A Shortcut to Paradise

by Teresa Solana

  Although my brother’s friend had only recently surfaced on the landscape of Catalan literature with memoirs that were already sold to a publisher, Borja was convinced Mariona could supply us with useful information about the deceased Marina Dolç, about whom we knew practically nothing apart from the fact she was a wealthy woman and a very successful author the critics agreed to hate. If we started from the hypothesis that Amadeu Cabestany wasn’t her killer and the motive hadn’t been theft, we could only refocus our investigation by ignoring forensic leads and concentrating on what kind of person the writer was, on her enemies, if she had any, and on finding out who would profit from her death. Her legacy was incredibly juicy, what with her properties, shares, cash and royalties, and the first thing we needed to know was who would stand to gain from her will. We hoped to obtain that information from Lluís Arquer, whom we’d arranged to see the following Tuesday on the Plaça Reial for an aperitif. In the meantime, Mariona had assured us she would try to find out any gossip we might find useful by consulting some of her writer friends. She had summoned us to her place for a drink at seven and seemed delighted to see us. She clearly liked to act as an aide to a classy detective like Borja.

  Mariona was a slim, distinguished lady. Her white, wavy hair was gathered up in a bun. She was tanned and wore light make-up. If it weren’t for her hands, which always betray whatever plastic surgery and botox struggle to conceal, nobody would have said she was over sixty. That afternoon she was wearing a sort of diaphanous red tunic and gold-coloured high-heeled sandals. I caught Borja’s eye and discreetly touched my nose. Borja looked back at me. Message received.

  As he is colour-blind – in fact, deeply colour-blind – this is the secret code we agreed as kids, from the age of seven, the moment Borja discovered he was unable to distinguish green from red: if the colour we are looking at is red, I discreetly scratch my nose, and if it’s green, I put my hands in my pockets. Naturally it would be much simpler if my brother didn’t insist on hiding this anomaly from all and sundry, but that’s how he liked to play it. He didn’t want anyone to find out he was colour-blind, particularly not Merche or Lola. It’s beyond me, but he reckons it’s a vulgar imperfection that doesn’t marry with his desire to play the elegant and sophisticated man of the world.

  Mariona sat us down on a sofa, where, according to her, Alfonso XII had also once sat, and immediately started on the matter in hand.

  “My dear boys, that woman’s past is a complete mystery,” she informed us while pouring out three generous Cardhus. “I mean, no one knows where she comes from, though I have no doubt she’s not from Sant Feliu,” she announced proudly.

  “What do you mean? Marina Dolç wasn’t born in Sant Feliu de Codines?” asked Borja, taken aback after tasting that delicious liquid. “Sant Feliu is small enough for people to remember her and her family. Besides, I thought she lived there, and in a splendid mansion, at that.”

  “Yes, she did. And it’s also true she told people she was born there. But that’s not what the register says,” she smiled slyly. “Take a look at this.”

  Mariona showed us a hazy photocopy of a birth certificate corresponding to one Maria Campana Llopis, born in Barcelona, in the Maternitat, 22 March 1954. Borja and I were all ears.

  “For starters,” Mariona went on, enjoying her dramatic coup, “she was fifty-two and not forty-nine. But that’s nothing to worry about; we women like to play these little tricks,” she remarked coquettishly. “However, as you could see, she wasn’t born in Sant Feliu, but here in Barcelona.”

  “Perhaps she just happened to be born here, but her family was from Sant Feliu,” I interjected. “You sure Sant Feliu has a hospital?”

  “The real issue,” Mariona interrupted, “is that nobody recalls her family in Sant Feliu. Marina certainly showered money on the town and the neighbours refuse to talk about her, so my sources tell me,” she said enigmatically. “Last year, while Marina was in Italy, a student of something or other writing a thesis on her work visited the place and talked to the locals, hoping to find some skeletons, I expect. But she unearthed nothing.” She shook her head. “Where the family lived, how she did at school or her father’s line of work. Zilch.”

