by Hy Conrad
Marcus nodded and continued to stare at the page. Then his brows drew closer together, and his forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure this is Paisley MacGregor’s writing. Did Amy keep that envelope, the one Paisley left in the piano?”
“Amy’s a mess, but she keeps everything,” Fanny assured him. “The way her system works . . .” She pulled open the top center drawer of the old wooden desk. “Stuff she thinks she’s going to use soon is put here . . . Hmm, it’s not here.” She closed that drawer and went for the top left. “Stuff she wants to throw out but can’t bring herself to . . . Not here either.”
“I hate to be obvious, but wouldn’t she put it there?” Marcus pointed to the file cabinet.
“No. Then she would have to label and alphabetize, and I doubt she figured out how to categorize something like that.” Fanny went for the desk’s right bottom drawer. “Stuff she feels she has to keep but doesn’t want to think about . . . Ah, here it is.” And she pulled out the folded manila envelope. With silent fanfare, she handed it to Marcus.
Marcus put the pieces of paper side by side. “You see?” he said almost immediately. “Different handwriting.” He held the two samples under the light of the gooseneck lamp. The sloppy, bold block letters of the envelope—Open only in case of my death—contrasted sharply with the neat block print of the letter.
Fanny took one good look. “No, that’s impossible,” she said, which was her standard way of agreeing. “The letter was notarized by her lawyer.” Fanny indicated the signature and the seal in the bottom left corner. “In her own hand.”
“Well, then the envelope was written by someone else,” said Marcus. “Who would give MacGregor an ‘if I die’ envelope?”
It was the simplest of deductions. But the implications were much bigger. Fanny and Marcus stared at the writing on the letter, then at the envelope, then back again. “Oh, dear,” Fanny finally mumbled.
“Must have been written by one of her people.” Marcus was recapping what had just gone through their minds. “One of the people who loved her and trusted her gave her this envelope and said, ‘If I die, under any circumstance, please open this and take it to the police . . .’”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“And now MacGregor’s dead and the letter she was entrusted with is missing.”
Fanny tried to laugh it off. “Are you saying one of her old employers is going to be killed now?”
“You’re right. I’m probably exaggerating.”
When the landline in Amy’s office rang, they jumped. Fanny paused for three rings before answering. “Hello?”
“What are you doing in my apartment?” Amy asked, the first words out of her mouth.
“What are you doing calling your apartment?” Fanny countered.
“Because I thought you might be there.”
“And you were right.” Fanny switched the phone over to speaker and cradled the handset. “Marcus and I were just sending you the will documents. You should be getting them any second.”
“Thanks. Wait a minute. What is Marcus doing there?”
“We’re having an affair. I got him on the rebound when you ran off with Peter.”
“Hey, Amy,” Marcus said, aiming his voice at the speaker. “Miss me?”
“Yes.” Amy drew out the word teasingly, well aware that Fanny was listening. “I do.”
“Good,” said Marcus, also teasingly. “How was the first day of the wake?”
“Going great. The weather’s holding out. Customers are content. Paris is gorgeous, all the soft green shoots and buds. I forgot how everything blooms a little earlier here.” She did indeed sound happy, which annoyed Marcus to no end. “All in all, I’m glad I came.”
“All in all? What’s wrong?”
“Is Peter being a douche?” asked Fanny. “Did he try to make you share a hotel room?”
“No, no,” came Amy’s voice with a laugh. There was the sound of people in the background, like in a café or a lobby. “Peter’s fine. But you know. There’s always someone making trouble.”
“Is it Peter?” asked Fanny.
“No, no. It’s this couple from Maui. I tell you, if there’s a murder on this trip, it’s going to be him killing his wife.”
“What?” They said the word in unison.
“I’m joking,” said Amy. “He’s a man with some anger issues. Nothing dramatic.”
“Anger directed against his wife?” Fanny raised a pencil-lined eyebrow.
“Is she afraid of him?” asked Marcus.
“Good question,” Fanny agreed. “Has she maybe been afraid of him for a while now?”
