A Rather Charming Invitation

by C. A. Belmond

  “How d’ya figure?” I asked, astonished.

  “If it weren’t for my impossible relations—my pain-in-the-ass grandmother—we never would have taken it out of the château before the ceremony. There would have been no need for the inspection tour, and, possibly, no theft.”

  “Nobody’s to blame,” I said briskly. “Margery, in her own funny way, wanted to be involved in our wedding, and I’m glad.” I paused. “Felix didn’t exactly say he had any prime suspects, did he?”

  “No, he did not,” Jeremy agreed.

  The tea tray was still sitting before us, so Jeremy poured himself another cup. I leaned across the table. “Jeremy,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. There’s got to be more to this tapestry than everybody realizes. I felt so, ever since I saw it, but I thought it was just, you know, an emotional thing. Now I’m totally convinced that there’s some secret about it that we’ve got to figure out.”

  I expected him to chide me about going off on a tear that could make things worse, but to my surprise he said simply, “I agree. Let’s have another look at those photographs you took. I think we should lay them out on the dining room table. Let’s go through them one by one. Tell me everything you see, and what you think it means. There must be some clue that’s been overlooked.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  But as it turned out, it was Monsieur Felix who made the first real breakthrough. He stopped by the villa, totally unannounced, arriving in a green car that was different from the one he’d driven before, and dressed in dark glasses and a hat, like a man in disguise. Furthermore, he made us go out in the garden to talk to him. Mystified, we complied, and he made his announcement.

  “Mademoiselle, you are being followed!” he declared.

  “Me?” I echoed.

  “Yes, you,” he replied.

  “By whom?” I asked.

  “A professional! I’ve been watching for just this sort of thing,” he said with satisfaction, “and yesterday, at last, I spotted him, following you around the market. I was able to track the man back, I think, to the person he reports to, in Monte Carlo. A very rich and powerful man, who is, one might say, très formidable.”

  “For God’s sake, who is it?” Jeremy demanded.

  Felix was watching the two of us closely, and it suddenly occurred to me that if he’d spotted a man following my trail, then Felix himself must have been shadowing me and Jeremy. Which would mean that we were suspects, too. I felt a hot guilty flush, even though I knew I’d done nothing wrong.

  “Do you know a man named Parker Drake?” Monsieur Felix asked, still eyeing us carefully.

  “Drake!” Jeremy exclaimed.

  “Why should he follow us around?” I said rather fecklessly. “He’s not even taking your phone calls anymore.”

  Jeremy glowered at me. I forgot how men are, about keeping their own counsel about perfectly ordinary things, like losing a client, or a pending deal. As a single girl, I’d never minded blurting out my business woes (plentiful in the past), my financial status (historically pathetic) and my health issues (occasional allergies). Women routinely discuss their problems. Men are a bit more reluctant.

  “Oh? Have you had business dealings with Parker Drake?” Monsieur Felix asked sharply.

  Jeremy had to admit we’d been dancing around with Drake, then were inexplicably abandoned by him. “We had a few conversations. My understanding was that we were on the verge of being invited to some big event of his in Switzerland, and then, suddenly nothing,” Jeremy said, still a trifle defensive.

  “Think carefully,” Monsieur Felix said. “Can you remember exactly when you stopped hearing from this man?” Jeremy and I just looked at each other.

  “Right around the time the tapestry was taken,” Jeremy said. “But that doesn’t really prove much, does it?”

  Monsieur Felix shook his head.

  “Are Jeremy and I both being followed?” I asked, confused.

  “At first, I thought so,” said Felix. “You are together quite often. But this morning, when Monsieur Jeremy went down to the harbor to speak to your yacht captain, and you, mademoiselle, took the car to go to the market, alone, I saw that it was you that he was after.”

  He looked at me deeply, with utter seriousness in his hound dog face. He said, “Think back, mademoiselle, try to remember anything you can that seemed unusual . . . out of the ordinary . . .”