  “So where does her family live now? She must have a relative or two…”

  “Ah, that’s where you come in, my friends! You are the detectives. I have simply used my influence to secure a copy of her birth certificate and identify a couple of items of gossip. Not much, in sum.”

  “Go on then.”

  “She has an ex, but they were only married a couple of years, when she was very young. Apparently he teaches and they’ve barely had any contact since the divorce. Water under the bridge.”

  “But she must have other boyfriends,” interjected Borja. “She was a good-looking woman and wealthy.”

  “You mean we wealthy women are more likely to have boyfriends than poor ones?” responded Mariona, fluttering her eyelashes and signalling she was offended.

  “You know what I mean, my dear…”

  “Well, as far as this neck of the woods goes, she seemingly had none. Which means that either she really didn’t, or it wasn’t a man… or was a married man,” Mariona pontificated.

  “In short, Marina Dolç wasn’t born in Sant Feliu but lived in Sant Feliu and acted as if she had been born there. And, according to you, she may have had a girlfriend or a married man for a lover,” my brother replied.

  “Yes, in a nutshell,” nodded Mariona.

  Unlike those two, I’d never had the pleasure of meeting Marina, but I decided I’d stick in my oar as well: “I think you’ve both forgotten she had an Italian lover.”

  “True enough,” agreed Borja. “Clàudia told me she had a palace in Tuscany and a lover there as well. An aristocrat.”

  “That’s as may be, but no one has ever seen this famous aristocrat… But I gather the palace in Tuscany does exist and is magnificent. Evidently Marina is an art and antiques lover, particularly Greek and Roman works. Her private collection is one of the best in Italy. They say she spent a fortune on it. But obviously she had the wherewithal…”

  “Well, she’s hardly the first person to invent her own life-story,” commented Borja, who knew all there was to know about such things. “It’s very human. But I’m intrigued about the kind of life she led. She was very rich.”

  “She lived by herself and was childless. She travelled a lot, particularly abroad, promoting her own books, but she wasn’t on the circuit here. The critics reckoned she was superficial and too commercial. They gave her horrific reviews!…” Mariona looked shocked. “One was especially vicious towards her books. I don’t know if you have heard of him – Oriol Sureda. She has a very loyal readership now and that’s why they envied her so.”

  “Sureda was there on the day of the prize. Do you remember, Mariona? He walked down to the bar with us,” said Borja.

  “Yes, that’s true. I don’t know what the hell he was doing at that party… he couldn’t stand Marina!” our friend rasped indignantly. “I expect Sureda is a friend of Francesc, her publisher. Or perhaps Francesc was working on him to nip in the bud one of those reviews of his.”

  And then she added, “If anyone knows anything for sure, it will be Maite, her secretary. She worked for her for years and Marina always took her on her travels. But she’s very discreet… A discreet and efficient woman. I’m thinking of contracting her to help me with my memoirs now she’s out of work. She’s agreed to see you tomorrow morning in Sant Feliu, as you requested.”

  “You’re a jewel, Aunt Mariona,” responded Borja.

  My brother would sometimes address her like that, “Aunt Mariona”, in honour of the friendship Mariona Castany and Borja’s imaginary mother had enjoyed as young girls, a spin-off from my brother’s fake aristocratic ancestry.

  “So, Marina Dolç had a murky past,” I said, returning to our subject.

  “In fact, Marina Dolç had no past, Eduard. She was a nobody. I mean she didn�
��t belong to any of our great families, or descend from writerly, artistic or patriotic stock. One would know if she did. None of her forebears has an entry in the Catalan Who’s Who? let alone has a street named after them in Barcelona. She was an outsider,” she said, jutting her chin out.

  “But she was awarded the St George’s Cross,” I replied.

  “And that must have cost her! It’s the advantage of having a pile of money: you can buy everything, even respect.”

  “That didn’t stop her bad reviews…” I insisted.