“What?” Amy was taken aback by the sudden, somber-sounding barrage. “She might be a little afraid of him. Why?”
“When did Paisley MacGregor work for them?” Marcus asked. “Recently?”
“Good question,” Fanny agreed again. “The envelope doesn’t look old.”
“It’s the Steinbergs.” The good humor drained out of Amy’s voice. “They employed Paisley right before Peter did, maybe two years ago. Why?”
Silence filled the home office as Marcus and Fanny played sign language back and forth.
“Hello, Mom?”
Marcus wanted to tell her. Fanny wasn’t so sure. “She has a right to know,” Marcus signed.
“Are you guys there?”
“She’s going to overreact,” Fanny warned as she used the universal hand signal for crazy.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
Her mother sighed and looked resigned. “Amy, dear,” she said directly into the speaker, “are you sitting down?”
“Don’t ask if she’s sitting down,” Marcus blurted out. “That makes it worse.”
“I’m at the bar in a crowded bistro, standing up.”
“Well, find a bar stool and sit down.”
“The only reason I would need to sit down is if you two were really having an affair.”
“Have it your way,” said Fanny and turned to face Marcus. “You tell her, lover boy.”
CHAPTER 7
Amy did not sit down. Instead, she took her phone out onto rue du Vertbois, away from the noise of the bistro. The air was chilly, and the narrow cobbled street glistened from what must have been a passing shower not long before.
It was well after midnight on what had already been a long day—until now a long, satisfying day. She listened more than spoke, first to Marcus, then to Fanny, then to Marcus. What they told her was both far-fetched and made a horrible kind of sense. MacGregor had always been a receptacle for her people’s secrets. And now, even in death, she was holding onto one final one. With her free hand, Amy pulled her pashmina around her shoulders, imagining it as a blanket and wanting nothing more than to be snugly asleep in bed.
Back inside the bistro, behind the red checkered curtains, a few stalwarts continued to drink and laugh and trade more Paisley MacGregor stories. Peter Borg listened with mixed feelings. There was no doubt that his maid had been a colorful character. And the stories were great. But he wondered, quite seriously, why he wasn’t as fond of colorful characters as other people were. Did this mean that he lacked the joie de vivre necessary to enjoy them? Or did it mean, as he preferred to think, that colorful characters were best enjoyed from a distance, preferably in someone else’s stories?
“Did she have any relations?” Maury asked. They were sitting side by side at the end of the bar, with Barbara Corns just around the bend of polished mahogany, nursing a club soda. It took Peter several seconds to realize the question had been directed his way. “As far as you know from her will? No family?”
“Um, no,” Peter said, pushing through the mental haze of brandy enough to recall.
“She was an only child,” Barbara interjected, filling in the blanks. “No husband. No kids. Evan did some legal work for her.”
Maury nodded. “So, what’s happening with all her stuff?”
“You mean her inheritance?” said Peter. It seemed a rude thing to ask about yo
ur maid, even if the woman did die with millions. “We’re going to be reading her will in Hawaii. That’s what she wanted.”
“No, I mean her stuff.” Maury motioned the bartender to pour Peter another brandy. “Photos and scrapbooks and papers. Personal stuff.”
“Why? Is there anything you want?”
“No, no,” Maury said quickly. “There’s just some things Laila and I gave her over the years. Not the stuff from Laila’s mother, trust me,” he laughed, then paused as the bartender slid another brandy smoothly across the bar top.
“I probably shouldn’t say this,” Peter said, but he was saying it, anyway. “Most of the presents we all gave her, for holidays and birthdays . . . she never opened them.”
“You’re kidding.” Maury looked disappointed. “Really?”
“They’re all crammed into a big closet, some of them still in the wrapping paper. I opened the closet one day by accident. I couldn’t believe it. Who doesn’t open a present?”
“I guess they weren’t important to her,” Maury said.
“It was the thought that counted,” said Barbara. “I know that’s a cliché, but I know MacGregor loved the fact that we gave her things. She did.”
“I know,” said Peter. “But still . . . when you search all over town to find her the right perfume at a good price, and then she never even opens it . . .”
