Sylvia’s Secret

by Mary Vee

  “My dear Mr. Carhill, we all hope for excellent staff. We certainly pay for the best. There are times we simply cannot count on them. I think the problem resides in her employees. You might consider interviewing them again. In her hurry to make an appointment with the designer, she probably informed the staff on her way out the door.”

  If that was so, she would have used a chauffeur, the one who did not report driving her that evening. An employee who, as Jeanie stated, was loyal to Mrs. Duvet. “I appreciate your time. If you think of anything else that might help me locate her, please call this number or my office.”

  “I doubt that will be necessary. You’re sure to see her soon, and when you do, have her give me a call. Good day, Mr. Carhill.”

  “Good day.” So, he was sure to see her soon. Interesting.

  * * *

  Seemingly miles of decorative brick wall bordered Elizabeth Alexander’s property. Her mansion sprawled across many snow-covered acres. No animal tracks tainted the smooth white surface, at least as far as Branson could see while driving. He pulled into the circular drive hardly surprised at the exclusive mansion sprouting in front of him.

  He pulled his vehicle close to the entrance and was immediately greeted by an employee in uniform. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’ve come to pay a call. Is Ms. Elizabeth Alexander at home?”

  “Does she expect you?”

  “I spoke with her a few moments ago.” This was the truth. Prearranging an appointment was simply a detail. The employee would probably get in trouble for letting him into the home without a previous notice or at least confirming Mrs. Alexander would speak with him. He’d have to suffer for the mistake.

  “Very well. I’ll care for your vehicle.”

  “Thank you.”

  Branson stepped out of the car and waited on the steps while the man parked his vehicle farther up the driveway. He’d never walk inside a home unannounced. That would be a major faux pas.

  “If you’d like, I’ll hold onto your keys.” The man revealed Branson’s keys in his hand.

  “That will be fine.”

  The employee walked ahead. “Right this way, sir.”

  Branson followed him into the home where they stopped in the foyer.

  “Please wait here while I announce your arrival.”

  “Of course.”

  Had he truly made an appointment for a call, Elizabeth Alexander would have come to greet him, or she would have had the worker escort him to a meeting room much faster than the lengthy five minutes he had to wait.

  The worker returned. His stoic look didn’t reveal Mrs. Alexander’s response to Branson’s presence. “If you’ll follow me, sir.” A gnat on the wall might receive the same welcome.

  They walked through a long atrium with an extended ceiling and a large chandelier hanging in the center. A slow rising spiral staircase wound along the wall to a mysterious upper level. They turned and walked through a large sitting room and on to a library. A stylish woman in a soft green dress sat at a wide mahogany writing desk. Although unusually large, the desk did not appear out of place. Everything in this mansion matched his idea of Versailles. She looked up then stood. Anger best described her eyes.

  “Mr. Carhill. I assumed we conducted the business in full on the phone.”

  Branson remained in the doorway. When she stood, he didn’t presume an invitation to step forward, neither did he extend a hand of greeting. He would not grovel for her truth.

  She walked closer to him then looked at the Valet. “That will be all, Mr. Narva.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He closed the door after leaving the room.

  “Mr. Carhill, I have a very busy day. How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering what make and model of vehicles you own.”

  She raised an eyebrow. The question had caught her off guard. “Is your business now a police matter?”

  “Not yet.”

  She set her hand on a nearby chair back and squeezed. Her eyes drifted to the floor for a brief moment before she returned to her perfect stance. “I own several.”

  “What are they?”

  “My Phillip has a Ferrari and a Bentley. His most recent purchase was a Lamborghini. He loves cars. I prefer the Mercedes.”

  “All right then. What car would you drive up the coast?”

  “I wouldn’t. My driver would take me.”

  “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “Yes. I can drive. And maybe if I wanted to take a pleasure trip up the coast I would.”

  “Which car would you use?”

  “I suppose—” A sly grin brightened her face, and she appeared to remember an especially fond moment. “I’d drive the Porsche and let the wind through my hair and sail around the curves along the beach then park in some remote spot and take photos.”

  Branson looked at the walls. The proof of her statement hung in view. Professional quality black and whites and a few color seaside photographs seasoned the deco.

  She walked to a well-padded chair then sat. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “I think you know where Mrs. Duvet is.”

  She folded her arms, her perfectly polished fingernails and raised chin emphasizing her disgust. “Of course, I do. I already told you where she is.”

  He took a few steps forward. “Yes. You did. Laurel Grimaldi, Constance Weise, and Marguerite Chadwick said she went shopping as well. How is it that all of you said Mrs. Duvet went shopping?”

  “If you’ve spoken with all of us, as you have said, you clearly detected our bond. Despite the miles separating us, we share everything. Cinq Amis. As expected, Sylvia happened to talk with her sisters before she left. I see nothing out of the ordinary about that.”

  “What did she want to buy?” He, of course, remembered what Elizabeth had said earlier. This was a test to see if she’d change her story.

  “Don’t waste my time, Mr. Carhill. I already told you she wanted to purchase a new purse.”

