I didn’t kill Laure de Grenantin-Boissière, though I had every reason to wish her dead—and I wasn’t the only one. She brought it on herself. Her obsession with sticking her nose into everyone’s business—her exquisite, dainty, slightly upturned nose with its playful nostrils, which drove men wild—was what killed her. Who told her to pry into whether so-and-so...