{"product_id":"murder-at-the-porte-de-versailles-isbn-9781641294553","title":"Murder at the Porte de Versailles","description":"\u003cb\u003eThis riveting 20th installment entangles Parisian private investigator Aimée Leduc in a dangerous web of international spycraft and terrorist threats in Paris's 15th \u003ci\u003earrondissement\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNovember 2001: in the wake of 9\/11, Paris is living in a state of fear. For Aimée Leduc, November is bittersweet: the anniversary of her father’s death and her daughter’s third birthday fall on the same day. A gathering for family and friends is disrupted when a bomb goes off at the police laboratory—and Boris Viard, the partner of Aimée’s friend Michou, is found unconscious at the scene of the crime with traces of explosives under his fingernails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée doesn’t believe Boris set the bomb. In an effort to prove this, she battles the police and his own lab colleagues, collecting conflicting eyewitness reports. When a member of the French secret service drafts Aimée to help investigate possible links to an Iranian Revolutionary guard and fugitive radicals who bombed Interpol in the 1980s, Aimée uncovers ties to a cold case of her father’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Aimée scours the streets of the 15th \u003ci\u003earrondissement\u003c\/i\u003e trying to learn the truth, she has to ask herself if she should succumb to pressure from Chloe’s biological father and move them out to his farm in Brittany. But could Aimée Leduc ever leave Paris?\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eMurder at the Porte de Versailles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eA CrimeReads Best Traditional Mystery of 2022 \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCrimeReads Best New Crime Fiction of March\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCrimeReads Most Anticipated Books of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“While fans may wonder what’s next for the redoubtable Leduc after Paris, it’s clear from the intricate plotting and tantalizing loose ends that Black has plenty of stories left to tell.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003ePaula Woods, \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The 20th Aimée Leduc novel, \u003ci\u003eMurder in the Porte de Versailles\u003c\/i\u003e, is taut, vivid, smart, rich in humanity and addictive momentum. It is set in 2001, only a couple of months after 9\/11, and police and international authorities are on high alert. A dear friend of Aimée’s is found unconscious in an explosion’s rubble, with evidence indicating that he may have set the bomb. Black races ahead, in alternating scenes with Leduc and crooked cops and everyday people caught beyond their depth.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Black’s chatty style quickly transports the reader to the banks of the River Seine, and Leduc, as always, is an engaging heroine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Financial Times\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A Paris-infused mystery with many twists and turns, and just enough of a cliffhanger at the end to make sure we come back for the next book.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eReviewing the Evidence\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Everyone’s favorite sophisticated sleuth is back . . . When Aimee’s friend Boris is accused of setting a bomb off at a police lab, she throws herself into clearing him of the accusation, glad for the distraction, but will her newfound energy lead her into more danger than ever before?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—CrimeReads\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is the twentieth installment in Cara Black’s consistently well-researched and entertaining Leduc novels . . . Rife with references to both well-known and hidden Paris locales, the always fashionable Aimée manages to get herself entangled with French secret police as they draft her into using her connections to assist them . . . Aimée’s family consists of characters regular readers will be glad to see return, from daughter Chloé to godfather Morbier to lover Melac . . . Come take a tour of La Ville Lumiere with its blue-lit \u003ci\u003ebateaus-mouches\u003c\/i\u003e, Notre Dame with the inky wash of the Seine, Saint Michel’s spot-lit fountain, past the dark expanse of the Jardin du Luxembourg.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Deadly Pleasures Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fans will appreciate this ride-along with Leduc, which focuses on the tense and fearful world following 9\/11.