  He smiled. “Yes. But why one made by this French designer? There are many great designers.”

  “Why did you buy the suit you’re wearing?”

  She had him there. Two points to her in this wordplay.

  He allowed a small, amused smile. “What is the designer’s name?”

  “Leblanc. His works have gradually become famous. It takes a long time to build a following in the arts.”

  That was true. Some painters and musicians never became famous until after they died. “I would be interested in seeing one of his pieces. Do you own one?”

  She leaned back against the chair. “Of course, I do.” A very pleased smile brightened her face. “I purchased my favorite of his paintings.”

  An artist with more than one area of expertise. A rare find. “He designs and paints? That’s interesting. Could I see it?”

  “I suppose I could take the time.” She stood, smoothed her dress, then walked past him. “Right this way.”

  They walked through a sitting room large enough to gather at least twenty guests and turned left then right into a wide hall leading to a long dining room with seating for twelve.

  Centered on the wall across from the entrance was a painting of a countryside. A vineyard covered a wide hill. Grassy paths paved the space between rows of vines. A cluster of farmhouses filled the lower right. Vibrant yet realistic colors brought out the sunny day of a simple lifestyle. He wouldn’t mind visiting this place. “Such a peaceful setting.”

  Elizabeth stood before the painting with her hands together. She appeared to be reflecting, contemplating, perhaps deeply enjoying where her thoughts took her. The length of her reflection, the periodic smiles, and deep breaths seemed to walk her through beautiful memories.

  Such a vineyard resembled his impressions of France. This countryside may have been important to Sylvia as well. “Where is this place?”

  His question jarred her from her thoughts. “Place? Oh, yes. This is a small village in the French countrysi
de.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Yes. That is what attracted me to this piece. The Cinq Amis—” she gently laughed. “A friend gave our group the name. That is Sylvia, Laurel, Constance, Marguerite and me.” She motioned for him to sit. “Please.”

  He selected a chair. “Thank you.” This was a story he’d gladly take the time to hear.

  She chose a seat directly across from the painting. Elizabeth’s eyes drifted into one of those dreamy-woman’s worlds. He’d seen it before. Females could venture to the very memory place and stay until something startled them to the present. His mother taught him to never jar her when her thoughts took her to this special place.

  Elizabeth inhaled. “Since you’re so interested, I will tell you. We rented a taxi one day during our high school French immersion trip abroad. There really was only room for three of us, but we all managed to squeeze inside the car.” Her laughter that followed was barely audible. There was no explanation needed why her eyes brightened. Even her body language relaxed, clarifying this was one very prominent day in her life.

  “A local family, Mr. And Mrs. Souris, invited us for a meal and a tour of their vineyard. They didn’t speak any English. We were forced to communicate the best we could. Our convoluted sentences circling around vocabulary we didn’t know made the family laugh. They fulfilled every ridiculous request we made without correction.

  “I apparently asked to ride a donkey. Sylvia asked for potato ice cream. Constance asked to walk in the river. Marguerite wanted to write her thank you note with a stone, and Laurel asked for a shovel for silverware. That was the day we discovered how deficient our French really was. We kept in touch with the family until the parents passed away.” She sighed. “We all wanted to go to their funerals, but none of us could get away.”

  “How is it that Leblanc chose this village to paint?”

  “We told him the story about a boy who lived there. Mr. and Mrs. Souris expected the lad to one day take over the family business, but he didn’t want to. Like so many French, he wanted to paint.”

  “What happened? Did he take over the business or become a painter?”

  She raised her chin. “He did the honorable thing. He took over the family business and painted in what little free time he had. He never had opportunity for training or proper study under an accomplished painter. Leblanc listened to our story of the Souris family then painted this piece shortly after the parents died.”

  “Do the other Cinq Amis have paintings of this place as well?” He didn’t recall seeing one quite like this in Sylvia’s home.

  “Yes. Mr. Leblanc painted five slightly different versions. He sat down with each of us and listened to the different views of the same incidents. The paintings represent our individual experience. When he finished, he invited us to pick them up.” She looked down at her hands. “It was an opportunity we couldn’t refuse. The Cinq Amis traveled to France and stayed a whole week. Our French had greatly improved by this time.” She laughed. “Definitely improved.”

  “Did you have time to visit that farmhouse?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “And that boy, who is now a man, does he still run the vineyard?”

  “Oh, no. He managed the property so well it turned a great profit. He hired a man to take over the work, one he’d trained and trusted. The business continues to grow. He finally has time to study painting. He still hopes to one day sell his works for more than a few euros.”

  “Seems Leblanc has given the Cinq Amis a memory of a kind, hard-working farm family.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Thank you for your time. You have been very helpful.” He stood.

  She waited a moment longer before standing. “Your welcome, Mr. Carhill.” Elizabeth escorted him to the door.

  Branson paused before leaving. “Just one more question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is Leblanc still in the States?”

  She gently shook her head. “I can’t be sure. I believe the advertisements stated he would return home for Christmas. So many of my friends went to purchase a bag from him, many traveled all the way from California.”

  “And you? Will you meet Mrs. Duvet there and purchase one?”

