The Complete H-Series of The Eulalie Park Mysteries

by Fiona Snyckers

  Mrs. Faberge smiled wistfully. “The dinner was so much fun. It was ladies only, you know, because we wanted to do a theme this year, and the men hate that. They can’t stand dressing up, whereas we just adore it. We chose a nineteen-twenties theme. I’m not talking about some tacky Gatsby evening with everyone dressed in flapper outfits. I’m talking about the real thing – formal evening dress from the nineteen-twenties. Long evening gloves, silk stockings, real jewelry, and beautiful dresses. We spent six months collecting the items for auction and they were all high-value lots. We had a weekend for two in Mauritius, tickets to the members’ tent at the Prince William Island Met, which is next month, as you know. We donated that. My husband has a horse running in the eleven o’clock. And then there was a gorgeous set of Waterford crystal champagne flutes that we bid for at the auction.” She paused, and sadness rippled over her face in a desolate wave.

  “I’m talking about him as if he’s still alive, aren’t I? I’ll have to work on that. I can’t get used to the idea that he’s really gone. I keep expecting to hear his key in the door. I suppose you think I’m silly.”

  “Not at all.” Eulalie’s voice was gentle. “There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. There’s only your way.”

  Stella Faberge nodded and pulled herself together.

  “What else did you want to ask me, dear?”

  “The police found some lasagna wrapped up in a paper napkin in your kitchen. I know they already asked you about that, but I was wondering if you had any more thoughts about it?”

  “You know, I can’t stop thinking about that. I have no idea what it could mean. We have friends who regularly wrap up leftovers to take down to the homeless shelter on Lower Lafayette, but Marcel was always very opposed to that. He said they would start to recognize us and harass us for food and money every time we set foot out of doors. He always said I did more than enough with my charity work, and that the poor were best kept at a distance. You probably think that doesn’t reflect well on him, but he gave away thousands to charity each year.”

  “Could he have had a change of heart?” asked Eulalie. “Perhaps decided that he would hand the lasagna to the next underprivileged person he saw?”

  “I suppose.” Mrs. Faberge shook her head. She seemed irritated by her inability to crack the meaning behind her husband’s actions.

  “What about business deals? What was your husband currently working on?”

  “Ah, now, that’s easy enough. He had two deals on the go at the moment. Or three, I suppose, if you count the horses. The first was this organic food business he was starting. He had great hopes for that. He used to say there’s one born every minute and the more gentrified Queen’s Town became the more suckers there’d be to buy his snake-oil products. He was especially excited about some local plant he’d found that supposedly has anti-ageing properties. He said that as soon as he could find enough of it to manufacture his products in bulk, the suckers would fling their money at him. He upset a lot of people with his attitude, my husband. You probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m not at all convinced that your friend Fleur had nothing to do with his death. By all accounts, she behaved in a very threatening manner to poor Marcel the day before he died.”

  “Do you by any chance have the name of this anti-ageing plant?” Eulalie looked up from the notes she was taking.

  “I’m afraid not, dear. But I dare say someone at the company would know.”

  “I assure you I will be looking at all the angles, including the organic foods business. You mentioned two other ventures?”

  “I dare say you’ve heard about Marcel’s bid to become the service provider for the national lottery? It’s been all over the news for weeks now. All I know is that it involved a very great deal of money. And in my experience, large sums of money lead to violence.”

  “Who was he up against in his bid for the contract?”

  “Some Russian company. Leonov, or something like that. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if the Russians were behind his death. Doesn’t it strike you as an execution - suffocation and a knife through the heart?” She shuddered. “Isn’t that how organized crime bosses execute people?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll look into it.” It wasn’t the most likely scenario Eulalie had ever heard, but it wasn’t impossible either. Whether true or not, it was all excellent material if her goal was to muddy the waters around Fleur’s possible involvement.

  “You mentioned something about your husband’s horses?”

  “That’s right. Poor Marcel. The media are so unfair in their treatment of him. He has the most marvelous race horse – Marcel’s Pride – that did wonderfully well at the April meeting on Queen’s Cay. So, of course the media had to manufacture a completely fake scandal about how he had cheated. Just because the favorite didn’t win.”

  Eulalie made a note to look up the name of the favorite, and, more importantly, the name of its owner. She took her time writing as she worked up the nerve to broach an awkward subject. She had said she wasn’t going to go over the same ground that the police had already covered, and this definitely qualified as breaking that promise, but she wanted to gauge Mrs. Faberge’s reaction for herself.

  “Madame, I know this is difficult to speak of, but I would like to get it out of the way. Can you tell me about these items that were found in the apartment by the police?”

  Instead of naming the items one by one, Eulalie held up a composite photograph of all the sex toys that had been taken in by the police.

  To her very great surprise, Mrs. Faberge did not wince or shift around in her seat at the sight of the photograph. Instead, she smiled.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, dear. Those belonged to my husband and me. Yes, indeed. Our little bedroom secrets, you know. So embarrassing that the police should have found them, but perfectly harmless between two consenting adults, after all.”

  Was Eulalie imagining it, or was there a strained quality to her smile?

