Coq au Vin
(Sprache: Englisch)
A New York Times Best Mystery Novel of the Year
In the second installment of the Nanette Hayes Mystery series, Nan is on her way to Paris in search of a missing relative. . . but will she lose more than just her heart in the city of...
In the second installment of the Nanette Hayes Mystery series, Nan is on her way to Paris in search of a missing relative. . . but will she lose more than just her heart in the city of...
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A New York Times Best Mystery Novel of the YearIn the second installment of the Nanette Hayes Mystery series, Nan is on her way to Paris in search of a missing relative. . . but will she lose more than just her heart in the city of love?
Nanette's life is finally getting back to normal when her mother calls her with some upsetting news: Nan's beloved bohemian Aunt Vivian has gone missing. Normally this is par for the course with Viv, but this time the circumstances surrounding Vivian's disappearance are rather troubling. Would Nan be up to brushing up on her French language skills and flying to Paris to track her down?
Would she ever. Now swanning about her favorite city, Nan has a hard time keeping her attention on the task at hand. . . especially after she meets handsome violinist Andre, a fellow street musician from Detroit. But trouble has a way of finding Nan, and her search for Vivian lands her in the underbelly of historic Paris and in the crosshairs of some of its most dangerous denizens.
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CHAPTER 1TRAVELIN LIGHT
Damn, I was tired. My saxophone seemed to weigh more than I did.
I had awakened early that morning and immediately commenced to fill the day with activity some of it necessary but most of it far from pressing.
I played for a time in midtown, a little north of the theater district; made some nice money. That wasn t my usual stomping ground. I had picked the corner almost at random. I don t know why I did so well. Maybe the people had spring fever, hormones working, calling out for love songs. In fact, the first song I played was Spring Fever. When you play on the street, you never know why you re a hit or a bust. Is it the mood of the crowd? Is it you? Is it the time of day or the time of year? Anyway, you do the gig and put your money in your belt and move on.
Next, I power walked up to Riverside Park and played there for a while; did my two hours volunteer work at the soup kitchen on Amsterdam; bought coffee beans at Zabar s; took the IRT downtown; bought a new reed for the sax on Bleecker Street; picked up some paint samples at the hardware store; then played again on lower Park Avenue, closer to my own neighborhood.
Makes me sound like a real flamer, doesn t it? A go-getter, a busy bee. Not true. I m lazy as hell.
What I was doing was trying to outrun my thoughts. That s what all that busy work was about.
Over dinner the previous night, the b.f. (the shithead s name is Griffin) had announced, number one, he wouldn t be spending the night at my place because he had other plans, and number two, he had other plans . . . period.
I should have known something was up when he said to meet him at the little Belgian café I like in the Village the other side of town from my place. He hated the food there, but it was convenient for his subway ride home.
This kind of thing has happened to me before. The relationship is at some critical point or maybe not; maybe it s simply that a certain amount of time
... mehr
has passed and I m reevaluating it. I meet his family. Mom wants to know if this is the real thing. I m asking myself constantly, Is the sex really that good? Should I stay in or should I get out?
And then, a couple of weeks later, before I come to a final decision, he splits.
What s with that?
I always seem to end up asking myself that question. What is with that?
I didn t spend the night crying or anything. I merely came in and stripped out of my clothes and snapped on the radio and finished whatever brown liquor I had in the cabinet. Temper tantrum aside, breaking the porcelain planter in the living-room window had been more of an accident than anything else.
Sleep was a long time coming. But when I awoke in the morning, I just started moving like this manic.
Now I was exhausted. I packed up my sax and started the short walk to my apartment near Gramercy Park.
Our homeless guy was back. It had been so long since anybody had seen him on the block, we all figured he was dead. But here he was again, in a neck brace, evil as ever, begging for dollars and cussing at anybody with the nerve to give him coins. Why don t you comb your hair? he called after me when I stuffed a single into his cup.
I made a quick run to the supermarket and then into the benighted little corner liquor store where a white wine from Chile is the high-end stuff.
I had poured myself a glass, turned on the radio, and read through the mail before I remembered to check the answering machine.
Nanette, it s me. About tonight. You re still coming over to eat, aren t you? Because I ve got something to tell you. It s . . . I m .
And then, a couple of weeks later, before I come to a final decision, he splits.
What s with that?
I always seem to end up asking myself that question. What is with that?
I didn t spend the night crying or anything. I merely came in and stripped out of my clothes and snapped on the radio and finished whatever brown liquor I had in the cabinet. Temper tantrum aside, breaking the porcelain planter in the living-room window had been more of an accident than anything else.
Sleep was a long time coming. But when I awoke in the morning, I just started moving like this manic.
Now I was exhausted. I packed up my sax and started the short walk to my apartment near Gramercy Park.
Our homeless guy was back. It had been so long since anybody had seen him on the block, we all figured he was dead. But here he was again, in a neck brace, evil as ever, begging for dollars and cussing at anybody with the nerve to give him coins. Why don t you comb your hair? he called after me when I stuffed a single into his cup.
I made a quick run to the supermarket and then into the benighted little corner liquor store where a white wine from Chile is the high-end stuff.
I had poured myself a glass, turned on the radio, and read through the mail before I remembered to check the answering machine.
Nanette, it s me. About tonight. You re still coming over to eat, aren t you? Because I ve got something to tell you. It s . . . I m .
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Charlotte Carter
Charlotte Carter
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Charlotte Carter
- 2021, 176 Seiten, Maße: 12,9 x 20 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0593314123
- ISBN-13: 9780593314128
- Erscheinungsdatum: 06.09.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
This high-spirited tour of Paris has terrific charm . . . with the infectious energy of eternal youth. The New York Times Book Review
Charlotte Carter has . . . the practiced discipline needed to craft functional, human sentences [that] flow one into the next without embellishment or posturing.
Crime Times
A top-notch mystery, engaging throughout and quite moving at the end.
Publishers Weekly
Carter s characters rarely do what one might expect. Reading her work just gives you a jolt.
Catapult Magazine
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