The gurgling in her stomach reminded Gerel that she’d been running on caffeine all day. She dragged herself to the kitchen where she pulled out a block of Roquefort cheese from the refrigerator. From the breadbasket on the kitchen counter she grabbed half a loaf of a day-old baguette and pulled off a couple of chunks. She smeared a few morsels of cheese on the bread and poured a glass of wine. Seconds later, she was back in her sofa, bread and wine on the side table.
The first entry was only two lines, dated May 1885. Meigui had merely recorded the date and time she’d entered the Forbidden City. During the following months, Meigui was an infrequent diary keeper, an entry a week at most, mainly about how the palace life was boring her to death, and how she was a free, wild bird, suddenly locked away in a tiny cage. Why did you choose to go into the Forbidden City then? Gerel asked aloud, as if Meigui was sitting right in front of her.
Toward the end of 1885, Meigui had written more frequently. She seemed to have found purpose in her life in the palace. She revealed her tender feelings toward her unborn daughter, Lis, but her thoughts were more occupied by the future of the Qing Dynasty. Entry after entry, Meigui recorded her encounters with the Emperor, the midnight pillow talks, the afternoon tea chats, and their conversations during strolls in the palace garden. Meigui had become the unofficial council to the Emperor on many state affairs. She encouraged him to implement reform, to get rid of the ancient feudal system that had been the root cause of China’s backward culture, a system that had ruined so many lives. It was clear that Meigui thought all people in China should have the freedom to worship whatever god they chose to believe in. Though Gerel had no doubt that Meigui was a woman of Christian faith, as she would often conclude an entry with her prayer to God and Jesus for the future of the Imperial Qing Dynasty. Unorthodox but not surprising, considering who Meigui’s father was.
So far, no mention of the Empress Seal, no mention of the red stone that was the face of the seal. Yet the dairy had only a few pages left. Gerel flipped to the last page, the date on the last entry was December 28, 1886. That’s about the time Meigui died. Gerel’s impulse was to jump to Meigui’s last words, to the end of her life in the Forbidden City but somewhere her cell phone started to ring. She’d used her cell as a GPS for her trip to the village and she’d left it in her coat pocket. She fished the phone out and glanced at the screen. It was André.
“Gerel, ma cherie, how’s life at the beach?” André’s voice flowed through the line, full of glee.
“Just catching up with some reading. What’s going on?” Gerel was a bit surprised. She’d specifically told him she wanted to be away for a few days to catch up with some work after being away for so long. André had always joked about how he would not bother the noble woman when she was on retreat at her private villa. And most of the time, he’d refrained from bothering her.
“Guess who came to visit today?”
“Who? Get to the point, André.” Gerel was in no mood for André’s crescendo-building style.
“Our friend Wesley Walters.”
“What did he want?”
“He said he’s considering having another Empress Seal made by the Cartier House, and he was looking for you.”
“Haven’t we had enough of the Empress Seal yet? It’s got us nothing but trouble so far. It might even have something to do with William’s death. Don’t you think it’s morbid that Walters wants to have another one made?”
“I know what you’re saying but business is business. Mr. Walters was very saddened by his dear friend’s death and he wants something to remember William by.”
“Didn’t you ask him what happened to the first replica we made for William?”
“I did. Don’t sound so angry, ma cherie. Mr. Walters said it disappeared, nobody knows where it is.”
“Maybe he stole it,” Gerel muttered.
“That’s nonsense. Why would Mr. Walters want another one made if he already has the first one? You know he’s thinking of using a Burmese ruby as the face of the seal this time.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said you’re on retreat at your private villa, the famous La Maison Suspendu in Normandy, and you won’t be back for a few days. But Mr. Walters seemed to not be in a hurry. He said he’ll do some sightseeing in Paris for a few days and asked me to let him know once you’re back.”
“You told him where I am?”
“I just mentioned La Maison Suspendu, harmless small talk.”
You might as well have told him exactly where I am. “André, listen to me. Even if I’m coming back tomorrow, I’m not going to have anything to do with Walters and his dammed seal,” Gerel practically yelled into the phone before she cut the call. She didn’t know if it was anger or fear but goose bumps had rippled over her legs and arms. Suddenly she got the feeling that somewhere a pair of eyes was watching her, following her every move. She peered out the window. Nothing was there, only darkness . . .
*
The inn where Ryan was staying stood on the edge of the town market, a leisurely fifteen-minute walk from Gerel’s villa. It was a three-story half-timber, half-brick-and-stone structure with steeple roofs and balconies jutting out from the guest rooms on the second floor.