  “That’s true, Sureda never got off his high horse. But he was the only one. As a matter of fact, Marina’s last two books were received much more positively by the critics thanks to the feminists, who read her as a kindred spirit.”

  “Mariona, you’ve turned into a real detective!” exclaimed Borja gallantly. “If we don’t watch out, you’ll be taking business away from us.”

  “I’m doing this for Clàudia, the poor dear. How could she bloody embroil herself with that twit Amadeu (if you’ll excuse my French)…” she retorted, looking sorrowful.

  “Sex and money, Mariona. It’s what makes the world go round!” sighed Borja.

  “Come on, there is such a thing as love…” I countered timidly.

  Borja and Mariona smiled at each other and gave me condescending glances.

  “Well, call it what you will,” she conceded with a sigh. “I suppose Clàudia gets it from her family.”

  “Her mother, in her time, also fell for an adventurer, a private eye who moved in the underworld. She was married to a very wealthy industrialist and it caused a real stink, but they covered it up. Those were the days…” she said with a hint of nostalgia. “However, they do say that Clàudia takes after her father.”

  “They have the same eyes,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but a different bank balance!” Mariona sighed. “Clàudia was an only girl and, despite all the fuss, she inherited the Agulló fortune. So you can see how she developed her love for literature! Though she takes her work seriously. Perhaps too much so. She’s a fine woman.”

  “Listen, Mariona. What’s happened to Marina Dolç’s agent? Where is she? She must have one, I suppose?”

  “Well, no, her publishing house acts as her agent, so I gather.”

  After pouring us another whisky, Mariona and my brother gossiped for a while about the high-society world in which they moved: the Liceo wasn’t what it used to be, they’d caught someone cheating at bridge, the wife of a famous banker had had a heart attack at some dinner when she discovered she was wearing the same party dress as the bit on the side (to use Mariona’s expression) of a left-wing politician. I did my best not to yawn and kept looking at my watch. Barça had kicked off a quarter of an hour ago and I was missing the match. Finally, Borja got up from the royal sofa and decided it was time to leave.

  “Mariona, we’ll leave you in peace. Thanks for the whisky… and titbits of information. By the way, you look just divine in red. Devilish but divine.”

  Mariona smiled, flattered. My brother knew how to soft-soap her.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Mariona stopped us in our tracks. “Next Friday we shall be giving a small party in homage to Marina here, in my house. “I’ve been asked to ” she added, unable to hide how delighted she was to host such an event. “I provide the house and the others will see to the catering. Her publisher will be there and a few writers and friends, the odd critic, journalist, the television people and a few politicians, of course. Clàudia will come too. Naturally you are both invited.”

  “We might find out something useful. Have you considered that if it’s true Cabestany is innocent, Dolç’s murderer might come as well?” asked Borja anxiously. “You’d better take care.”

  “Yes, that is the second thought I had. Don’t worry, I shall tell Marcelo to keep a sharp eye out.”

  Marcelo is her butler, a brawny, courteous man who wasn’t around that evening because Sunday was his day off. He’s Argentine, is slightly (ever so slightly) limpwristed and a very nice person. He’s been working for Mariona for more than fifteen years and she holds him in high esteem. According to our information, he earns a fortune playing the part of a distinguished and deferential English butler.

  “Out of curiosity,” I dared to ask just before we left. “You said your second thought had been that the murderer might come to your party. What was your first?”

  “A matter of etiquette, of course. I don’t know what to wear. The world of writers is so peculiar…”

  “Whatever you wear, you will look divine,” chimed Borja, kissing her sensually on the hand, his eyes transfixed by the large diamond piece she wore as a ring.

  “I know, I know,” she said, as she opened the door and bid us farewell. “Au revoir, mes beaux. And don’t give Maite too hard a time. I think she’s very, very frightened.”

