There were crepes. And a lot of chocolate.
I was trying to see the bright side of everything in the only way I knew how: by focusing on food. The brunch feast stretched out before us like a banquet. All-you-can-eat. Croissants, pâté, cheeses of all kinds, jams and preserves, ham and more pickles, baguettes, and slices of freshly cut white bread. My gaze kept drifting every few seconds toward the chocolate fountains I had seen from the third floor.
The band started playing as we brunch guests entered the garden. Laurent Dubois and his current wife (whose name Idiscovered at some point during the day was Talia), flanked by Enzo, who wore an air of exhaustion that seemed out of place, and Eloïse, holding Gina’s arm. Bastian arrived soon after, chatting with two men I had never seen before. Two women trailed behind them. They rushed forward to embrace Talia, shouting the latest updates in their lives. After that, the man I was interested in came in.
Norman, the driver and family friend. I kept an eye on everyone from my corner by the crepe machine, directing a very nice woman (one of the many waitresses available to the guests) to add more batter, and more batter, and more batter. I returned to the table with a plate stacked high with crepes, my mouth watering at the thought of digging in. I plopped down next to Gina, settling into the chair at the centre of the table. In the time I had left her, she hadn’t made much progress getting ready.
At least she had swapped her pyjamas for a loose shirt that hung to her knees, without pants. This was the Gina I was used to in the mornings. It made me feel more… at home.
“Hey,” she said, stealing a few crepes from my plate and placing them next to hers, where she had piled an impressive collection of cheese for someone who had just arrived at the table a few moments ago. “Where did you go?”
“I was just exploring the house,” I replied, dodging the question until I was certain no one was eavesdropping. The Dubois family lingered by the croissants, with only Bastian and the two men seated at the far end of the table, five chairs away. He was so engrossed in their conversation that he hadn’t even glanced our way. “Alright, I was trying to dig up some information about the family.”
“Did you find anything?” Gina asked, lowering her toneto match mine.
“Yes,” despite the distance, I didn’t feel comfortable revealing what I knew about Enzo and Eloïse in the presence of so many people. “I need you to do what I asked you earlier.”
I gave her a knowing glance, and she understood right away. I couldn’t reveal what I had overheard—the conversation between Eloïse and Enzo—but she sensed that there was more to the story. Whatever I had uncovered justified the doubts I had expressed to her that morning.
I was now sure of it. Enzo seemed to believe that his sister needed money, while she seemed to have plenty of it. Money that, from Enzo’s intense words, she shouldn’t have…
Club money? Money to… close the murder case as soon as possible? To collect the inheritance?
I still didn’t understand why or how the money had come to me, although maybe Eloïse knew that her mother had been a client of the Counterfeiter. Maybe she had made the connection to me.
“I’ll get to work,” Gina said, spreading pâté on a piece of toast. She took a bite, left it on the plate, and got up. “We’ll talk later.”
I watched her make her way to Norman, the family friend and driver, and extend her hand to him. The man, though surprised, shook it in return. I wondered what strategy my friend had come up with to get him to talk.
The brunch officially began minutes later. Everyone took their seats around the table. More people had arrived. We were almost twenty. Enzo sat next to me; Laurent Dubois and Talia took the seats in front. I ignored Enzo as he asked if I had slept well. My gaze passed over the faces of all the guests, avoiding resting on the face of the guy next to me.Eloïse sat next to Bastian, far from us, and Gina took Norman to the other end of the table. The two seemed engrossed in conversation.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized everyone present was dressed in black, including Gina.
Forgetting my resentment for a moment (fashion is more important than any grudge), I turned to Enzo and whispered something about it.
His expression turned amused.
“Didn’t my father tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
He glanced sideways at Laurent Dubois. Then he cleared his throat and said:
“Vera, do you know what day it is today?”
“Sunday,” I replied, with my usual bluntness.
It was Sunday, of course… Sunday, November 1st. All Saints’ Day.La Toussaint.
Enzo laughed at my mortified expression.
“Don’t worry,” he comforted me, “My family has this tradition of dressing in black for the All-Hallows weekend.”
I didn’t mind being excluded, but I also didn’t want to stand out. The catering service took our drink orders. Margaritas and mojitos started being served in groups of four, then in groups of six. I made sure to stick to my morning coffee—I had had enough of what I’d drunk in the past two days. Laurent Dubois and his wife, Talia, asked me a couple of inconsequential questions (“What did you think of Bordeaux?” “Isn’t it a gorgeous day, Vera? We’re lucky. The last few weeks, we couldn’t hold brunch in the garden. Those autumn rains always catch you off guard!”), but they focused their attention on the rest of the guests for most of the time.Enzo made an effort to keep the conversation flowing, likely thinking he was helping me out. Oh, poor Vera, all alone with her crepes while her friend sat far away.
He had no idea that all I wanted in that moment was to slap him across the face for lying to me. Take that.
“It wasn’t difficult at all,” he was saying, “though I don’t think I could eat so many croissants in a row right now. It’s been almost ten years…”