It had been a satisfying day for Ryan. Even the normally chilly and damp early March weather had cooperated. Mild sunshine had accompanied his visits to the D-Day landing beaches and battlefields most of the day. He had wanted to visit the Normandy beaches since he was a teenager, to see the site where his grandfather had fought the battle that was forever etched in history. He made a solemn wish that the blood shed by the hundreds of thousands of men was not in vain.
He got back to the inn just when it was about to rain. He grabbed a beer and dinner at the bar and went back to his room to get ready for an early departure the next morning. He stuffed everything into his carry-on bag and checked his cell phone. Quite a few messages but nothing urgent that he had to deal with at the moment. His mind drifted back to the Blackwell case.
He didn’t expect his trip would lead him to the killer. He’d always trusted his own instinct, his ability to read people. Gerel’s presence at Blackwell’s penthouse didn’t mean she was the killer. Besides, she was gone hours before Blackwell died. However, his conversation with Gerel the previous day told him that she had something to hide, something quite big, but he wasn’t going to find out by extending his stay here. Somehow, he sensed that at the right time Gerel would reveal the truth on her own.
The clock on his cell said it was almost eight p.m. He thought he’d take a shower so he could get an early start in the morning to catch the train to the airport in Paris in time for the noon flight back to New York. Just as he was putting his cell down on the nightstand, it buzzed in his hand. It was Ive. He swiped the phone on.
“Ryan, new development.” Ive’s voice was urgent and grave. “Simone Loveless is dead.”
“What? When?”
“I’m right here in her apartment. Looks like she OD’d on the same drug we found in William Blackwell’s penthouse. She left a note, it says, ‘William, I’m sorry’.”
“Who found her? Any signs of struggle or break in?”
“Well, I went to the W Gallery again yesterday, just to see if I could get a bit more information from Simone. I got there just as she was arriving. I noticed she had a crystal ornament on her key ring that looked like one of those fancy chandeliers in the Crystal Palace. After I talked to Simone, I stopped at the super’s office at the Crystal Palace Residence. The super thought the key might be used to enter the private entrance on the side of the residence building and also to Blackwell’s penthouse. There are two penthouse units, the other one belongs to some rich Chinese businessman who uses it when he’s in New York, but he hasn’t been here for the last several months. The super said the private entrance was for the two penthouse units and each of the owners has a key for privacy reasons like the one I saw on Simone’s key ring. I guess people like Blackwell don’t
like their comings and goings to be monitored by cameras or staff.”
“So you think Blackwell trusted Simone enough to let her have that key?”
“It seemed to be that way. The super said Blackwell had requested copies because he’d left the original in London. A convenient lie, I think. When I talked to Simone yesterday morning, I asked if her relationship with Blackwell was only professional. She said it was, but I’m not convinced. Simone seemed to be tense and preoccupied. On my way out, Wesley Walters walked in and the look he gave Simone was like he was afraid that Simone had told me something she shouldn’t have. Anyway, after I left the super’s, I called Simone again and left a message saying that I wanted to talk to her again. But I didn’t hear back from her. This morning I went straight to the W Gallery but it was closed, nobody was there.”
“Where’s Walters?”
“I’ve called him, too, but no answer. When I didn’t hear back from either one of them hours later, I went to Simone’s apartment after lunch. I knocked on her door before I tried the knob. Guess what? It wasn’t locked. I went in and found her in bed, naked, wearing only a very expensive necktie. She was quite cold, the CSU guy said she’s been dead for at least twenty hours. That puts the time of death around five p.m. yesterday.”
“Any security cameras or monitoring devices in or around her apartment?”
“Not really, her apartment was on the second floor in one of those old brownstone houses. No cameras have been installed. Tenants use a security code to open the front door. Shit, I just thought of something. That necktie Simone was wearing, could it be the murder weapon used to kill Blackwell? He was strangled with a smooth ligature remember?”
“It could be. But why did she keep it? Wouldn’t it be better to just get rid of it? Let’s say Simone did kill Blackwell, but why?”
“Hey, Mr. Shakespeare, could it be a case of hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? It’s easy for someone like Simone to be dazzled by Blackwell’s wealth and celebrity status. He didn’t have to do much to seduce her, have a little fun and dump her while she still thought she was in a budding romance with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors.”
“The old bard would’ve been very proud of you, Ive. It could be a crime of passion, but it doesn’t quite make sense . . .” Ryan’s mind raced, something was missing.
“I know what you’re thinking. Simone’s lived a tough life, psychological trauma isn’t new to her. Emotionally, she’s hardened and even numb. To put on her former lover’s tie then drug herself to death to show her guilt and remorse? It’s just too mushy and Simone’s too self-centered to do that,” Ive advanced her theory, thoughtfully.
