A Not So Perfect Crime

by Teresa Solana

  “Would you, Aunt Mariona? Would you please?” Borja begged in that half flattering, half seductive tone that served him so well with women like Mariona Castany.

  “I will go to my club on Monday afternoon and ensure Lídia’s name crops up in conversation. Don’t you worry, I’ll find out any gossip doing the rounds about her or her husband. But it’s such a boring place! ...”

  The very wealthy Mariona belonged to an exclusive, expensive club near the Bonanova, but apparently didn’t find it very entertaining and went very rarely. When we heard the chimes of one of the mansion’s grandfather clocks we realized it was past two o’clock. Borja checked the time and went as if to get up.

  “We won’t bother you any more, Mariona. I’ll ring you next week. I expect you’re very busy now Christmas is upon us ...”

  “Humph, I’d almost forgotten! Wait a minute!” she exclaimed, imperiously forcing Borja and me to sit back down on the modernist sofa where we’d been sipping our martinis. “I have something for both of you.”

  And as she said this, she rang an invisible bell we couldn’t hear.

  “Did madam want something?”

  Marcelo, the butler, appeared within half a minute. He was in uniform and looked immaculate.

  “Indeed, Marcelo, would you be so kind as to bring the two parcels in my study, the ones in red wrapping paper?”

  “Of course, those on your desk top? I think I saw them this morning, when I was tidying ...”

  “Just so. Thank you.” And added: “It’s my Christmas present.”

  A couple of minutes later Marcelo reappeared with his servile smile and two parcels exquisitely wrapped in red, shiny paper. The smaller one was for Borja, and mine was flat and long and surely contained a tie.

  “Here you are. Open them at home.”

  “Madame, if that was all ... I believe someone has knocked on the front door, and as the maid is in the kitchen preparing lunch ...”

  “Go to, Marcelo, see who it is. And while you’re about it, accompany these gentlemen ...”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble,” said Borja courteously. “But I’ve something for you. I almost forgot too.” And extracted from his pocket a rather more modestly wrapped present. “Happy Christmas, Mariona.”

  “How wonderful!” She smiled like a little girl. “I love surprises! Thank you, my dear. I will put it under the tree with my other presents and open it on Christmas Eve.”

  I blushed, because I’d not taken her anything. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I should and Borja had never suggested I should. As usual, he came to my rescue. “It’s from both of us. We saw it and thought it was made for you. I do hope you like it.”

  “You are such a darling,” she said. “You too, my dear Eduard. My thanks to you both. Now, off you go, I have guests coming for lunch!”

  Marcelo brought our coats and accompanied us to the door.

  “I think that of late dear Madam hasn’t been very well,” he confided anxiously. “That cough worries me. She should see her doctor, but you know what’s she’s like ...”

  That’s how Marcelo was. He would perform like a butler on celluloid and always overacted the part in relation to Mariona Castany. I think he’d missed his vocation as an actor; in fact I could swear I’ve seen him in a television ad.

  “I think she looks fantastic, Marcelo,” Borja replied. “Besides she’s in superb form. Is there a problem we are unaware of?” My brother seemed alarmed.

  “She shouldn’t smoke so much. She sees off two packets a day ... Perhaps you could persuade her to smoke less and sleep more. Madam has great respect for you ...”

  “I’ll mention it to her the next time we meet. Take good care of her in the meantime, won’t you, Marcelo?”

  Marcelo had been in Mariona Castany’s service for fifteen years ever since he left Argentina and I think he was really devoted to her. He must have been well into his fifties and retained an enviable shock of black hair. He lived in and did the honours as chauffeur, master of ceremonies and gardener. He must have been on a good salary (much more substantial than mine naturally), and since a goodly number of staff saw to the house during the day, his work wasn’t particularly onerous. Physically, he looked a man who liked his sport and pampered himself. I’ve always thought he was gay, of the dandy variety, and absolutely the kind of butler that suited a lady like Doña Mariona Castany.