  “I see,” she said. “I wonder if you could enlighten me, Mrs. Faberge. This is just my personal curiosity. I am ignorant of such matters, but very interested. Can you tell me what this item is for?” She pointed to the ball-gag.

  A tide of red swept into Stella Faberge’s cheeks.

  “That, dear? Why, that’s … uh … a love ball. I insert it into my … lady parts to strengthen my muscles.”

  Eulalie managed to keep a straight face. “I see. Very interesting. Well, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time. It was kind of you to see me, and I certainly have many new avenues to explore.”

  Stella Faberge’s great-lady pose didn’t falter for a second as she showed Eulalie out of the apartment and said goodbye. Eulalie walked part of the way down the passage and then stood to listen. A few seconds later, there came the sound of a door being kicked hard. She nodded to herself and walked on.

  It was lunchtime.

  Eulalie considered her options. There was fast-food, as well as various street carts offering traditional island food. Both were tempting, except for the fact that she wanted to work over lunch.

  There was also Fleur’s coffeeshop where she could order whatever she liked without getting a lecture on nutrition, but she didn’t feel like answering her friend’s anxious questions until she had real progress to report.

  That left Angel’s Place. The disadvantage was that she would be forced to eat her grandmother’s idea of a healthy lunch, but she would also have a quiet place to work and space to spread out her notes and photographs without raising eyebrows. And she could bounce some ideas off her grandmother, the woman who knew the ins and outs of Prince William Island society better than anyone.

  A few minutes later she was tucking her knees under the long bar at Angel’s Place and spreading her murder book out on its glossy surface. She waved away the menu that Gigi Bartineau tried to offer her.

  “Just bring me whatever my grandmother thinks I should have. It will save time. That’s what I’m going to end up eating anyway.�
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  “True.” Gigi went back to the kitchen. Eulalie drew up a list of bullet points of what she considered to be promising leads or unanswered questions in the investigation.

  A rustle of beaded curtains made her look up. She stood to greet her grandmother.

  “You look very fetching today, Grandmère. Is that a new dress?”

  Angel looked down at the linen sundress she was wearing. It was the color of jade, which suited her skin tone perfectly.

  “Thank you, chérie. Imogen at La Robe boutique always knows what I like.” She glanced at the notes Eulalie had spread out on the bar counter. “This is the Faberge matter, oui?”

  “Oui, Grandmère. I went to see your friend, Stella Faberge today. I used your name to get to see her.”

  “D’accord. Any time. She might be emotional on the inside, that one, but I am sure that on the outside she was soignée.”

  “Indeed. She was as elegant as ever. What can you tell me about their marriage? Did Marcel Faberge have an eye for the ladies? I never got any vibes from him.”

  Angel laughed. “You wouldn’t have. Marcel Faberge was that rare male creature who prefers women of his own age. Me, I got many vibes from him.”

  “So there were indiscretions?”

  “Oh, yes. Not many, but a few over the years.”

  “And how did Stella react to that?”

  “It is always a mistake when an Englishwoman marries a French islander.” Angel threw up her hands in Gallic despair. “The English with their prudery do not understand these little affaires. They allow themselves to be hurt by them.”

  “If I ever get married and my husband has any little affaires, he’s the one who will get hurt.”

  Angel’s laugh rang out.

  “Then perhaps you had better marry an Englishman in that case.”

  Eulalie snorted. “I suspect men are all the same whatever their nationality. But getting back to Stella. I asked her about certain … items that were found in her apartment.”

  She showed Angel the composite photograph and watched as her grandmother’s eyebrows rose up almost into her hairline.

  “Well, well, well. Talk about a dark horse. I would never have suspected my old friend Stella of having such a playful side.”

  “But that’s the thing, Grandmère, I don’t think she does. I asked her what this was for.” She tapped the photograph of the ball-gag. “And she said – well, I won’t tell you what she said but it was very imaginative.”

  Angel hooted with laughter.

  “It is some kind of gag for the mouth, oui? You use it to stop the other person from screaming or crying out. I hate to think what Stella thought it was for.”

  “You can probably imagine. The point is that I’d swear Mrs. Faberge had never seen one in her life before until the police showed it to her.”

  “Interesting. So, if those toys didn’t belong to both of them…”

  “They must have belonged to Mr. Faberge alone. That was my thought too. All of which suggests that Mr. Faberge was definitely enjoying an extracurricular sex life.”

  “He definitely had affaires. That is well known. But I didn’t know he was into – what do they call it? – the bondage and the discipline.”

  “I wonder whether his wife did either. If I wanted to ask some questions in that community, where would I go?”

  Angel thought for a moment.

  “I’m no expert, but I imagine you would find what you are looking for on Lower Lafayette where the Chinese Quarter meets the East European Quarter. Look for a place called Trixie’s. You can tell them Angel sent you, but don’t go too early at night. If you arrive before eleven, they’ll think you are a tourist.”

  Chapter 7

  There were many hours to kill before eleven, and Eulalie planned to use them productively. She polished off the sandwich mixte and green salad that Angel considered appropriate for her lunch, and finished off her paperwork too.

