The Complete H-Series of The Eulalie Park Mysteries

by Fiona Snyckers

  Mrs. Belfast quivered from the top of her beehive hairdo to the bottom of her sensible court shoes. “I don’t see why he would do any such thing, young lady.”

  “There’s a new sheriff in town, Mrs. B. A new broom. Who knows what changes he might make? I am no longer persona non-grata around here, for one thing. You’re looking at the new liaison between the Prince William Island Police Department and the village in the deep forest. In turn, Chief Macgregor has agreed to share information on certain cases with me. And the first of these is the Faberge murder. Can I have the key to his office, please?”

  “I suppose this is because of that South African girl - your friend who owns the candy shop. I knew she was trouble the moment I laid eyes on her. You can always tell. It’s that flaming red hair.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale, Mrs. B.” Eulalie decided to overlook the number of times she had blamed Fleur’s temper on her red hair herself. “Fleur could no more murder someone than she could fly to the moon, and I’m going to prove it. Would you like to phone Chief Macgregor to confirm that I’m allowed into his office?”

  “That’s not necessary.” Mrs. Belfast heaved herself to her feet and picked up a key on a wooden handle that was hanging from a row of hooks behind her. “As a matter of fact, the chief left orders that you were to be admitted to his office and given sight of the murder book.”

  “He did? Then why did you have to give me a hard time about it first?”

  A smirk appeared on Lorelei Belfast’s painted lips. “Habit.”

  Eulalie paused to relish the moment as she untied the purple tape that bound the murder book together. How often had she seen these green-backed folders with their purple tape and wished she could take a look at one? And now she was holding one in her hands.

  It was surprisingly bulky considering that the investigation had only just begun. More of Chief Macgregor’s influence, she guessed. The Queen’s Town police station had never been known for its thoroughness.

  Eulalie took out her phone and began to take photographs of every page of the murder book. When she was finished, she sat down and started reading.

  The first few pages consisted of verbal and written statements from several witnesses, including the first officer who had responded to the scene, the murder detective who’d arrived shortly after that, Stella Faberge (the wife of the deceased), the three friends of Mrs. Faberge who had been in the limousine with her, the limousine driver, and the doorman of the apartment building where the Faberge’s penthouse was located.

  There were photographs of the crime scene, including several studies of Marcel Faberge’s body in situ. Eulalie paid particular attention to these. He was lying on a large bed that looked to be king-size at least. He was lying way over to the left, like a man who had been accustomed to sharing a bed his whole adult life. He wore a white vest and a pair of loose boxer shorts.

  It seemed as though he had been neither intending to go out nor expecting company dressed like that.

  A transparent plastic bag was fitted over his head and taped into place all around his neck. It was a careful, thorough job.

  Less thorough was the way his hands had been tied in front of him. The rope looked sturdy enough, but it had been carelessly, even amateurishly, tied. Apparently, the perpetrator had put all his or her faith in the plastic bag to do the job of subduing the victim.

  A stainless-steel chef’s knife protruded from Marcel Faberge’s chest, slightly left of center. Eulalie was inclined to agree with Chief Macgregor - the knife had been unnecessary. There was only a small amount of blood visible on the white vest. His heart had either already stopped beating or had been about to stop beating when he was stabbed.

  A tray on the kitchen counter bore silent witness to the lasagna he’d had for dinner. A small wineglass on the tray suggested that he had drunk a modest amount of red wine with his meal.

  Close-up photos of the knife showed that it was indeed a stainless-steel chef’s knife of the kind that Fleur du Toit had sold in sets of three some years earlier, and still used in her coffeeshop today.

  Also on the kitchen counter was a slab of cold lasagna wrapped up in a paper napkin. Stella Faberge had been asked about this when she was interviewed but was unable to account for it.

  Eulalie turned the page, and her eyes widened.