  I was silent. Pretty much everything that had been happening to me lately was out of the ordinary. I was getting married, for heaven’s sake. I’d been to all sorts of places where I normally would not go. And because I’d been finding the whole upheaval so unsettling and disruptive of my usual daily routines, I hadn’t stopped to think about each and every thing that was bothering me.

  But now, as I cast my thoughts back over all of it, my mind landed on the incident at the Train Bleu restaurant, when a man had smacked into me like a berserk buffalo on the loose, sending me sprawling on the floor. And, how another stranger had picked up my purse and handed it to me.

  When I told Monsieur Felix about this incident, he said abruptly, “Do you have that handbag here in the house, now? Please bring it here, and dump everything in it on the table—but do so without a word. Say nothing, not even you, monsieur,” he said to Jeremy.

  I went inside and fetched the bag, then returned and did exactly as he said, spilling its contents onto the table, and both men peered intently at each item. Now, ya know. A woman’s purse is . . . well. It’s filled with lots of things. Stuff that men don’t really fathom, all mixed in with the wallet, keys, lipstick, tissue pack, pens, organizers, medicinal items . . .

  So. You can imagine how long it took to examine it all. While the guys were doing so, I was still shaking out the purse, which had a lot of small handy-dandy pockets for things like mobile phone, sunglasses, nail file, et cetera. I stuck my finger in each little pocket, and dug out every hairpin and coin and scrunched-up tissue that got stuck in the seams . . .

  And then, out it came. A little chip of a thing, smaller than a fingernail, that made a tiny clatter as it hit the surface of the table.

  We all stared at it. Then, Monsieur Felix picked it up and examined it closely, recognized what it was, and began to nod vigorously. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Le Bug.”

  “A tracking device?” Jeremy demanded.

  “Yes. Very ‘quiet’, that is, lightweight and not noticeable. No microphone on this type. It’s a very common model. Used in business espionage quite often.” He paused. “You say this man was investigating you as a potential business associate?”

  “Sure, but why did he bug Penny?” Jeremy demanded.

  “A good question. But you did tell him that you are a husband-and-wife team, that is, you work together, yes?” Felix asked. “You see, a man changes his suit often, but a woman always has a favorite handbag.” Jeremy swore to himself, but Felix continued, “Such powerful men as Drake can be very—what you might say, paranoid—about new people. Security is everything to them, because they are often approached by very odd people indeed.”

  “We didn’t approach him,” Jeremy objected. “I mean, sure, my old firm was courting him for years. But he made the initial contact with me, right out of the blue. I didn’t go after him.”

  He paused, recollecting, “But in Paris, his P.R. man did ask me about my personal life. I didn’t find anything unusual in that; it’s common for clients to want to be assured that you’re a family man—so they’ll know you’re dependable. He apparently heard about our upcoming wedding in the press, anyway. I told him that my wife was visiting relatives in France, and we might have the wedding here.”

  “Ah,” said Monsieur Felix thoughtfully. “Mademoiselle, try, if you can, to retrace your steps after this incident at Le Train Bleu,” Felix said.

  “We came down here, to Antibes,” I said. “We hung around the villa with Rollo. Then I went out to Leonora’s house to photograph the tapestry.”

  “May I ask, why did you take so
many pictures?” Felix asked.

  “I wanted to understand what all those images meant,” I said. “The stories in the tapestry. I didn’t want it in my wedding ceremony if it was full of omens of something unhappy.”

  “I see,” said Felix, with a small smile of comprehension.

  “Does Drake collect tapestries?” I asked incredulously. “I never saw that in our research.”

  Monsieur Felix shrugged. “Anything is possible,” he said.

  “But if he wanted the tapestry, why didn’t he steal it from Philippe’s château?” Jeremy asked. “It’s the first place you went, Penny, when we came down here . . . after he bugged you.”

  “Because,” I said slowly, “I changed pocketbooks that day. I wanted to wear something a little more elegant. So I left my usual bag here in the villa, and took another one out to Mougins.”