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—AudioFile\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This deep into the series, Aimée has acquired a complex backstory. Devotees will sail through . . . Black’s pithy, pacey style enables her to efficiently sketch in background while moving the story forward and creating that all-important ambience. Hanging over the book is the suggestion from the father of her child that Aimée and Chloé leave Paris to live with him in the country. Better for Chloé, perhaps, but for Aimée? \u003ci\u003eJamais.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eAir Mail News\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Black's series is at home on bestseller lists and has long been a particular favorite of librarians and library patrons . . . Set in November 2001, the story unwinds against the backdrop of 9\/11 and, more personally, the question of whether Aimée should move to Brittany with her three-year-old daughter, Chloe, and her biological father. Forget it, Aimée: we want you in Paris, not clomping about a farm in Birkenstocks.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In bestseller Black’s riveting 20th Aimée Leduc investigation, tensions are high in Paris two months after 9\/11 . . . Rich with detail about life in Paris, this entry illuminates the complications that friends and family can unwittingly create. Black shows no signs of losing steam.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A bombing at a police lab has all Paris on edge . . . As days pass without an arrest, Aimée moves into action. Will she find the bombers before the police arrest Boris and before Melac decides that Paris is just too dangerous a place for his child? Black delivers again with a combination of political intrigue and tight detective thrills.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for the Aimée Leduc investigations\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Wry, complex, sophisticated, intensely Parisian . . . One of the very best heroines in crime fiction today.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Lee Child\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The finest PI series now being written.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Mick Herron, author of the Slough House series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As always, with airfares so high, Black offers armchair travelers a whirlwind trip through the City of Light.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Marvelous . . . boasts all of Black’s trademark charms, including deft plotting, sharp dialog and colorful sights and sounds.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Chicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Cara Black’s Aimée Leduc is a gem: a stylish, brave private detective (and new mom) who zips around Paris on a scooter . . . Beguiling tours of some of Paris’ little-known corners.”  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “Black creates rich, plausible characters, giving them individuality and depth.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—San Francisco Gate\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Whether read as a crime story with roots in international politics or as the latest chapter in a fascinating family drama, this is a deeply satisfying and entertaining novel.” \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eCara Black\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of twenty books in the New York Times bestselling Aimée Leduc series as well as the thriller \u003ci\u003eThree Hours in Paris\u003c\/i\u003e. She has received multiple nominations for the Anthony and Macavity Awards, and her books have been translated into German, Norwegian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Italian, and Hebrew. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and son and visits Paris frequently.\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNovember 2001 •\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eSunday •\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eLate Afternoon •\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eParis \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Directrice Bécard’s work phone vibrated on the crowded café’s zinc counter in a frenetic burst. On the blaring \u003ci\u003etélé,\u003c\/i\u003e sports fans shouted “10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .” in the championship game’s last seconds just as she answered.