  Meticulously photographed and documented were several items that she mentally designated as “weird sex stuff.” There was a ball-gag, a blindfold, a pair of padded handcuffs, a whip with a velvet handle, two unopened vials of amyl nitrate, and what was described in an itemized list as “cock rings of various sizes.”

  When asked about these (and Eulalie could just imagine the mortification of the young detective whose job it had been to question a fifty-six-year-old woman about such matters), Stella Faberge had admitted that they belonged to her and her husband. She had apparently added a request to the effect that the existence of these items should not be released to the media. Eulalie could see no reason why this shouldn’t be honored.

  The rest of the apartment was unremarkable, but every inch of it had been photographed and recorded in the murder book. The front door showed no sign of tampering, a fact Eulalie had ascertained for herself when she’d done her walkthrough with Chief Macgregor. The perpetrator, or perpetrators, had either used a key or had been let into the apartment, presumably by the victim.

  The murder book went on to detail the full statement given by Fleur du Toit. It was just as rambling and contradictory as Eulalie feared. It was also entirely consistent with her character.

  More worrying were three eyewitness statements that made Fleur sound positively crazed during her altercation with Marcel Faberge. She had apparently lashed out threateningly several times, and warned him repeatedly of what the consequences would be if he kept trying to sabotage her business.

  One eyewitness remembered Fleur warning him specifically about something that would happen to him “tonight.” Another remembered that she had talked about stabbing him repeatedly. Eulalie remembered a vague slanging match and some non-specific threats, but she had only come in right at the end.

  Still pending were results of the autopsy, and the analysis of the trace evidence that had been gathered at the scene. Eulalie hoped Chief Macgregor would share those with her when they became available.

  Eulalie put everything back into the murder book in its original order and tied up the purple tapes. Her gaze wandered around Chief Macgregor’s office. It was a comfortable and functional space, with little in the way of personal effects. This might have been because he had only been in the job for a few months, but she suspected it was also a function of his personality. The Chief was not one to indulge in throw pillows and pretty pictures.

  Eulalie spotted photographs on his desk and moved in for a closer look. One showed a young couple with a toddler sitting on the woman’s knee. In the other, the toddler – a girl - was slightly older, and the family had been augmented by a baby.

  Was Macgregor that baby? Eulalie couldn’t quite tell. The father in the photograph looked a little like him, but that was all she could say for sure. Judging by the clothes and hairstyles, the photos were at least twenty years old. There was no caption to indicate how this little family fit into the Macgregor history.

  The fact that he displayed them at all gave Eulalie a warm feeling. She had been reading up on Asperger’s syndrome and knew that some people had difficulty in establishing and maintaining emotional connections. The photos seemed to indicate that Chief Macgregor had formed an emotional connection with the people in the photos. Why this should matter to her, she couldn’t say.

  With a shrug, Eulalie locked up the office and headed back to the administrator’s desk to hand over the key.

  Eulalie switched her phone back on as she left the police station. A flurry of messages downloaded, propelling her down Lafayette Drive and towards Sweet as Flowers. She found Fleur there energetically wiping down surfaces. Chief Macgregor had completed his
interview. A banging noise from the walk-in supply closet told her that Jethro was hard at work too.

  “We’re opening for business tomorrow,” Fleur said by way of greeting. “As soon as I’ve finished wiping away fingerprint dust, we’ll lay the tables and get everything ready for breakfast service in the morning.”

  “Anything I can do?” Eulalie offered, rashly. She regretted her words when Fleur immediately handed her a mop and bucket and told her to scrub the floor.

  “Anything I can do besides scrub the floor?”

  “You offered to help and now you can’t take it back.”

  “I meant something more along the lines of moral support, but okay.” She set to, and for a while they cleaned in silence.

  “How was your interview with Chief Macgregor?”