  On the way out we walked past a well-known architect who was Mariona’s age. Rumours had abounded for years that they were lovers, from long before she was widowed. He too was wealthy and led a respectable, married life. As far as we knew, like our friend, he’d never been involved in any scandals.

  Once we were in the car, we couldn’t resist the temptation to open our presents. Mine was a bold, if elegant, Hermès tie, and Borja’s, gold cufflinks, also Hermès.

  “Very stylish,” I admitted. “At long last I’ve got a change of tie! But I’ll only wear it in the office in case Montse starts getting jealous.”

  “Our Mariona is a real lady,” said Borja delightedly, eyeing his cufflinks. “You know, the rich aren’t known for their generosity.”

  “No, they’re usually misers. That’s why they’re so rich.”

  “And Mariona is one of the filthy rich!”

  “You know, I never thought to bring her a Christmas present. I mean I wasn’t expecting a gift from her. It’s assumed you’re the nephew ... It was lucky you had the forethought!”

  “In fact I didn’t,” he smiled. “Such a dreadful oversight on my part. I gave her the present I’d bought for Montse. I don’t know if she’ll like it. I hope so.”

  “May we ask what it was?”

  I was curious to know what kind of present could equally well do for my Montse and the wealthy Mariona Castany.

  “It was a necklace from the Atlas mountains, from Morocco,” he replied. “I know how much Montse likes ethnic baubles. I expect Mariona will consider it an exotic touch. But I must go back to the shop this afternoon!”

  “Courtesy of the MP’s advance.”

  “Right, better than pennies from heaven.”

  “And later on, if you don’t mind, we could drive over to the Bolet bakery,” I suggested. “It’s too late now ... I’ve got to buy the cava and cake for tomorrow, but if it’s not convenient ...”

  I thought that, as it was Friday, he must have a date with his girlfriend.

  “Merche’s off skiing with her husband this afternoon and will be away the whole weekend.” It was as if he’d read my thoughts. “You know, we can forget our investigations till Monday. We’ll have to tail Lídia Font for a few weeks at least, to find out what’s she’s up to. Shit!” He paused to dodge a car that had just jumped the traffic lights. “In the meantime you can look on the internet and see what you can dig out on Mrs Font and that Pau Ferrer fellow. That might save us some time.”

  Borja picked up the computer we have in the office, a see-through designer Mac that doesn’t work, from a skip. When we need to use the internet, I use my twin’s cheapo PC which always does the job. It’s incredible the amount of information you can get without budging from your chair, but you have to be careful. Borja is a case in point: he’s uploaded his fake CV to the web.

  “It’s almost three o’clock,” he said as he stopped the car in front of our front door. “All right to come for you at six?”

  “You sure you don’t want to come up and have a bite? I can rustle up something quickly ...”

  “I’m a bit sleepy after Mariona’s martinis. I’d rather go to my flat and have a rest. I’ve got a game tonight.”

  “Whatever. What do you reckon then?”

  “It’s obvious the lady’s up to something with the artist,” my brother asserted. “Maybe they’re still carrying on. I suspect it will be quite unpleasant.”

  “Particularly for her husband. It’s incredible how a spot of infidelity still turns the world upside down!”

  “What do you expect?” He smiled
. “The institution of monogamy is to blame. Your entire life with the same woman ...”

  “I assure you that suits me down to the ground,” I retaliated, remembering with some irritation how the previous night Montse had come home late and chirpier than usual after the post-gig drinks.

  Montse was waiting for me. She’d decided to take the afternoon off to get the party ready, so we ate pasta and salad together. As we were by ourselves, I suggested a siesta. Although she was still a little hung-over, Montse was in excellent spirits.

  “What then? Have you got my present?” she asked.

  “Don’t go looking for it because you won’t find it,” I replied, remembering it was still in my pocket and that I hadn’t thought to offer it to Mariona as Borja had, although it would have been over the top as a Christmas trifle. I’d bought her antique white-gold pendants, set with sapphires, which I now hastily hid under my pants in my wardrobe where I imagined they’d be safe from Montse’s prying hands.

