Bombshell

She sounded French. She’d spoken formally, but her English seemed perfectly fluent. A student?

“How can you tell?” Griffin’s face was covered up to his eyebrows.

She said, “You are tall, and I can picture your legs inside those nicely fitting jeans. Come on in; everyone is in the living room and kitchen. Hurry, I am freezing. Hang your coat on the rack.”

No wonder she was freezing, Griffin thought, watching her hurry into the house, her hair streaming down her back, straight as a board. He shut the door behind him, shrugged out of his parka and wool scarf, pulled off his ski cap and gloves, and hung everything on a coat rack near the front door. She called over her shoulder, “I am Gabrielle DuBois. I am Parisian, in case you are wondering about my accent. I play the oboe. Rafael and I make beautiful music together.”

Guitar and oboe duets?

“I sing as well—in fact, better than I play the oboe.”

“That’s nice to know,” Griffin said.

She turned to say something else and her mouth snapped shut. She stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

“Mon Dieu, if you had been at the party last night every female would have wanted to leave with you. C’est pas bon—Rafael isn’t going to like you at all. Who are you?”

Griffin thought she sounded both a bit alarmed and amused. Her French accent had thickened, and why was that? He fumbled pulling his creds out of his jeans pocket because her eyes were following his every move. He gritted his teeth, finally held up his shield. “Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI.”

“Mais c’est impossible!” came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat and said, “But how can you be an FBI agent? I mean, you should be a movie star like Brad Pitt.”

“Can’t act,” he said.

Gabrielle gave him a classic Gallic shrug. “Ah, but who would care if you can act, except for those idiot critics no one with a heart pays any attention to?”

A male voice heavy with the mellifluous cadence of Barcelona called out, “Gabrielle! Who is at the door? Is it Barbara? With my Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte?”

Griffin waved a hand toward the voice. “Professor Salazar, I presume?”

“Yes, that is he, and he is not going to like you, pas du tout.” Gabrielle gave him a wicked smile, and sashayed away, hips at full throttle. Griffin smiled after her since he wasn’t dead, and followed her mobile butt and swinging hair toward the noise. He’d hoped to find the professor alone, but that was not to be.

He stepped into a long, narrow living room to see a half-dozen women, though none in shorts like Gabrielle, all chatting and laughing as they filled plastic tubs with dirty plates and glasses, emptied overflowing ashtrays, rearranged furniture. How did the good professor manage to pull off a cleaning crew like this? And in this weather? Griffin was impressed.

Professor Salazar was the only man in the room. Griffin hadn’t taken the time to check up on Salazar before he came over. He wanted to get a sense of his character before knowing anything else about him. He was tall and dark, his black eyes heavily lidded—smooth-looking was the word that came to Griffin’s mind. His haughty dark brows and high-bridged nose were set in a face that hadn’t seen forty in a good long time. He had thick black hair, with distinguished flecks of gray at the temples, and beautiful hands, with long, tapered fingers. All in all, Griffin thought, he managed to carry off the European aristocrat look rather well, but sadly, he also reminded Griffin of a complacent lizard sunning on a rock, fully aware that his rock was the most important anywhere around. He was wearing dark slacks, moccasins, and of all things, he wore a smoking jacket. A cigarillo dangled between his fingers. Maybe he was trying for the Barcelona Bohemian look. Griffin wanted to tell him he was an idiot to smoke.

He was staring toward Griffin, not moving. He did not look happy. And why was that, since his house was getting cleaned for him?

“Oh, hi,” said another young woman, stepping in front of him. She came to his armpit, a little fairy with long glossy light brown hair kept back from her face with a gold band. She was wearing sweats and sneakers. “I’m Gloria. I play the viola.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “My goodness, I can’t believe Professor Salazar actually asked you here to help clean up. Why haven’t I ever seen you before?”

“I just got into town.”

She brightened. “What is your instrument?”

“Sorry, no instrument.” He pulled out his creds again. “He didn’t invite me. I’m from the FBI, here to see the professor.”