  “Ah!” said Felix. “Then you accidentally succeeded in throwing him off the scent!”

  Now, no gal snoop wants to be told she’s done her best work unwittingly. But, there it was.

  Felix continued, “I would not necessarily assume that this man has anything to do with the disappearance of the tapestry. It could be that he simply spied on you to make sure that you are people he wants to do business with. So, I suggest that you continue to carry Le Bug around, except do not carry it when you go to the château. I will keep watching, and see where this leads us.”

  He paused, glancing back at the villa, then added, “May I also suggest that we have some associates of mine go through this house for any listening devices? We should do a clean sweep, to see if anything else turns up.”

  The next day he sent a team of two men, whom he’d assured us were trustworthy. They were respectful and careful, but they really turned the place inside out, although they did their best to replace everything when they were done. Felix told us that the villa was “clean”, but he said, “One can never be a hundred per cent certain.”

  After they left, Jeremy was quiet for a while. Finally he said to me, “The hell with this. If Drake is having us followed, I want to know why.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. “You won’t actually accuse him, right?”

  “No,” Jeremy said. “But I can get a closer look at him.”

  “How?” I asked. “He’s not taking our calls anymore.”

  “Do stop saying that to all and sundry,” Jeremy said, sounding irritated. “What’s this damned party we were supposed to go to?” he demanded. “Can we get into that somehow?”

  “Fat chance,” I said. “It’s an impossible invitation to wangle on your own. You know how many women would kill for that?”

  “Women?” Jeremy echoed. “So, it’s like a hostess thing?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And I’m sorry to say that my social connections aren’t that good.” I paused. “We could ask your mom. She offered to help.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jeremy said. “I want to make sure she understands that this has to be done discreetly.” He paused. “And if Mum can’t help,” he said slowly, “I know someone who’s social connections are even better than hers. Someone who, frankly, owes us big-time.”

  “Oh, God,” I said. “Not your grand-mum.”

  “The one and only Margery,” Jeremy replied.

  Part Seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Absolutely not,” Grandmother Margery said emphatically, when we returned to London. “I’ve asked all my best contacts, and it’s unanimous. There isn’t a prayer of a chance of getting an invitation to that party at this eleventh hour. Every table is full, every seat is taken.”

  We’d made this special trip back to London to plead our case in person. Margery was having tea with Uncle Giles’ wife, Amelia, who’d come into town for her once-a-week shopping before scooting back to the suburbs. Margery’s attitude toward Jeremy and me was polite, serene, but slightly wary, as if we were two little sticks of dynamite that could blow up in her face if she so much as struck a match.

  “Surely someone might cancel out at the last minute,” Jeremy protested.

  Margery and Amelia hooted at that. “No one can beg, borrow or bribe their way into one of Tina Drake’s costume balls,” Amelia said smugly. “People have offered me hundreds for our tickets.”

  “You mean you’re going?” Jeremy asked, forgetting not to look astonished. Naturally, Amelia took this as an insult.

  “Certainly! We got three invitations to the masquerade ball: for Giles, me and our oldest daughter. Your Uncle Giles is a very important person,” she said huffily. “You two aren’t the only ones who are getting to be well-known on the international scene.”

  This struck me as a perfect opening. I decided to play a hunch I’d had about Amelia ever since Margery’s cocktail party. “Well,” I said in a low, confiding tone, “we weren’t going to tell you this, but actually, we’re on a case, and that’s why we need to get into that party.”

  Jeremy shot me a Now-what-are-you-on-about? look.

  “Is it about the stolen tapestry?” Amelia cried, looking utterly intrigued.

  “You must absolutely swear to tell no one,” I warned. “It goes no further than this room. I mean it. Right, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy caught on, and said very soberly, “If there’s a leak, we’ll know it came from here.”

  “What is it?” Margery asked eagerly.