“It makes you think about things,” mused Maury.
“Like perfume?” asked Barbara.
“Not that,” Maury said meditatively. “The personal stuff. All the things that make up a person’s whole life—papers and letters and files and photos . . .”
“I imagine the estate will hire someone to sell it,” said Peter. “I was the executor when my aunt died,” he went on, dredging up the details in his foggy mind. “A houseful of junk. But the funeral home knew someone. The furniture was sold at an estate sale. And the personal stuff was just thrown out. If you’re worried about a stranger reading something personal, diaries or letters . . . I don’t think that will happen. People do this for a living.”
“It all gets thrown out,” Maury mused with a crooked grin. “That makes sense.” When he glanced up at the mirror behind the bar, he was surprised to see Amy standing right behind him. She had an odd, almost stricken look. “Amy, is something wrong?” He turned to face her directly. “Your call home?” He pointed to the cell phone dangling from her hand. “Everyone good?”
“Everyone’s great. You were asking about something that your wife gave to MacGregor? Was this like a letter, an envelope, something you want back?”
“Something Laila wrote? No, no. It was just a general question.”
Later, after finally stumbling back to her room at the Crillon, Amy did not spend the night snugly asleep, but tossing and turning on her six-hundred-thread-count sheets. She tried not to obsess about her suspicions. Think about something else, she ordered herself as she wound the duvet mercilessly around her torso. Perhaps she should confide in Peter. That would be the logical thing. Amy, stop it. Stop thinking. But she couldn’t.
Peter, if she told him, would probably be logical and say it was a coincidence. That’s what Peter did. It was his strong suit, to see everything as normal, and she often admired this quality. But what if everything wasn’t normal?
That’s where someone like Marcus would be better, wouldn’t he? Impulsive, conniving Marcus—someone who refused to just stick his head in the sand. So, should she confide in Peter, after all, or should she . . . Augh, stop thinking. Why couldn’t she stop thinking?
CHAPTER 8
By mid-morning everything seemed fine again.
It was surprising what a perfect April day in Paris, along with a little shopping, could do to a girl’s mood. There were three of them sharing this excursion: Laila Steinberg, Nicole Marconi, and Amy, who had beguiled them with the promise of some exquisite little shops hidden among the steep, twisting alleys of Montmartre.
She made a single purchase that morning, an irresistible set of antique buttons, etched silver with mother-of-pearl inlays, which could just possibly renew her Lanvin silk jacket for a few more years. While the others continued to comb through every nook and cranny of the boutique, Amy accepted an espresso from the gracious owner and stood in the doorway, observing Parisian life on the street.
Just a few doors down, a woman with a shaved head and a neck tattoo was sitting on a stoop, rolling a cigarette with expert ease. Across the street, a pair of grandparents alternately laughed and panicked and did their best to chase down a three-year-old on a tricycle. Young girls in uniform skipped by arm in arm and absently played with a few handfuls of grape leaves. They were only a block or so away from Clos Montmartre, Amy seemed to recall, a tiny hillside vineyard, the last vineyard left in Paris.
“We got some real steals,” Nicole whispered as she sprang through the doorway, her string bag full with half a dozen colorfully wrapped baubles.
Laila Steinberg followed with another string bag, plus two large shopping bags. “I am so ready for lunch,” she laughed, gasping out the words, as if she’d just completed a marathon.
Lunch was at Le Moulin Orange, a trendy brasserie on rue Lepic. The place had been hard to track down. Laila’s husband had seen a rave review in the Times praising its unusual blend of French and Italian, a heretical concept for a Parisian brasserie. They settled in at a window table, and Laila ordered a lamb chop, highly recommended in the same Times review, according to Maury. Nicole stuck to her diet with a salade niçoise, dressing on the side. And Amy, who never worried much about weight, ordered a traditional cassoulet, a sentimental favorite and a surprising find on a springtime menu. Paisley, of course, would be paying.
