Mystery at the Regal Rose Hotel

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Mystery at the Regal Rose Hotel Page 13

by C Jane Reid


  “Truly?” Gordie looked shocked.

  “I might be exaggerating, but compared to this, it would certainly feel that way. What is it about adding nibbles to the table that make it all right, do you think?”

  “Soaks up the alcohol, perhaps.”

  “And adds to the coffers.”

  “You think anyone will overhear us speaking?” Gordie asked Lola.

  Lola glanced at the people gathered in the cocktail bar. The guests were dressed either as though they had recently arrived, were about to leave, or were waiting for their reservation at one of the Regal Rose’s restaurants. There was some occasions of laughter and gaiety with flirty looks and a stray brush of a hand against skin.

  For a moment, Lola was envious. She wished she could set aside all this seriousness and play. She had yet to explore London, kept busy after her mother’s engagement to Sir Caldwell and, of course, proving her friends’ innocence.

  The envy passed. What she was doing was infinitely more important. And exciting in its own way.

  “I think we’re safe,” Lola told him. “I doubt anyone is going to follow us into a cocktail bar to overhear us speaking about the secret owner of the Regal Rose. Though I suppose it could happen. I’m just rather doubtful about it.”

  “You have a suspicious turn of mind,” Gordie observed.

  “Do I?” Lola considered. “I suppose I do, but not at all in a bad way.”

  Gordie rushed to reassure her. “No, not at all. I only meant you have a way of thinking ahead.”

  “Ah. I suppose I can accept that.”

  He relaxed. “I hadn’t expected it in you.”

  “Whyever not?”

  Gordie wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I suppose it’s the fact that you strike me as so playful. It’s hard to suspect someone of a suspicious nature when they seem to take such a delight in living.”

  “Gordie,” Lola exclaimed, “that might be one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me.”

  “That you are playful?”

  “That I’m suspicious. It does make me sound rather clever, don’t you think?”

  Gordie laughed as the waiter delivered their drinks and the small, round sandwiches

  Gordie picked one up and eyed the olive set in the center of the white bread. He popped it into his mouth as Lola watched.

  “Well?”

  “It is . . . odd.”

  She laughed.

  “It would help,” Gordie told her with a wry look, bringing them back to the matter at hand, “if I knew the plan.”

  “You are assuming that I have a plan.” Lola sipped her drink. Sweet and bracing, just how she preferred. Though a little much after the few drinks Daphne had pressed upon her. She set the glass aside. “I prefer to stay flexible to the situation. Adapt as necessary.”

  “Adapting usually implies having something to adapt from.” His tone was chastising, but he spoke with a smile.

  “Fine,” Lola said, feigning a pout. “I’d like to learn three things. One, if he knew Herr Prinz and how he felt about him. Two, if he knows anything about Miss Edie’s husband and what happened during the war. Three, if he killed Herr Prinz.”

  “I rather doubt he will admit to the last.”

  “Then we shall have to be clever.”

  “You are assuming I can be clever.”

  Lola studied him. He had said it with such certainty. She reached across the table to take hold of his hand.

  “I have absolutely no doubts as to your cleverness, Gordie” she told him, squeezing his hand.

  “You’ve only known me for a few days,” he answered, but he didn’t pull his hand back. “That’s hardly enough time to know my character.”

  “Ah, but you forget that I am an excellent judge of character.”

  Gordie shook his head, relenting. “Then experience will have to prove my point.”

  “I’m sure it will prove mine.” Lola squeezed his hand again.

  They were silent for a moment, and Lola could feel tension rising between them.

  She broke it first. “Why were you on the stairs, Gordie?”

  He studied her. “I was wondering when you’d come around to that.”

  “It isn’t as though I doubt your innocence,” she was quick to say, “but you have to admit that it did look suspicious.”

  “Yes, it did.” He took a drink and set it back down, pushing it away. “I was waiting for Marilyn to come out of the club. And then I saw you come out and felt like a completely git because I’d told you that I was leaving. So I took the stairs. I decided that a walk around a couple of the floors would clear my head, and I knew you wouldn’t allow Marilyn to leave with the—with him.”