  We got up around five, in an even better temper. I showered and percolated some coffee. Montse said she was off to the market and I got ready to go out. Borja would soon be here in the Smart.

  “Don’t be late, will you?” begged Montse. “It’s your turn to help out with Arnau tonight. The girls are sleeping over at a friend’s house.”

  “Don’t worry. Besides, Borja’s got a bridge school tonight.”

  While I waited for my brother, I sat in front of the computer and typed in Lídia Font’s name on Google, but didn’t find anything to help us in our investigations. She was born in 1958 in Barcelona, forty-six years ago that is (I’d say she looked younger, to go by the photo). Her official biography informed me that she was married to politician Lluís Font and was a professional interior designer. She presided over a foundation dedicated to helping handicapped children and was an honorary member of an NGO that sponsored children in the Third World. She also held an important post in an animal protection society. She’d been given two awards for interior design and one or two more for her charity work with the less fortunate.

  As for Pau Ferrer, the painter of her portrait, I was shocked to find he was born back in 1941, which meant that he had sixty-four summers under his belt. He was born in Barcelona but had lived in Paris for many years. According to one interview, he’d been living for the past few years in Sant Just Desvern, in a huge hangar that doubled as his house and studio. He’d mounted dozens of exhibitions (and, apparently, earned plenty of money from them), and more recently he’d concentrated on portraits. His work was on show in London, Paris and New York and some critics considered him to be a leading contemporary artist. Although no expert, I quite like his paintings, though I’m not sure I’d want them hanging in my dining room.

  I printed out everything I found and put it in a folder.

  “We’ll start tailing her on Monday,” Borja suggested as we drove towards Sarrià. “Sooner or later we’ll find out if she’s involved with the painter,” he said pensively.

  “You look worried. Anything wrong?”

  “No, I was only wondering,” he sighed, “how we can fix it so we extract another 5,000 from the MP before Christmas. “Shit,” he added resigned, “Life has just become more and more expensive since we got into the euro!”

  7

  “Fucking hell!”

  “Good morning, you mean?” said Borja driving off. He’d double-parked for a moment in front of the entrance to the downstairs lobby and I’d just got in the Smart and settled into the small seat. It was Monday and I’d been waiting for a quarter of an hour.

  “Fucking hell!” I repeated.

  “Hey, I’m only ten minutes late,” he half-apologized. “I know we said nine o’clock, but I was just leaving when I noticed a coffee stain on my tie and I obviously had to go back up and change. Apart from that, the traffic’s always nose to tail at this time of day. Don’t worry, we’ll be there in time. It’s early still.”

  I didn’t answer. I was in a bad mood. Borja was driving along Via Augusta and I tried to distract myself and postpone the inevitable row by looking out of the window. There was a traffic jam, as usual. When we stopped by a traffic light level with the North-American Institute, I couldn’t hold back any more and exploded.

  “You know, Pep, what the hell is going on in that head of yours? For fuck’s sake! Do you realize the mess you’ve got us both into?” I felt the blood throbbing in my head and the vein swelling in my neck.

  “Ah, so you’ve heard ...” piped Borja, not daring to look me in the eye.

  “Have I heard, you might well ask?! Would you like me to sum it up for you? Let’s see, yesterday morning I was happy in bed, sleeping off my hangover (because obviously with all the whooping it up at the party I didn’t get to bed until well past seven) when the phone rang. Montse took it as she was up. After a while, when I’d finally managed to get back to sleep, Montse came in and asked me to look after Arnau because she had to speak urgently to her sister. She was on a high and had a big smile on her face. She even winked at me. Know why?”

  “No ...” but his no meant yes.

  “It transpires,” I went on, gathering my breath, “that Lola called to say that you two had finally got there!”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit, indeed! Because they were at it more than an hour. And when I tried to lie down again for a bit of post-lunch siesta and escape the day’s big news, my head was throbbing after all the cava and Montse’s chatter, Lola rolls up ready to shoot the breeze.”