“Help me understand.” Amy was sipping more than her share of the cru Beaujolais and feeling emboldened. “Why all this fuss about a maid? I know it sounds callous. She was quite wonderful, and this is a free trip. I get it. But all of you . . . most of you . . .” She avoided glancing over at Nicole. “You can afford your own first-class travel. And you have such busy lives.”
“So why are we taking off eleven days to spread her ashes around the world?” Laila stared out over the rims of her narrow, enviable maroon frames. “Because she asked, I guess. It never occurred to us to say no. I can’t speak for Nicole. . . .”
“The same,” Nicole said with a nod. “Paisley would do anything for you, no questions, no judgments. That becomes very seductive. Inside a week this woman would be your best friend. Inside a month, you couldn’t live without her, which is stupid.”
“Not that she would ever betray a confidence,” Laila asserted. “Or ever remind you that she knew.”
“You don’t realize until after she leaves and the spell is broken.. . .” Nicole pushed aside her untasted wine. “I think part of being on this trip is the therapy. Sharing all the Paisley stories. You realize how many others put themselves in that same position. Smart, well-adjusted people, like my parents, who left her nearly everything, for God’s sake. I was a teenager, so I was probably less susceptible to having this kind of best friend.”
“Therapy,” Laila said and nodded back. “An apt way of putting it. At the time, it seemed all good, like an addiction does, I suppose.”
Therapy? Addiction? Amy had been expecting a simpler, sweeter explanation, similar to the testimonials everyone had been spouting last night on the yacht. The perfect servant—from Jeeves to Hazel to Batman’s Alfred—was an easy, comforting cliché. But perfection could have its dark side, she realized.
The table fell into an awkward silence as the waiter arrived with their lunches and a second bottle of Beaujolais. When he walked away, the talk resumed and became small, the usual inspection and smelling of the food and comments about the weather, over the background music of knives and forks and quiet chewing. And breathing. Someone was breathing. Loudly. A little annoying, Amy thought casually as she dove into yet another spoonful of white beans and meat, this time a succulent shred of duck. Very annoy . . .
When Amy looked up from her cassoulet, Laila had dropped her fork and was grabbing at her throat. At first, Amy didn’t think, Choking, or too much salt. She automatically thought, Poison. “What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to get Laila to focus. Of course, it couldn’t be poison. Who would poison her here? The chef? The waiter?
Laila couldn’t answer. By now she had both hands on her chest, her eyes staring down at the lamb chop and the brown stuffing as if they were terrorists.
“Allergy?” Nicole asked with surprising calm.
Laila bobbed her head.
“I thought so. Shellfish?” Nicole continued, as if in a game of Twenty Questions. “Of course not. Peanuts? Tree nuts?”
Laila bobbed again and, with a shaky hand, tried to reach down for the purse at her feet. Nicole helped her to grab it.
“It’s anaphylactic shock,” she said to Amy. “I’ve seen it before.”
Amy was already pushing herself up from her chair and calling for the waiter. “Monsieur?”
He was nearby, discussing with his customers their choice of starters. Everyone at the table stopped their chatter and looked perturbed. Americans could be so pushy.
“Monsieur,” she said again, the panic rising in her voice. “Ces côtelettes d’agneau. Y a-t-il des noix?”
The waiter blinked at Amy, then blinked at his customers, a well-dressed table of six. “Bien sûr. Pâte de marrons.” Of course. Chestnut paste. The others all murmured in agreement—“Chestnut paste in a lamb stuffing, of course”—as if it were a ridiculous thing to ask, and so rudely put, without even a “Pardon” or an “Excusez-moi.”
When Amy looked back, Laila had collapsed on the marble floor. Nicole was still going through Laila’s purse. A second later she pulled out a small zipped pouch and out of the pouch an EpiPen. Amy had never seen one before, but she knew what it was.
“My niece has a nut allergy,” Nicole said, still relatively calm. The device looked like a Magic Marker; it was around the same size and shape. Nicole made a fist around the pen, pressed it against the thigh of Laila’s silk dress, and pushed. Laila was still gasping. Nicole held it in place for nearly twenty seconds.
