“I don’t know… Why would she give you the money? She didn’t know who you were before Friday at the Club, right?”
“No,” I admitted.
That was a big flaw in my reasoning, because I was sure that whoever had sent me the money had personal reasons for doing so.
“There’s one more thing,” I said, remembering Laurent Dubois’ words. It was not a clue, just a name, a simple fact. I planned to investigate it anyway. “The chauffeur. A guy named Norman. Norman Plaskitt. He’s the only person left here who connects Antonia with her old family, besidesEloïse. He was on the list of suspects I found in André’s office.”
Gina raised an eyebrow.
“Are you planning to talk to him? What do you expect him to know, Vera?”
“Fair question,” I said with a slight smile. “But lucky for you, you’ll be the one having that talk, so you can fill me in later.”
Gina started to reply, then paused, her face uncertain. She shut her mouth again, clearly unsure of what to say.
“I can’t handle this on my own,” I added. “Laurent Dubois already has his suspicions about me. If I start digging into family matters, it’ll only confirm what he’s thinking.”
Gina let out a hiss, her brow furrowed. “Let me get this straight. Enzo is Eloïse’s brother, and he’s helping you find out where the money came from. You think Eloïse sent it to you, somehow or for some reason you can’t even think of. You’ve travelled to France to talk to a billionaire who hasn’t told you anything important. And, to top it all off, now you want me to question a man who appears as a murder suspect on a somewhat shady list you stole from your boss,” she said all in one breath.
I gave her an apologetic smile.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
Gina sighed, her face showing exasperation.
“I love you, V, but I think you’ve completely lost it.”
“Just talk to him,” I brought my hands together in a pleading gesture. “Please. Just a few questions.”
“About what? Eloïse? The inheritance?”
“Both things, yes.”
Gina looked at me for a moment.
“Alright,” she finally agreed. “But you owe me a big one.”
Anxiety twisted in my gut as soon as I left the room, the kind that tightens your chest and makes your palms sweat. Time felt like a ticking bomb, and every second that passed made my heart pound. I paced around the mansion, racking my brain for ways to spend the money. I should have been doing that instead of attending some stupid brunch. Besides, I kept imagining the police showing up at my door, returning to Cutnam, only to find an order of arrest under my name for spending money that wasn’t mine. It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t shake the dread.
Now, sitting here, detained, the irony of it all is almost laughable. But that came later.
What horrified me most wasn’t the money issue or what would wait for me in London, but the sheer extravagance of the house itself, clouding everything else. According to the emergency map next to the stairs leading to the second and third floors, the mansion had twenty rooms, including two kitchens (yes, two!) and numerous bathrooms. The Dubois were a small family: a father, a new wife, a rarely seen daughter, and a son who never showed up. The sheer scale of the place was absurd.
“No, dear,” a woman in a white apron, the head of the service, told me in French, “we’re not here just for the brunch. The catering handles that. We work here every weekend, the whole team. Is that what you’re asking about?”
I nodded and asked her if having brunch with guests was a regular thing for the family.
“Oh, absolutely. If you don’t mind, there’s a lot to do before the evening falls.”
Seemed like this was a weekly event. I searched theinternet for the name of the company the woman worked for (embroidered on the apron, below a logo of a broom standing by itself, like those from the Fantasia movie).
According to the information I found, such a service could cost between two hundred fifty thousand and five hundred thousand pounds a year, paid in advance each month. The catering was even pricier, which seemed extravagant… until I peered through a window at the end of the third-floor hallway, which provided a view into the backyard.
I couldn’t even see the end of the Dubois’ garden. The patio extended from the mansion, featuring a glass-walled porch, leading to a padel court, and beyond that, a meadow that could easily have been a golf course. The opposite side of the mansion, as I’d noticed upon my arrival the previous night, was bordered by tall trees and lush pines.
But in the backyard, the preparations made last night’s charity party look small. Two long polished wooden tables, covered with delicate interwoven tablecloths that draped from side to side and hung down the sides but showed the wood underneath; gold-plated plates and cutlery, bottles of champagne on the table, napkins arranged on the plates in beautiful swan shapes; plush armchairs, a live band whose members chatted next to a music stand, their instruments—a violin, viola, and trumpet—sitting on the seats, and two chocolate fountains surrounded by trays of cut fruit. To Gina’s delight, a crepe-making machine was set up nearby.
The catering for a simple brunch was what every little girl (and by little girl, I mean myself at eight and myself now) would want for her wedding. What appears on those shows where people spend thousands of pounds on their special day.