\u003cbr\u003e      She strained to hear, her wine glass still in hand. Silly idea to come here for peace and quiet after a long day of meetings at the anti-terrorist unit. Cigarette smoke spiraled to the ceiling. People jumped and cheered. She pressed the phone tighter to her ear. \u003cbr\u003e      “Hate to bother you, \u003ci\u003eMadame la Directrice\u003c\/i\u003e, but you said you wanted to know the latest.” \u003cbr\u003e      Her stomach clenched. Had the threat level been raised since she’d left work?\u003cbr\u003e      “Of course. What’s happened?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Police reports of stolen explosives, possibly military-grade or industrial, just crossed my desk. Purportedly taken last night. We’ve been kicked into high alert.” \u003cbr\u003e      She almost choked on her wine.\u003ci\u003e Merde. \u003c\/i\u003eShe’d feared those words since 9\/11.\u003cbr\u003e      Protocol kicked in. Trained for emergencies—as if one could ever really be prepared—her brain scrambled to the next step. She dropped a five-franc note and rushed out into the late afternoon.\u003cbr\u003e      Once outside, she gulped the chill fresh air and hit redial. “Give me more on the threat level status.” \u003cbr\u003e      “What’s your ETA?”\u003cbr\u003e      “I’m across the street. Is this confirmed? Do you have a location?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Confirmed.” Castel, her department colleague, sighed. “But no location.”\u003cbr\u003e      She ran on rue de Dantzig past the wall plaque—a memorial to a local \u003ci\u003erésistant\u003c\/i\u003e shot here in the war. A faded bouquet tacked onto it shriveled in the shadows. Through the tall metal and glass Deco door, she entered the building complex home to the bomb squad, the laboratories and scientific police, and arson investigation. She crossed the lobby, nodding to the duty clerk, who gestured her upstairs.\u003cbr\u003e      Fluorescent lights flickered on the scuffed vanilla walls and brown tiled stairs as she padded to the top of the building to what they used for a situation room.\u003cbr\u003e      Panting, she looked down the glass-windowed hallway reflecting the ribbon of the Seine, backlit by a sky lush with burnt orange. \u003cbr\u003e      “Here’s the latest,” said Castel, handing her a printout from the ministry. Five or so desks occupied by techs sat near hastily mounted wall maps. \u003cbr\u003e      Just as she’d feared. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eCredible Intelligence Indicates Imminent Explosive Attacks—Duty Personnel Maintain High Alert.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003ci\u003eSunday •\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eLate Afternoon •\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003ePère Lachaise Cemetery\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e  Aimée Leduc’s eyes misted under the lead-grey sky in the Père Lachaise cemetery columbarium. She placed white chrysanthemums at her father’s niche. Filled with the lingering ache of loss, she kissed his name etched in stone: jean-claude. Aimée helped her daughter, Chloé, do the same; the child’s kiss landed with a slobbering effect. Three years old on the anniversary of her grandfather’s death. The bitter and sweet of life.\u003cbr\u003e      “I can’t believe it’s been twelve years, Mademoiselle Aimée. But I know he’d be proud of you.” Martin, the only other mourner, had been an informant of her father’s. Every year on this day Martin had mass said for her father. Martin’s oversized glasses, silver pompadour, and leathery tan—even in November—gave him the appearance of a seventies-era film producer at Cannes. He dabbed his nose with a handkerchief. “I miss him.”\u003cbr\u003e      Aimée squeezed his arm. “I miss him, too.” Half the time she still expected her father to walk through the doors of Leduc Detective, flash that lopsided grin of his, and sling his coat on the hook. Following his death, Aimée had taken over the agency, focusing on computer security, earning good money. Fed up with field investigation, she’d recently gone into consulting and qualified as an expert witness for court testimony. It gave her more time with Chloé.\u003cbr\u003e      A mosaic of yellow and orange leaves crisped into gold over the cemetery’s charcoal cobbles. On a mausoleum, damp oozed from moss on an angel’s wing, the cracked stone frozen forever in flight. \u003cbr\u003e      Aimée opened her umbrella to the patter of drizzle. A broom scraped as a bent old woman, her scarf tied under her chin, swept leaves off a gravestone. \u003cbr\u003e      Martin ruffled Chloé’s blonde curls as she tottered on the slick stones and grabbed his leg for support. “\u003ci\u003eBon anniversaire, ma petite.