  Fleur pulled a face. “That’s why I messaged you to come over. It went even worse than my interview with that other detective. I can’t remember his name. I don’t know why, but Chief Macgregor makes me nervous. I find myself wanting to confess to things I haven’t even done. He has a way of asking questions that ties me up in knots. And it doesn’t help that he’s so cute either.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Hmm.” Fleur radiated skepticism.

  “I hadn’t.”

  “Well, talking to him made me more terrified than ever. Apparently, people heard me saying all sorts of stupid things to Faberge.”

  “I wanted to ask you about. Did you really say you were going to do something to him that night?”

  “I don’t think so.” Fleur’s face looked strained. “I don’t remember. When I fly into one of my rages, it’s like a red mist descends. I become deaf and blind to reason. I might have said something like that - I really don’t know. I definitely mentioned stabbing him. I’m not myself when I lose my temper.”

  “And what about the knife? Do you remember selling a set of chef’s knives to Stella Faberge about three years ago?”

  Fleur clutched her head. “I have no idea. Chief Macgregor asked me that too. I honestly don’t remember. I might not even have been in the shop at the time. It could have been sold to her by one of the assistants I had back then. And, no, I don’t keep receipts from that long ago.”

  Her voice was becoming agitated, so Eulalie decided to stop questioning her. There was no point in subjecting her to two interrogations in one morning.

  “What about you?” Fleur asked. “Did you find out anything that could be helpful?”

  “Nothing concrete, but I have several lines to tug. At the very least I’ll be able to muddy the waters with my investigation. If they get as far as charging you with murder - which I highly doubt - I’ll have lots of reasonable doubt to throw at them. That’s all we want. We want there to be so many possible suspects that it makes no sense for them to go after you. We want them to believe it wouldn’t be a winnable course of action.”

  Fleur stopped wiping down surfaces. “Do you think that’s a possibility? That I could be charged with murder? Do you think it might actually come to that?”

  Eulalie gave her shoulders a squeeze.

  “I think it’s highly unlikely. The knife isn’t enough. It’s not nearly enough, even taken in combination with the fight. We want to convince them that it would be an unwise course of action. Hence all the line-tugging I’ll be doing over the next couple of days.”

  Fleur nodded. She fell silent.

  “What’s on your mind, chérie?” said Eulalie.

  “You need to understand that this is a job I’m hiring you to do. This isn’t a favor for a friend. I’m employing you as a private investigator at your usual hourly rates.”

  “Oh, no.” Eulalie held up her hands. “No, no, no. Absolutely not. I’m doing this pro amico, and that’s final.”

  Fleur’s face contorted with discomfort.

  “I wouldn’t even be paying you with my own money. It will all come out of the trust fund.”

  Fleur’s trust fund was established by her wealthy parents. They had made their money through wine-farming in the Western Cape area of South Africa, and had set up sizeable trust funds for each of their children.

  Fleur had refused to touch the money. She wanted to make her own way in the world and kept her finances separate from her trust fund. She had always said she would only use the trust fund money in an emergency.

  “This is an emergency,” Fleur said, as if reading Eulalie’s mind. “If this goes to court it could derail my whole life. I’m prepared to dip into the trust fund to stop that from happening.”

  “But that’s something you’ve never wanted to do. If I do this as a favor, you won’t have to compromise your principles.”

  “Exploiting you compromises my principles! You’re a professional and deserve to be paid for your work. And anyway, if you won’t agree to my terms I’ll take my business to your competition. I’m sure Dubois & Son would do a fine job of this investigation.”

  Eulalie knew she was checkmated. “Fleur…”

  “Don’t make me fire you, babe.”

  “Fine,” she said. “We’ll do it your way.”

  The first person Eulalie wanted to interview was Stella Faberge. If anyone knew the ins and outs of Marcel Faberge’s life, it was his wife. Stella Faberge was reputed to be smart and savvy, and to know her way around a balance sheet. She had been organizing fund-raising events on Prince William Island for as long as Eulalie could remember.

