I see London, I see France, I see some girl's underpants.
Well, not really. But almost.
On that uncouth note, here goes my review of Leslie Meier's second-to-most-recent Lucy Stone mystery, Mother of the Bride Murder. When Lucy hears that her oldest daughter is engaged to a wealthy Frenchman, she's over the moon and convinces the whole family to flock to France for the big day. But once in croissant country, even the blissed-out mother-of-the-bride-to-be can't deny that there's something strange about Jean-Luc's family and their creepy chateau. Then Lucy's grandson goes fishing and hooks the body of what looks like, well, a hooker. The Stones become suspects faster than you can say sacré bleu, detained at the chateau with nothing to do but try to figure out whodunit.
Over the years, I've noticed that Meier has a knack for stripping accounts of glam getaways to their grim guts, and Mother of the Bride Murder is no different. It echoes and even references the unfortunate events of her French Pastry Murder, serving as a not-so-subtle reminder that international travel isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Then again, neither is marrying a dude who puts the "harm" in "prince charming."