  “Thank you for your trust.”

  “Thank you for your faith.” A moment passed between them. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Mademoiselle.”

  Both Lola and Gordie were startled to find Gaspard standing by their table. They released hands immediately.

  Lola stood. “Gaspard! Thank you for coming. Waiter!” She raised her arm to wave the young man down. “A glass of Merlot if you will. Do sit,” she said to Gaspard, gesturing to a chair.

  Gaspard did, though he perched on the edge of his seat.

  “First,” Lola began, “I must introduce you to Gordie Canfield.”

  Gaspard inclined his head. “I am aware of you,” he said in his raspy whisper.

  “I’m sure everyone in the hotel is,” Gordie answered with a frown.

  “It is my understanding that you have been cleared of any involvement with the German’s death.” The way that Gaspard said “German” raised the hair on Lola’s neck. The hatred was so thick, she was surprised she couldn’t see it oozing from him.

  “As much as anyone who fought in the war can be. It sounds as though you had as much reason to dislike a German in the hotel as I did.”

  Gaspard lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It is no secret.”

  “It’s hard to hide when you carry the proof wherever you go.”

  “Oui, monsieur, it is.”

  “Please, it’s Gordie.”

  Lola sat back with her drink, observing, more than a little smug. She’d been right about Gordie’s cleverness, and she did so enjoy being right. Not that she’d had any doubts, but she hadn’t liked his own doubts about his abilities. He was connecting quite well with Gaspard. They shared a common, if unfortunate, history.

  “What did you know about Herr Prinz besides his nationality?” Gordie asked.

  Gaspard narrowed his eyes, and Lola read his suspicion.

  “You have questions you wish to ask me specifically,” he challenged. “Ask them. I have nothing to hide.”

  “We weren’t suggesting that you did,” Lola said quickly. “There is a matter, though—” She hesitated. She did consider herself quite good at reading people, and Gaspard, at times, worried her. There was a darkness about him that she knew she shouldn’t ignore. Or provoke.

  She gathered her courage and fixed it with a benign smile. “I happened to overhear you and Mr. Edgars that evening, concerning Herr Prinz, I believe.”

  She was prepared to go into detail, but Gaspard sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, telling her that he knew to what she was referring. He didn’t answer, forcing Lola to continue. “I do understand feelings of anger and outrage and grief. And the desire for vengeance.”

  “Do you, mademoiselle?” Gaspard’s rasp was abrasive.

  “I do.” Lola straightened and set her drink aside. “My cousin fought in the war, and I’ve seen how he returned, changed from the man he was. And I grieved and raged and wished I could avenge him, but the only thing I could do was to stand by him.”

  “That would be enough,” Gordie told her quietly. It surprised her.

  “Still,” she confessed, “it doesn’t feel like enough when I would do so much more if I were able.”

  “Would you?” Gaspard challenged.

&
nbsp; “Yes.”

  “How far would you go?”

  Lola considered before answering. “I’m not a murderer,” she finally said, “but there are other ways to exact justice.”

  “As I am aware.” Gaspard sighed. “It was never my intention to kill the man,” he admitted. “Though I am certain it sounded otherwise.”

  “Do you find that you react that way with every German?”

  “No,” Gaspard said, his voice rising, but rasping even more. He winced and put his hand to his neck, then sipped his wine before continuing. “No. I do not hold all Germans in contempt. I do not seek out their company—” He glanced at Gordie, who nodded with understanding, “—but I do not condemn them for what the leaders of our countries began.”

  “But Herr Prinz was different?”

  Gaspard rubbed his temple, then took a longer drink from glass. “Yes,” he finally answered. That single word contained more meaning than three letters should hold.

  “Will you tell us?” Lola asked gently.

  “If it is too much,” Gordie added, “you needn’t.”

  “No, this is important. And it is time others knew. Though I do not think it will aid anyone.”

  “Because it involves Miss Edie?” Lola asked.