  Eulalie wasn’t entirely sure that Mrs. Faberge knew who she was, but she intended to use her grandmother’s name as a passport. The two ladies were the same age and had been friends, or at least respectful rivals, for years.

  The Faberge apartment was within walking distance, but Eulalie was in a hurry, so she stopped by the office to pick up her Vespa. The Faberges would never do something so suburban as to live on Edward Drive. Their apartment building was in the heart of the smartest residential part of Lafayette Drive known as Upper Lafayette. Mrs. Faberge had spent the last few nights in a hotel, but the police handed the apartment back to her that morning, and Eulalie had every reason to hope that she would have moved back in by now.

  She stopped her Vespa outside the gracious old apartment building and looked up at the top floor. The last time she’d been here, she had gained access via the downpipes and fire escapes. This time she would check in with the doorman like an upstanding citizen. It helped that he was someone she knew.

  “Ça va, Armand,” she greeted the doorman as she sailed into the marbled black and white entrance of the building.

  “Bien, Eulalie. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell Stella Faberge I’m here to see her. I presume she has moved back in by now?”

  “Mais oui. The staff were here early this morning to make the place spick and span for Madame’s arrival. Will she agree to see you?”

  Eulalie pulled out one of her business cards and placed it on the desk in front of him.

  “Please send that up to Madame, and tell her Angel de la Cour sent me.”

  Armand tutted. “Still using your Grandmère’s name to get in where you don’t belong?”

  “Always.” She gave him an angelic smile.

  Armand held the business card up to a scanner and sent the image digitally to the penthouse. Then he embarked on a whispered conversation with someone over the telephone. When he hung up, he took out a keycard and held it against a light next to the bank of elevators. One of the doors swished open. He gave an ironical bow.

  “Mrs. Faberge will see you now, Ms. Park. Just press number six on the keypad.”

  Chapter 6

  Eulalie knocked on the door to the Faberge penthouse. She had dressed carefully that morning, knowing she would probably be speaking to Stella Faberge. Her dark-grey Capri pants were well tailored to fit her small frame and topped with a white button-down shirt. She wore suede ankle boots one shade darker than the pants. The look was corporate and practical.

  There was a pause as the echoes of her knock died away. She
arranged her face into an unthreatening expression, knowing she was being scrutinized through the peephole.

  The door opened, and Stella Faberge stood in front of her, every inch the lady-who-lunches in her pale-lemon skirt suit, heels, and double strand of South Sea pearls. Eulalie launched into her pitch immediately, knowing she only had a few seconds before the door was slammed in her face.

  “Mrs. Faberge, I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m investigating the death of your husband on behalf of my friend Fleur du Toit who has become embroiled in the investigation. The police department and I are sharing information on this matter. You are welcome to telephone Chief Macgregor to confirm this if you like.”

  Mrs. Faberge’s lips tightened, and she took a firmer hold of the front door. The slam in the face was coming at any moment. Eulalie spoke a little faster.

  “I was hoping to talk to you about which lines of enquiry you believe we should be following in investigating this murder. I thought you would have a better idea than anyone else about who might have wanted to hurt your husband.”

  Stella Faberge’s face relaxed. She hesitated another moment, and then opened the door a little wider.

  “Come in, my dear. I am always happy to help the family of my friend, Angel de la Cour.”

  She led Eulalie into a prim sitting room, which was where Marcel Faberge had eaten his last meal in front of the television before retiring to the bedroom.

  Eulalie took a file out of her messenger bag. It contained print-outs of all the evidence relating to the apartment and to Mrs. Faberge’s original statement to the police.

  “I’m not going to go over the same ground as the police because that would be a waste of time,” she said. “I’d like to ask you different questions, if that’s okay?”

  Mrs. Faberge nodded so Eulalie continued.

  “Could you tell me about the charity dinner and auction you attended on the night in question? Am I right in thinking that you organized it? My grandmother says your project management skills are unequalled.”