  “I’ll look after it ...” he said opening a window and lighting up. I asked for a cigarette, although I was trying to knock the habit. It wasn’t the best of days to try.

  “You’ve got no idea,” I retaliated. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “Come on, it can’t be such a big deal ...”

  “Not such a big deal? Do you mind telling me why you decided to hop into bed with Lola? Do you know what that means, what she now expects from you, and worst of all, from me?”

  “Come on, Eduard, Lola and I weren’t born yesterday ...”

  “Right, you’re old enough not to shit your pants!”

  I left it at that. We were driving up Mandri and Borja was going more slowly than usual. It was only twenty to ten and I was afraid we’d miss Lídia Font driving out of her garage. It would be the last straw if that happened on our first day tagging behind her.

  While Borja drove and I bit my tongue, the sun had time to put in an appearance among the clouds and I noted it was a cold but magnificent day. Nonetheless, my bad temper was far from going away. Borja could see that and tried to justify himself.

  “You know what happened when we left your place,” he said keeping his eye on the road ahead, “Lola asked me to accompany her home in a taxi. I couldn’t refuse. You know I’m a gentleman in such circumstances. And then she insisted I went up and insisted I had a drink. It was very late, as you can imagine. And one thing led to another ...”

  Borja looked rough. He didn’t look as if he’d had a good night’s sleep. For my part, what with my hangover, the restless night because of Arnau and the anxiety prompted by this romantic tangle, I’d hardly shut my eyes.

  “Do you want to know what it’s all led to?” I exclaimed in a rage. “Can you imagine? Well, Lola now has high hopes, and why? You may ask! She and Montse spent the whole of yesterday interrogating me. What did I know about your private life and your girlfriend, what did I think about all this, what’s Merche like, should Lola take the initiative and ring you ...”

  “OK. So I’m fucked.”

  “Yes. Well and truly. Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  Lola had been eyeing up Borja for some time: you didn’t have to be an Einstein to realize that. Not that I’ve anything against my sister-in-law, on the contrary, I like her, though I find her a bit scatty and there are days when her neuroses get me down. But she’s a good sort, loves our children and Montse is very close to her. In the end I’ve come to appreciate her,
but it’s one thing to be her brother-in-law and quite another, God forbid, to be her partner.

  In fact, I think what most bothered me about this business was the fact Borja had always said Lola was the kind of woman he detested: a resentful feminist, fodder for the analyst and a Prozac junkie. He wasn’t far wrong but it hadn’t stopped him from licking his lips and jumping between the sheets with her.

  Lola was thirty-eight, divorced and on the unstable side. She went from depression to euphoria as eagerly as a manic depressive or people who are too well-read on the subject. She’d been psychoanalysing herself for four years and going to parties and soirées in pursuit of the love of her life, none of which stopped her from spending her time criticising men and proclaiming how much she’d like to be a lesbian in order to bypass male tyranny. Ever since she separated from her husband she’d lived alone in a small flat on Princesa, near the Born, that was sometimes neurotically clean and tidy and at others a chaotic mess. As she was childless, she spent hours at our place. In the summer she spent a fortune on adventure tourism, trekking through exotic countries and then had family holidays with us and regaled our evenings with tales of her amorous feats between one gin and tonic and the next. Those trips didn’t seem to do her much good and she’d invariably come back more depressed than usual.

  According to Montse, she’d liked Borja from day one. She slunk behind him the whole party, as everybody noticed, and I have to agree that Lola looked stunning that night. She wore black from head to toe, and despite the cold outside, made sure her generously low neckline showed off her nipples whenever she leaned forward. She also wore long, square tortoise-shell spectacles (though I don’t think my sister-in-law needed them) with lime-green frames and lenses, a mini-skirt and black calf-length boots that gave her a rather martial air.

  I couldn’t understand how Borja had fallen into the trap. Maybe it was the bubbly, or perhaps he didn’t in fact dislike her as much as he pretended. Behind that outlandish façade might there lurk a pretty but gauche woman? Despite her sophisticated pose, I find her quite naïve.