  Then she hopped on her Vespa and set off along the Coast Road to the light-industrial district where Faberge Industries had its headquarters.

  It was a startlingly beautiful day, even by Prince William Island standards. There was a light easterly breeze blowing but it was barely strong enough to tease the curls of Eulalie’s hair that fell below her shoulders.

  When she reached a certain bend in the road, she couldn’t resist the lure of the sea any longer. This would take less than an hour out of her day.

  She pulled her Vespa over to the side of the road and parked it out of sight. This was a popular look-out spot for tourists. Over the wall was a cliff-face that dropped sixty feet down to a hidden cove below. The tiny bay was only accessible to rock-climbers or by boat from the Yacht Club.

  On weekends, climbers sometimes made the descent, attracted by the powdery white sand and gentle waves of the cove below. But this wasn’t a weekend, and Eulalie was alone.

  Grabbing the towel that she kept in the front basket of her Vespa for just this purpose, she swung first one leg and then the other over the cliff wall. Then she scrambled down the cliff so swiftly it looked as if she were in freefall.

  She got to the bottom and stripped off her clothes, folding them neatly and putting them on a flat, sunny rock where they wouldn’t get covered in sand. Then she just stood and looked out to sea, breathing in the scent of the Indian Ocean. She wiggled her toes in the sand until the fine powder rose up and buried her feet.

  She flung her arms wide and ran like a child into the sea, relishing the feeling of the warm water engulfing her legs. She dived into the waves and swam strongly out as far as the coral reef. Then she turned and swam back to the tiny beach where she dried herself vigorously and put her clothes back on.

  Going back up the cliff took longer than going down, but not by much. Within minutes, she was back on her Vespa and riding the Coast Road. This was what she loved about the island - an impromptu swim in the sea could be built into her working day. She felt alert and refreshed, and ready to tackle any obstacles Faberge Industries might throw at her.

  Eulalie took a fork in the road that led her away from the sea and into a land of office parks and light-industrial estates. Faberge Industries was situated in one of the former. It was quite attractive, built in the French-Colonial style of the island and situated in neatly landscaped grounds. A large paved apron of a parking lot marked the entrance to the office park.

  Eulalie parked her scooter and took out her phone. It had occurred to her that she had promised to share information with Chief Macgregor. She hoped that would work both ways. With her helmet dangling from one of the handle-bars, she sent him a quick text.

  Eulalie: Thought you should know that Stella was lying when she said the sex toys belonged to her and Marcel. She doesn’t know B & D from shynola and didn’t even know what they were for.

  The reply arrived within minutes.

  Chief Macgregor: I was wondering about that. So, the sex toys belonged to Mr. Faberge. That puts a different complexion on things, thanks.

  Eulalie nodded. Gratitude was exactly what she wanted from him.

  Eulalie: While I’ve got you on the line. Who stands to benefit from Faberge’s death? You must know the terms of his will by now?

  Chief Macgregor: The estate is divided equally between his wife and two children. There’s less money than you’d think. Marcel Faberge sailed close to the wind. He owed a lot of money to creditors. When they are all paid off there won’t be much left. Stella Faberge has family money of her own, so she isn’t affected. The children each got a lump sum in cash when they turned 21, so they are also okay.

  Eulalie frowned at the screen.

  Eulalie: What about life insurance?

  Chief Macgregor: There is also not as much of that as one would think. The policy was taken out when Marcel and Stella were newlyweds. Neither of them had much money at that stage. This was a few years before Stella came into her inheritance. It was a modest policy at the time, and it looks like he never increased it when he
became more successful. It will pay Stella out about 1.5 million. Not a significant sum for someone with her money.

  Eulalie: Interesting, thanks. Now we’re quits again. Except for the part where I protected you from crocodiles. We’ll never be quits there.

  She added a winking emoji to show that she was joking (kind of). Then she slid the phone back into her messenger bag and walked into the headquarters of Faberge Industries.

  The person she wanted to speak to was Jean-Luc Hugo. She had googled his details over lunch. He was new to Prince William Island. Marcel Faberge had headhunted him from a multinational corporation in Montreal. He had been in the job for six months – long enough to have got a feel for Faberge’s way of doing business.

  Eulalie had to get through a ground-floor receptionist and then Hugo’s private secretary before she could talk to him. Both seemed eager to co-operate with the investigation into Faberge’s death. If Eulalie suspected that they were confusing her with a member of the police force, she didn’t rush to correct them. She had not misrepresented herself. It wasn’t her fault that some people tended to overlook the word ‘private’ in private investigator.

  When she was ushered into Jean-Luc Hugo’s office, she found herself shaking hands with someone who was very much a corporate creature - more so than his late boss. Marcel Faberge had always had a rough edge to him. Stella was the more genteel of the two.

  Jean-Luc Hugo, on the other hand, was born to play the role of the young executive. From his firm handshake and direct eye contact to his expensive haircut and aftershave, he was every inch the deputy CEO.

  Or was he?

  Eulalie looked a little closer. The suit she had taken for Armani hung just a little short at the ankles, and the shoes that could have come from Hoby of London probably hadn’t. Not for nothing was she the granddaughter of Prince William Island’s premier fashionista.