  18

  The next morning was Monday morning, and as Merche’s Audi was still in for repair, we had to take the bus to Sant Feliu de Codines. Luckily, it’s only forty or so kilometres from Barcelona to the Vallès Oriental, and we arrived in less than hour, even though the bus made several stops. As we were early, we decided to go for a second breakfast. It was hot, and we chose a bar with a terrace surrounded by blackberry bushes that gave shade to the tables. We ordered coffee and pastries and also asked the waiter the way to Marina’s house. We clearly weren’t the first to do so. Faithful readers from all ends of Catalonia had come to poke their noses around on the excuse that they wanted to leave her some flowers. We also took the precaution of claiming we were fans, even though we carried no book as a talisman and brought no bouquet. The waiter gave us a long-suffering look and told us Marina Dolç’s house was near a place by the name of La Font dels Àlbers. It took us ten minutes’ brisk walk to get there.

  Probably built in the nineteenth century, the house was flanked by an abandoned garden that created a gloomy atmosphere, as if its ivy veneer hid ancient, mosscovered statues that would turn into ghosts at night. It was a two-storey house with attics, and an old wroughtiron gate led from the road to the garden. A South American maid in a ritual grey uniform opened the gate. She ushered us in and said Marina Dolç’s secretary would see us straight away. We followed her through the garden, silent and somewhat anxious. Maite Bastida was waiting in the entrance to the mansion, clutching a crumpled handkerchief.

  She was a small, thin woman, who did indeed seem to be rather frightened. According to our information, she was thirty-seven and had been living in that house for five years. She wasn’t ugly, but wasn’t exactly pretty either. She was dressed smartly and comfortably, and her short, wavy hair was combed back. She wore glasses and her eyes looked tearful.

  “Come in, please,” she said, beckoning us into a sitting room furnished with antiques and bedecked with a selection of paintings from the Catalan landscape tradition. “Mrs Castany rang me and asked if I would see you. She said you were investigating the death of Mrs Marina…” Her eyes began to stream and she took a handkerchief from her pocket. “Excuse me, but I still haven’t got over it.”

  “It’s only natural. How long had you been living here with Marina Dolç? Was it five years?” I asked, kicking off our conversation. As Borja is sometimes rather shy, we thought it would be best for me to take the initiative.

  “Yes, I’d been living here and working for her for five years.”

  “Though you’re from Barcelona.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to find somewhere else to live now,” Borja said softly. “It’s been a big blow to you as well.”

  “Are you sure you’re not journalists?” she asked in a shrill voice. “Mrs Castany said you were detectives…”

  “I’ll be frank,” confessed Borja. “Strictly speaking, we’re not private detectives, but we are working on behalf of Amadeu Cabestany.” Borja preferred to err on the safe side and avoid any misunderstanding. “He’s the man accused of killing Marina Dolç, and, as you k
now, he is in prison. Though he is innocent.”

  “I see, and you want to find out who really killed Mrs Marina, isn’t that so? That’s what Mrs Castany said.”

  “Precisely. It’s what we’re trying to do. Unofficially, of course. That’s why we’d like to ask you a few questions related to…”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  All of a sudden, Maite Bastida interrupted our conversation and rang a little bell. Three seconds later, the South American maid who’d let us in appeared.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Guadalupe, would you be so kind as to bring us coffee and pastries? Thank you.”

  “Right away, madam,” she said, disappearing.

  Borja and I looked at each other askance. Something didn’t quite square. Maite Bastida had behaved as if she were the mistress of the house and the maid acted as if that were the case. She wasn’t arrogant, indeed was rather timid, but she did act as the lady of the house, not as a servant. According to our information, this Maite was a salaried employee. Super efficient, but merely a secretary at the end of the day. I remember I then jumped to the conclusion (Borja as well, I think) that they might have had something going on. This would explain Maite’s behaviour and also why Marina Dolç’s only known boyfriend was the mysterious Italian lover nobody had ever seen.

  “I was saying,” Borja tried to pick up the thread of the conversation, “that you won’t be able to live in this house any more…”