  Gaspard’s mouth formed a thin line, and he glanced upwards as though he could see through the many floors of the hotel to the elderly woman’s penthouse.

  “Oui,” Gaspard said, still looking up. “This has much to do with Madame.”

  Lola bit the inside of her cheek and twined her fingers through her pearls.

  “Madame or her husband?” she asked.

  Gaspard fixed his gaze on her. “You have heard of Monsieur Meunier?”

  Lola and Gordie exchanged meaningful looks.

  “We know the name.” Gordie’s voice was flat.

  Gaspard gave a single nod and a silent understanding passed between them that Lola had witnessed before between two veterans of the Great War.

  “This is not the place for such conversation,” he told them. “Please come with me.”

  With a glance to Gordie, Lola rose and they followed the Frenchman from the Punch Bowl. He led them to the other side of the hotel where the event rooms were located and chose a door to unlock before gesturing them inside.

  It was the Petite Rose Room, the smallest event room of the Regal Rose. That did not diminish its elegance. It was done in a Victorian style in creams and rose and hints of gold. Plush and comfortable seating and small tables were placed in tasteful groupings about the room.

  Gaspard invited them to sit. Lola took the cream and gold sofa, and Gordie surprised her by sitting next to her, his empty sleeve between them. She thought that a rare show of trust on his part. Gaspard sat in the winged-back chair across from them and drew in a long, pained breath.

  “I was an orderly in the French Fourth Army,” he began, and Lola understood why he wished the privacy and silence of the Petite Rose. He needn’t over-strain his damaged voice to tell his tale. “I was assigned to the AEF field hospital in Argonne.” His gaze went distant, seeing into the past with discomfort but also with a trace of pride. “It was a good place. I made good friends. There were other Frenchmen there, too, though I did not seek only them for companions. The Americans were—” He paused to consider, then smiled. “Feisty.”

  Lola chuckled. “You sound positively Texan.”

  Gaspard smiled, and it was as rare to see as Gordie’s, though it made the crags of his face stand out. “I learned it from a Texan.”

  “Indeed?” Lola was intrigued. “Who was he?”

  “She,” he pronounced, “was Mademoiselle Josie Pierson. Madame Sinclaire now. She and her husband have become close friends.”

  Lola smiled and nodded for him to continue.

  He sobered as he took up his story once more. “These other Frenchmen, two of them were ambulance drivers. One was new to us. Javier.” His mouth curled around the name as though tasting poison.

  “Meunier?” Lola asked.

  Gaspard gave one abrupt nod. “He was a competent driver. He cared for the men he transported. He kept his distant, yes, but not entirely. He had an affair with one of the nurses, though later he broke it off.”

  Gordie looked away, coloring, and Lola wondered if there was a special nurse in his past. She paused, waiting for a trace of jealousy, but there was none. Rather, she hoped he had found comfort and companionship during such an awful experience.

  “Javier aided Germans to steal plans for an offensive,” Gaspard continued, his whispered voice flat and distant. “He tried to kill my good friend, Josie. He tried to kill me. He nearly succeeded.” Gaspard rubbed at his neck, a shadow crossing his expression.

  Lola couldn’t help herself. She reached across and laid her hand on his arm. “I’m so glad you survived.”

  Gaspard blinked in surprise, as though he hadn’t expected that. “Merci.” He gave a weak smile. “Most people, they say they are sorry or they thank me for doing my part. No one has been grateful for my life.”

  “I know I’m not the only one.” Lola gave his arm a squeeze before withdrawing.

  “I heard of him aiding the Germans,” Gordie told him after a look to Lola. “That it changed the course of the offensive and led to the battalion trapped behind the lines.”

  Gaspard’s smile was dark. “Yes, that is what is told. The experience of it was much worse.”

  Lola swallowed hard. “That included the 308th Infantry, didn’t it?”

  Gaspard looked at her in surprise. “Yes.”

  “My cousin was in that company. He doesn’t speak of it.”

  “I would not think so. Few do.” Gaspard eyed her. “You are acquainted with Jack Edgars, are you not?”

  “He and my cousin, Wyatt, are close. And,” she added, “I’m fond of him. He’s an interesting man.”