  “We think the thief is going to be a guest at that party,” Jeremy fibbed. “We’re on the trail, and we need to be in disguise to flush him out.”

  “Oh!” Amelia breathed in admiration.

  “We could sure use some help, though,” I said, glancing at Jeremy, who shook his head.

  “You can’t ask Amelia to take this on,” he said, pretending to object.

  “Take what on?” Amelia pressed.

  Acting inspired, I opened my purse, and said, “See, this would be the plan. I would take your place at the party, but the only way it would work would be if you, Amelia, took my place. You would simply go about your usual business, but . . . you’d be carrying this.”

  Very gingerly, with exaggerated care, I laid “Le Bug” on the table.

  “What on earth is that?” Margery demanded.

  “It’s a tracking device,” I said in a low tone. “It’s how the thief is keeping tabs on me. Or so he thinks! But if Amelia takes over for me, and carries this around, she’ll lead him astray and throw him off the scent. She would act as a decoy . . .”

  “You want to pull a switch!” Amelia cried. “I would be you, and you would be me.”

  I beamed at her. “Exactly,” I said.

  Then Margery, without knowing it, put the hook in. “But won’t that be very dangerous?” she asked doubtfully. No one could miss the thrilled gleam in Amelia’s eyes now.

  “To a degree,” said Jeremy. “But we’ll have the P.I. keep an eye on Amelia, and anyone who follows her. We did this with Penny, and it was very successful. I’d like to take Giles’ place at the party. If you help us out, Amelia, it could mean a big breakthrough with the case.”

  Amelia rose briskly. “You’ll need to borrow our costumes,” she said. “The theme is Versailles this year. I’ll show you. I just picked them up today. You might need a few alterations, especially for Jeremy. He’s slimmer than Giles.”

  But I was surprised to discover that I had yet another hurdle to gaining entrance to the Drakes’ masked ball—first, I had to talk Jeremy and Honorine into those costumes. Drake’s wife had schemed up something new this year: all the female guests must wear a Marie Antoinette style of dress, replete with big wide skirt and white powdered wig with ringlets—plus, we all had to have the same white eye-mask with white feathers. The men were required to dress like the French king, with powdered wig and all; and their identical eye-masks were black. The guests would dance away the evening at the Drakes’ fancy-pants chalet in Switzerland; and, at the stroke of midnight, everyone would unmask, and find out who they’d been dancing with all night.

  �
��This is quite perverse,” Honorine muttered as she tried on her dress and mask. “And this dress is absurd! A low neckline, yet the bodice flattens one’s breasts, too. Really, what can they have been thinking in those days?”

  “You are supposed to be Amelia’s daughter,” I told her. “Which means you’ll have to keep your mouth shut, so nobody will hear those dulcet French vowels of yours.” I was still struggling with the funny little buckled shoes of the period.

  From the next room Jeremy said, “I have to wear stockings and these weird pants that only come down to below the knee? You didn’t tell me that.” As Amelia had predicted, his outfit had to be altered to fit him, but it was all done now.

  “Those stockings are called ‘nether-hose’, and those pants are knee-breeches,” I informed him. “And if it was good enough for Ben Franklin and John Adams when they visited Paris, then it’s good enough for you.”

  “You seem to have forgotten that I am English,” Jeremy called out. “Your founding fathers were the enemy. We prefer not to speak of them in polite company.”

  “Hey. Don’t forget to wear those gloves,” I told him. “Otherwise Drake will see the ring I gave you, with the crest from the tapestry.”

  “Right. Gloves. Mercifully, they’re not perfumed,” Jeremy muttered. Then I heard him laugh to himself.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about poor Monsieur Felix,” he said. “Since he’s keeping an eye on Amelia, to see if anyone follows her, that means he’s going to have a pretty exhausting day, running from car pool, to yoga class, to tennis lessons, and the hair salon, and the dog’s veterinarian, and the kids’ soccer club . . . that ought to teach Drake a lesson about shadowing a man’s wife.”