\u003c\/i\u003e” He held out a Printemps box as big as Chloé. \u003cbr\u003e      Chloé’s laughter numbed the welling sadness. Time to move on, Aimée told herself—she had a daughter to raise. At that, her phone chirped. The message was from her partner, René—a reminder that she had a business to run, too.\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eVoilà\u003c\/i\u003e,” she said, scooping Chloé up in her arms. “Now it’s time for your birthday party, \u003ci\u003ema fille. Grand-père\u003c\/i\u003e would like that.”\u003cbr\u003e      Martin nodded. “He’s watching over you, his two beautiful \u003ci\u003emesdemoiselles\u003c\/i\u003e.” \u003cbr\u003e      They embraced goodbye among tombstones freckled with mold and lichen. Aimée wondered, noticing Martin’s age and faltering step as he walked away, if it was for the last time.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003ci\u003eSunday Evening •\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eIle Saint-Louis\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Fuchsia helium balloons and pink streamers bobbed in Aimée’s high-ceilinged seventeenth-century Ile Saint-Louis flat, the place warm for once from the body heat of partygoers and the sputtering tapers in their silver candelabras. Chloé ran past in her furry leopard-print boots, an early gift. She wouldn’t take them off, had even slept with them on. \u003cbr\u003e      Already a \u003ci\u003epetite\u003c\/i\u003e fashionista.\u003cbr\u003e      It was a circus, Chloé chasing little Miles Davis, Aimée’s bichon frise, and preschoolers trailing streamers and squealing in delight. The birthday party would end soon. \u003cbr\u003e      Not soon enough.\u003cbr\u003e      Martine Sitbon, Aimée’s best friend since lycée, a writer for \u003ci\u003eLibération\u003c\/i\u003e and a party animal, had conned her into not only throwing the birthday party but also having it catered. With her hair dyed pink for the occasion, Martine danced into the salon holding a chocolate-raspberry \u003ci\u003egâteau \u003c\/i\u003ewith three candles.\u003cbr\u003e      At last, Aimée thought. Not only were the three-year-olds restless, but their parents had been glancing at their watches for the past twenty minutes. It was, after all, a school night.\u003cbr\u003e      Aimée pinged a wine glass with her fork. “\u003ci\u003eAttention!\u003c\/i\u003e” \u003cbr\u003e      She nodded to René, Chloé’s godfather, to capture the moment with his video camera. René struggled to climb up on a chair, brusquely refusing help from a parent who’d offered him a hand. A dwarf at four feet tall, he prided himself on being self-sufficient. His black belt in karate helped in that department. \u003cbr\u003e      “Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday,’” said Aimée.\u003cbr\u003e      René panned the video camera as Chloé’s puffed cheeks blew out the candles to rousing cheers. Lifting her up was Melac, her biological father, whose grey-blue eyes she’d inherited. Beside them hunched Morbier, Aimée’s white-haired godfather, his basset-hound eyes crinkled with laughter as he pulled out the candles for Chloé. Michou and Boris Viard, a gay couple who were René’s neighbors and close friends of Aimée’s, blew her kisses. \u003cbr\u003e      Yet Chloé’s grandmother, Sydney Leduc, was a no-show. Typical. Aimée’s American mother, a seventies radical who had once been on Interpol’s Most Wanted List, had taken a therapeutic “cure” at a salt spa outside Kraków. But a check with several zeros drawn from a Swiss bank account had arrived for Chloé’s “education.”\u003cbr\u003e      Aimée wiped the crumbs off her \u003ci\u003ebébé\u003c\/i\u003e’s\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003echeeks, moved by the candlelit faces shining with love for her daughter. \u003cbr\u003e      Michou, his eye makeup perfect, popped a cork; vintage champagne flowed. Boris, in black leather with streamers in his hair, lifted Chloé into the air and kissed her. “I can’t believe my favorite \u003ci\u003efille \u003c\/i\u003eis so big!” \u003cbr\u003e      Chloé kissed him back, grinned, and raised three chubby fingers. Aimée was so proud that her daughter attended the\u003ci\u003e école maternelle\u003c\/i\u003e around the corner, Aimée’s own alma mater. She took in another glimpse of Michou and Boris, etching this picture of them into her mind. She loved these two and often relied on them as backup babysitters.\u003cbr\u003e      As Martine sliced the cake, Melac took Aimée’s hand—his thumb catching on the gold bracelet he’d given her—and leaned into her ear. “Next year, we’ll have her birthday on the farm in Brittany. Everyone will come. Chloé will love it.” \u003cbr\u003e      Not this again. A former \u003ci\u003eflic,\u003c\/i\u003e Melac ran a corporate security business and wanted to be more than a part-time dad. He also wanted to leave the city. Aimée’s thoughts ricocheted. Live on Melac’s farm, work remotely, and look out her window to see goats, not the Seine?