  “He is a good man,” Gaspard told her.

  “Yes,” she agreed, measuring her tone with understanding. Gaspard’s meaning was clear. Jack would not have been part of any plot to kill the German.

  “Why would he do it?” Lola said. “Put so many at risk? Was it because they were American? Did he resent them for some reason? Or was it for money?” The idea turned her stomach.

  “No. It was not about nations or money. It was for family.” Gaspard rubbed the bridge of his nose with a look of exhaustion, as though even recalling the events of those days drained him.

  “When I was recommended for my position here,” Gaspard told them, “I was eager. It is a beautiful hotel, and I am proud to be among its staff. But in the beginning, I did not wish to take the position.”

  “Because of Monsieur Meunier?” Lola had no doubt, but she wanted to be clear.

  “Yes.”

  “How was he related to the man who . . .” Lola wasn’t sure how to finish.

  “The traitor,” Gordie supplied. “Call him what he was.”

  Chastened, Lola looked away. Gordie shifted to take her hand. “We cannot hide behind polite words, Lola, especially when it comes to such foulness.”

  “I understand. What changed your mind?” Lola asked Gaspard. “About working here?”

  “I spoke with Monsieur Meunier. Not of my own volition,” he added, “but by the insistence of Sir Winston. I found him to be an honorable man. He could no longer practice his skills in France, he told me. His name was too hated, and though he was but a distant cousin, he was condemned for the traitor’s acts.”

  “So he came to England?”

  “Yes. And we are the better for it.” Gaspard sat back with a distant smile. “I enjoyed my time with him. He did not apologize for his relative’s actions, and he did not condemn them with more violence than any other man would as though to make up for the treason. He did not consider him at all. His entire being was for the hotel, and for Madame. Such love. I would wish it for myself one day.”

  Lola smiled wistfully, then sobered. “The idea that Miss Edie would kill a German makes no sense.


  Gaspard pursed his lips together. Lola straightened. “You know something more.”

  The Frenchman looked away, his expression closed.

  She leaned forward. “Gaspard, if it would help Miss Edie—”

  “It would not.”

  “You are certain of that?”

  He gave one curt nod.

  Lola sighed and looked to Gordie.

  “Tell me this, then,” Gordie said to him. “If it were discovered, could it hurt her chances of innocence?”

  Gaspard gave another curt nod.

  “And if someone else finds out what you know?” Lola challenged.

  Gaspard met her gaze. “I will not allow that.”

  “Why, Gaspard? What is it that could be so damaging?”

  Silently, Gaspard stood. He regarded them for a long moment, and Lola held her breath, hopeful. But rather than speak, Gaspard gave them one last nod and left the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “He has the perfect motive, though.” Daphne said when she’d finished recording the last of Lola’s and Gordie’s recounting of their discussion with Gaspard. “To protect Madame Meunier.”

  “How does her being implicated protect her?” Willa asked Daphne.

  Daphne worked her jaw back and forth, considering as the quartet on stage, a new one this time, began another slow tune. Apparently Sundays were for sedate dancing.

  “He may have miscalculated,” Daphne finally said.

  “If anyone has the perfect motive, it’s Jack Edgars, though it hurts me to admit it.” Willa frowned.

  “He didn’t do it,” Lola repeated stubbornly.

  “Lola,” Brandon said, “if we keep discounting everybody, we’ll have no suspects at all.”

  “We simply need to continue to search for someone with more motive than anyone else.”

  “I’m not sure it works exactly like that,” Willa told them. “What I mean is that one person’s very good motive might seem unreasonable, even ridiculous, to someone else.”

  “Willa has a point.” Vera sat back in her chair and swirled her green cocktail in one hand as she held a small triangle of toast topped with fromage blanc, chives, and pickled celery in the other. The cocktail matched the emerald of her new dress, and the dim light of the Portage Club glistened off the pearly bead strands along the drop waist and the pin in her hair black hair. Lola wished she had a camera. Vera’s pose was the ideal vision of a flapper in repose.

 

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