  “But of course. I had a few appointments I couldn’t pull myself free from. I’ll leave to meet Sylvia in New York tomorrow. These days before Christmas are so very busy.” She glanced back at the painting. “One would think the success would drive Leblanc to stay longer.”

  “Yes. One would think that.” He took another step out the door. “Good day.”

  After that conversation, Mrs. Duvet’s disappearance seemed a moot point. She went shopping for a purse, a dog, a dress, or deco ideas in NYC. A few phone calls would pinpoint her and solve the case. Her friends professed the shopping idea, although the reported purpose varied between them.

  Something about the variation in stories bothered him. Their bond should have produced the same answer, including the reason for Sylvia’s shopping trip.

  * * *

  On the drive home, Branson rang the Duvet residence and asked for Jeanie Holloway. He was pleased to hear her voice.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carhill. I nearly missed your call. My shift has ended, and I have my purse in hand. Nigel is holding the door, a tremendous inconvenience for him, I assure you.” Her words bounced with gaiety.

  Teasing. This was a good sign. “I’d like to visit tomorrow.”

  “Oh, new leads?”

  “No. I have some unanswered questions that are dragging my investigation.”

  “Very well. Nine o’clock the staff will be here. You can ask your questions then.”

  “I’ll be there at nine sharp. Thank you.”

  * * *

  The GPS announced one-half hour remained in his journey home. He called Mr. Messina’s Italian Restaurant on the hands-free phone and ordered garlic bread, manicotti, salad, and for dessert, lemon gelato to be delivered to his home. The feast he had for breakfast didn’t satisfy him until dinner as he hoped. His stomach groaned as savory Italian herbs swirled in his mind. He pressed the gas pedal harder.

  * * *

  Branson parked the car in the assigned space, locked it, and walked to his front door. He barely stepped inside when the delivery man arrived with the best smelling Italian food in all of the Americas. “Thank you.” He handed the man a generous tip, motivated by his hunger.

  “Wow. Thanks for the tip. Enjoy your meal. Good night, sir.” The delivery man nearly danced down the stairs after looking at the money again.

  Branson pulled a slice of garlic bread from the bag, choosing to eat like a regular middle-class man. He gnawed off a large chunk and unlocked his apartment with his free hand. Inside, the keys clanked against the metal table’s surface next to the door, and the food bag stood tall on the kitchen counter. The aroma nearly drove him to eat out of the bag. He restrained himself by first phoning the rental company to pick up the car.

  Guilt over his return to Neanderthal eating habits forced him to set a fine, proper table, including a white linen tablecloth, and serve his meal in courses. It took a tremendous amount of restraint not to inhale the food. These efforts, though, did not prevent the cuisine from vanishing sooner than it should. He bussed his table and cared for the dishes, returning them clean and dried inside the cupboard.

  For the balance of the evening, he followed the same routine as other nights since Sylvia Duvet had disappeared. He scrutinized the yearbook, letters, and appointment book searching for clues and new questions. The answer seemed so close.

  Chapter Eleven

  Branson woke at 5 a.m., much earlier than usual. He opened his calendar. December 14th. Sylvia had been missing since the evening of the 10th. There were many answers to his question in his notes, but none addressed the most important one. Where was Sylvia?

  He dressed for work and hailed a taxi. The driver sped through city streets and stopped at the curb outside his office building. “I’ll on
ly be about ten minutes,” Branson said. “Please wait.”

  “But of course.” The mirror showed only his eyes. His strong Lithuanian accent gave no indication he’d keep his word.

  “You’ll keep the car parked here in front of this building until I return?”

  “Of course. I said I would.”

  Branson pulled out a generous tip from his wallet, folded the bills in half, and pushed them toward the driver. “Here’s something extra for staying.”

  The driver reached back and took the money. “I will wait.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes. You go now.”

  Branson dashed up to the office and opened the door. Although he had plenty of time before his appointment, he looked forward to seeing Jeanie Holloway this morning. Once he located Mrs. Duvet, he’d have no reason to interrupt her assistant’s day. Sad, but the job had to come first.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Spinnaker,” he said.

  “Mr. Carhill. You’re at the office early. Is there something I can do for you?” She shuffled through her papers unearthing her notepad then picked up her pen.

  “Yes. What did you discover about the airline, train, and bus bookings? Did Mrs. Duvet buy any tickets?”

  She turned a few pages revealing notes on a long list of calls made. “I checked all three. Mrs. Duvet did not book passage on any transportation, land, sea, or air.”

  Impressive. “Called in a few favors to get that information?”

  “It seemed worth it.” She set the notepad down and poured him a cup of coffee, adding the usual amount of cream. No sugar. She set a lid snug on the paper cup.

  “I agree. But I am surprised by your report. I honestly thought she’d left the city. Elizabeth Alexander’s home no longer is on the list. I think I would have seen Sylvia or signs of her presence when I visited. According to the Cinq Amis, there’s a strong possibility she went for a long shopping spree in the big city. I’m not sure how she got there since you’ve eliminated every form of transportation other than—did you speak with her chauffeur?”