\u003cbr\u003e      Her?\u003cbr\u003e      “It’s healthier by the sea, out in nature. What do you say, Aimée?”\u003cbr\u003e      If only this appealed to her. Was it selfish not to think of how it might benefit Chloé? She had to stall.\u003cbr\u003e      “Not now, Melac.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Don’t brush me off again.” Hurt edged his voice. “I’m tired of waiting.” \u003cbr\u003e      “I told you, I’m thinking about it. Seriously.”\u003cbr\u003e      Wasn’t she? \u003cbr\u003e      His gaze read her indecision. \u003cbr\u003e      “You need to decide \u003ci\u003enow\u003c\/i\u003e.” His tone notched up in irritation. “What’s so difficult about this? It should be an easy choice.”\u003cbr\u003e      Pack up and go just like that? What about Chloé’s friends? Her school? Not to mention Aimée’s whole life and her business were here. Her relationship with Melac had been fraught after Chloé was born; he’d disappeared, then returned at her christening with a new wife, wanting custody. They’d finally come to an arrangement, then the wife left and Melac became more of a constant in their lives.\u003cbr\u003e      Could she trust him?\u003cbr\u003e      As usual, he’d picked the worst time for an ultimatum. She needed to hurry the party along.\u003cbr\u003e      She stood, summoned a smile, and raised a champagne flute. “Time to open presents.”\u003cbr\u003e      Boris clapped his hand over his mouth. “\u003ci\u003eQuelle horreur!\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e      Everyone turned and looked at him. \u003cbr\u003e      “I had Chloé’s present sent to my office,” he explained. “It’s sitting on my desk at the police lab.”\u003cbr\u003e      Michou stomped his high-heeled foot. “\u003ci\u003eMais zut alors\u003c\/i\u003e, how often does Chloé turn three?”\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eDésolé\u003c\/i\u003e,” Boris said, shamefaced. “I feel so stupid for forgetting.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Don’t worry,” Aimée soothed. “Just pick it up another time.”\u003cbr\u003e      But Boris, after downing a flute of champagne, had piled into a taxi at quai d’Anjou.\u003cbr\u003e      After the ensuing flurry of presents and the departure of the children and their parents, Aimée swapped Chloé’s sticky, sugar-smeared polka dot dress for pajamas. Done, she returned to the salon with Chloé on her hip to say goodnight. She took in the scene before her. On the floor, the stuffed bunny from Morbier, his replacement for the one dropped in the Seine. Laughing Martine, blowing Chloé kisses from across the room. Morbier in the Louis XVI chair next to Melac, deep in conversation, relaxed for once, talking \u003ci\u003eflic\u003c\/i\u003e to \u003ci\u003eflic\u003c\/i\u003e. As she’d often seen Morbier do with her father, his first partner. \u003cbr\u003e      How could she have ever thought herself an orphan? Even if her mother was nowhere to be seen, here was family. \u003cbr\u003e      \u003ci\u003eHer \u003c\/i\u003efamily.\u003cbr\u003e      She gathered up the ribbons, fashioned a bow and tied it around Miles Davis’s collar.  \u003cbr\u003e      “Poor Miles Davis,” said Morbier, pronouncing it \u003ci\u003eMeelz Daveez\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“And catering a kiddie party? Really, Leduc?” Morbier grunted as he got out of the chair.\u003cbr\u003e      Always a critic. She wouldn’t let him fault her nonexistent culinary skills. The next minute he’d accuse her of spoiling Chloé, something he did shamelessly.\u003cbr\u003e      “You seemed to enjoy it,” she said, brushing specks of foie gras off his jacket sleeve. “Or should I have left the baking up to you?” \u003cbr\u003e      Melted Berthillon ice cream dribbled on the table next to empty Veuve Clicquot bottles, a Bordeaux from Chateau Figeac in St. Emilion, and remainders of hors d’oeuvres\u003ci\u003e. \u003c\/i\u003eSputtering decorative candles dripped wax. Pah—it could wait until tomorrow.\u003cbr\u003e      Everyone kissed a sleepy-eyed Chloé goodnight and bid adieu. When Melac took Chloé from her arms to put her to bed, Aimée realized Boris hadn’t returned.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299992391909,"sku":"NP9781641294553","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641294553.jpg?v=1767733122","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/murder-at-the-porte-de-versailles-isbn-9781641294553","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}