Murderous Endeavour

Chapter Eight

Diana woke to the feeling of someone jostling her arm. Her eyes blinked open, and she was almost surprised to find herself on a Boeing 737 instead of in her bedroom.

“We’re here,” the woman next to her said, stretching her arms over her head and retying her flowery scarf around her neck. “Thank goodness.”

Excitedly, Diana flipped open the shade on the window and looked out upon a dreary tarmac, covered with puddles. The plane was slowly taxiing to the gate. A driving rain spattered against the pane. The buildings in the surrounding area looked much like the ones dotted around JFK. It was dreary and wet, and she had to admit . . . kind of sad.

Well, what am I expecting? It’s an airport. Things will be nicer when I get into the city.

The bell overhead dinged, and she grabbed her carry-on and headed for the door. Walking in unison with the other travelers on a mad-dash through the airport, she finally found the baggage claim. Moments later, the baggage began to arrive. The woman she’d traveled next to lifted her own case and said, “Good luck!” almost like a challenge.

Diana smiled and waved. “Same to you,” she said, thinking, I don’t need good luck. If I were home right now, I’d be eating Lean Cuisine for One and thinking about how quiet the house is. This is so much better!

As she reached forward to grab her own suitcase from the carousel, a man jumped in front of her. At first, she thought he was going to help her. But then he yanked a giant duffle bag, nearly smacking Diana in the chest with it. She staggered backward, but not before he stepped on her foot as he turned around.

“Recules, hors de mon chemin!” the scruffy man shouted as he whirled. Seven years of French, and she had no clue what that meant. She was about to excuse herself when he said, “Idiote.”

She gasped in shock. Yes, it’d been a long time since she’d taken French, but . . . did he just call her an idiot?

“Excusez-moi,” she snapped with attitude since now she had to scurry around the carousel and chase after her bag. When she finally hefted it up, plenty of people were standing around, but no one offered to help as she struggled to right it on solid ground.

She extended the retractable handle and wheeled it out to the curb where a scowling taxi driver was smoking a cigarette and watching her like he wanted to kill her. He seemed annoyed when she stopped in front of him, and gave her a What do you want? glare. Before she could break out her Basic French, he flicked his cigarette butt into the wet street, grabbed her bag, and threw it in the trunk without so much as a “Bonjour.”

Was it just her, or was everyone in a bad mood? The rain poured on the roof as she got inside the cabin and pulled out her itinerary. “Le Bonne Auberge,” she said, studying her information. “On Rue de Charonne, please.”

The man grunted and swerved out into the traffic so fast that Diana jerked forward in her seat. She settled herself back and tried to spy interesting Parisian landmarks, but instead, they went about half a mile before they were packed on a five-lane road in wall-to-wall traffic. The driver was heavy on his brakes, so the car kept lurching forward and stopping, lurching and stopping, until Diana’s neck hurt from the whiplash. Huh. This reminds me of something. Oh, right. My commute to work.

She sighed at her itinerary and then looked at the clock. Well, they’d arrived on time. Early, actually. And she’d gotten her luggage. She put two big check-marks next to the first items on her itinerary, feeling a small bit of satisfaction. But now, those forty-five minutes she’d allowed for getting to the hotel seemed like a bit of an underestimation.