove away. She wandered back to her bedroom and stood looking at the bed, wondering what the hell she had done.

***

Keith wasn't finding it business as usual at all, his head more than half in the memory of the previous night. And it was a day later his call finally found the French Municipal Police Officer who had left the confusing message, only to hear that he would fare much better investigating in France, himself.

A laborious explanation to his Captain ended with the inexplicable suggestion that Keith should consider the officer's suggestion.

"Sir, you can't be serious. You want me to fly to France and undertake an investigation on foreign soil?"

"Your friend seems to think it would be best."

"He's not my friend. I don't even know the man. He's just a copper passing the buck back to us."

"Can you solve this murder here with what you have?"

"No! There's no way. Everyone involved is French . . . in France."

"What about Edward Tewksbury?"

"He isn't really a suspect considering he wanted the papers in the first place and everyone involved knew that.

The Captain smiled grimly. "But he still might want the item in question."

"Galbraith did tell me he and Tewksbury considered it might be a scam, but Tewksbury wanted to go along and at least see the papers just in case."

"Well somebody killed the courier here, and I doubt it was done from France. You know, in my day, Detective, we didn't like open cases, especially homicides."

"You want me to go to France! I have no authority, no contacts. Nothing."

"You have a title. Detective. I believe that's supposed to mean you detect."

Keith slid back in the chair and rubbed his forehead. The Captain had gone on to inform him that he would make application to his superior and reach out to their opposite in the French National Police for accommodation.

"Get your beret cleaned and pressed, Detective," The Captain chuckled. "You are as good as on your way to the Riviera."

***

Edward Tewksbury stared out the airplane window at the rumpled cushion of clouds below, his mind analyzing the recent events that prompted his journey. Frossard had sent an imposter with the reputed letters; that in itself suggested they were fake.

Then the imposter was killed and the letters taken before they could be verified, which likely meant the scroll was also fake. When he learned about a theft from a prominent underworld figure in Nice, after contacting his various connections in the field of antiquities, Edward revised that last bit.

The owner had reached out to a Canadian contact to retrieve the letters, he must have thought were legitimate, and were likely on their way to France – if not already there. The name of the courier's employer would have also been of great interest, both to the owner and to Edward.

The plane broke through the cloud layer and he turned his attention to his arrival in Marrakech. He booked a hotel for two nights along with an easyJet flight to Nice. He needed to tap into his Moroccan contacts quickly to keep himself in the race.

***

"It's nice to have some daytime together. I hated sneaking around, meeting only in the evenings." Barbara remarked with a slight blush.

Saturday had turned warm and clear with just a mild onshore breeze and they had chosen this spot because it was a little way out of town . . . and eyes.

Keith looked out over the water from the lakefront restaurant, struggling with what he wanted to say.

"My homicide has gone on hold here for the moment."

"I thought you detectives always had files open that needed attention." Barbara, nibbled on a breaded shrimp.

"We do. I'm not the only detective, and we each usually work homicides one at a time."

"But you said it was on hold – don't you just take on another one?"

He laughed and took in her pleasantly curious expression. "It's not like there are dozens in a queue, thank goodness." He turned and faced her, taking her hand.

"I have something I need to tell you and something to ask."

He began with his department's decision to send him to France to continue the investigation into Aubert's murder and how it would all be handled.

"Oh, my! That sounds exciting. Have you ever been? Do you speak French?|"

"No to both, but let me finish. The part I want to ask is . . . could you – would you come with me?"

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, moving silently a moment before any sound came out.

"With you . . . how- I'm not-?"

"Could you take some vacation time? We couldn't appear to travel together but we could meet up on the plane . . . or when it lands . . . somehow?"

"Keith- I- you'll be investigating, how-?"

"It will actually help me over there – the investigating I mean. A couple travelling is far more natural than a lone man asking all kinds of questions." He leaned closer, his enthusiasm almost palpable.

"But the French police, what about them?"

He waved a hand and sat back. "I'm getting a letter from their Director of the National Police allowing me to, in essence, nose around. I won't have any authority but if I uncover evidence, they will take over for anything originating on their turf. And I can call them for different bits of info if I get warm."

Barbara folded her arms and leaned back. "This is a shocker."

"I would cover expenses over there . . . you uh, you would have to pay for your own flight . . ."

"Exactly what expenses would those be?" Her curiosity asked.

"Oh . . . food, transport – hotel."

"How would you explain the hotel?"

"Same as the food I guess . . . we'd share . . ."

"I see." He had the decency to blush, she thought. "How long are you talking about?"

"They're giving me two weeks to find something out then it's home again."

"I meant how long before you go?"

"Oh! Uh- I have to leave Wednesday. I didn't know in time to ask you before this."

"Wednesday! I would have to speak to Arthur, make flight plans, pack, and stop my mail . . ." She ran out of breath.

"Barbara, don't be angry, but I put a reservation on a ticket that will be held until tomorrow noon. You would just have to claim it in your own name – oh crap! Do you have a passport?"

"A ticket? Passport? Yes, I do."

"Whew." He grinned. "That would have been a disaster."

"You reserved a ticket?"

"I knew it would be short notice, so-"

"I don't know, Keith-"

"Please, I'll help you pack. You won't need much."

His grin was so engaging she stopped trying to process the whole idea and finally just smiled back. She could use a vacation, and if she was honest with herself, the idea was a fantasy dream.

"I'll call Arthur this evening."

Keith reacted like a lottery win. His hand slapped the table and he almost clicked his heels.

***

The Atlantic flight was long with little opportunity to be together and since nobody was interested in switching, they both read or slept all the way to Heathrow. From Heathrow to Nice the plane wasn't full, and they finally enjoyed the company and the views.

Through security and customs to the Terminal 2 car rentals where Keith picked up his pre-arranged car, a 4 door Peugeot manual shift.

"Can you drive a stick shift?" Barbara grinned.

"Been a while, but we have seat belts." He slipped it into gear and with an initial shudder, they left the airport and found the coast road into town. "I have to check in with the Municipal cops and get my ground rules straight. It shouldn't take long.

"I'll be fine, there's a lot more legroom in this than the plane."

"You have those directions?"

"Yes. Make a left at the intersection onto Avenue Didier Daurat. Follow this right up, it changes to Chemin de la Digue des Francais."

"Do you speak French, that's quite an accent?"

"I've had to make a few trips to France for research for the company. It was necessary to have some basic skill."

"So you've been here before."

"Not to Nice or the Riviera. This is a thrilling first."

Keith mused to himself that having Barbara along was an idea that just got better and better.

"How far on this road?"

"Uhm . . . through two traffic circles, then this becomes Traverse de la Digue des Francais. You stay on that until you reach the intersection of Boulevard Paul Montel. It will be on the corner on your left."

***

Thirty minutes later, Keith was finished registering his presence and learning the extent of his authority while in France. In the car he released a big sigh, and suggested they find accommodation and just unwind from the long flight and the time change.

They agreed for one night almost anything would do, and a small bed and breakfast on the outskirts proved a perfect choice. A shower and sleep out ranked food, so dinner was some fresh croissants and coffee from a convenient pâtisserie.

Keith offered to squeeze himself onto a small settee and give Barbara the bed, but the sad puppy expression was so blatant, she pointed out that two weeks of contortions like that would leave him crippled.

He beat her into bed.