Ryan’s mind was still a whirl, but something logical was beginning to spin out, images swam in front of his eyes. Photos of Blackwell, Walters, and Simone attending art and social events that Ive had pulled down from various social media sites . . . Simone’s icy, expressionless face, Walter’s mournful eyes when Ryan met with them at the W Gallery the day after the murder . . . More recent photos of Blackwell at the Empress Seal ceremonies with Gerel close at his side, yet nowhere was Walters or Simone to be seen in those photos . . . Gerel’s half-shielded face the day she was with Blackwell at the Crystal Palace Residence, hours before his death . . . Each image seemed to be random, but together they made sense. “Ive, just think, we don’t know what exactly the dynamics were between Blackwell, Walters, and Simone, but they seemed to be three happy musketeers in the city’s high society until another woman came into the mix.”
“Gerel Garnier,” Ive blurted out.
“Exactly, and she’s the only woman regularly seen in public with Blackwell at all those Empress Seal ceremonies. If Simone was carrying on with Blackwell before Gerel came onto scene, it’s possible her jealousy and anger made her lose it. But you’re right, Simone’s the type who’d rather harm Gerel than kill herself. And yet she’s dead and someone wanted the police to believe that she committed suicide. From my talk with Gerel yesterday, I sensed the reason she went to Blackwell’s penthouse was for a certain something, though she wanted me to believe she was there to explore how Blackwell could make her a star in the high-end jewelry business.”
“It couldn’t be the replicated Empress Seal, could it? Why?” Ive spoke faster, as if she could see the dots connecting.
“It could be, but she denied she took it during my last two interviews with her. I don’t see why she’d want to go through so much trouble to steal a piece of imitation art that’s not worth that much. I mean, not so much that she could live on it for the rest of her life. Besides, it’s not like the replica had historical value to her, she made it herself just months ago, and—”
“Walters, Wesley Walters,” Ive interrupted. “As far as we know, three people were close to Blackwell in the months leading to his death. Two died and if you think Gerel had no reason to steal or kill, who else is left?”
“You mean he’s the one who killed Simone or he’s the one who stole the replicated seal?”
“Both. And most likely he had a copy of the key to access the private entrance and the penthouse . . .” Ive lowered her voice to a murmur.
“But he had an alibi that night . . . Simone, Simone was his alibi . . .”
“And vice versa.” Ive’s voice came through loud and clear this time.
Ryan’s heart suddenly sank, like he was in a dead elevator plunging to the bottom from a thirty-story height. “Ive, try to track Walters down, I got to go.” He killed the phone.
A minute later, Ryan was out of the door running toward the beach. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
*
After she’d hung up the phone on André, Gerel went around the villa to make sure the front and back doors were barred, and every window secured. But what was she afraid of? So what Wesley Walters was in Paris? Could it be that he knew what she snuck out of William’s penthouse that day? Not possible, it was a secret that William had sworn nobody knew except the Blackwell family members who were all dead now. But she couldn’t shake off that sense of dread. When Gerel had first met Walters, she found him captivatingly enigmatic. His cultured voice could charm and persuade people into doing what he wanted them to do. Those bottomless eyes seemed to look right through her, nerve-wracking yet mesmerizing at the same time. She was shamelessly attracted to him on a physical level. Tall, dark, his masculine body exuding that male virility with sheer confidence. But all that had changed very quickly. It didn’t take her long to find that Walters, the perfect male specimen, was nothing but a pathetic gold digger. The way he acted around Blackwell and wealthy society people was disgustingly ingratiating yet highly effective. Many of them were happy to lighten their purses and wallets in exchange for Walters’s groveling flattery. She was fully aware that his feelings toward her were mutual. Walters had considered her a threat, slamming the door shut in his face to the Blackwell fortune while she busied herself around William digging for gold. How many times had Walters smiled at her while his eyes flashed hatred and contempt? Even Simone, the frigid assistant. The ice between the two women had never broken. Walters must’ve warned her to be careful with that conniving French bitch.
Okay, get a grip, Gerel. Walters may have hated you, but William is dead, nobody is able to get to his money. What can Walters do to you now? Perhaps she’d overreacted. Knowing Walters, maybe he’d already latched himself onto another rich patron and could afford to have another replica made by Cartier House. It was a good way to keep the story alive—from the original Empress Seal to the mysterious disappearance of the replica to William’s murder. Very clever of Walters to capitalize on William’s notorious death and sensationalize it. Gerel could visualize a glittering fake Empress Seal sitting in the center of the W Gallery with bylines of its artificial history designed for the eyes of visitors who considered themselves art connoisseurs from many parts of the world.
A deep breath eased her nerves a bit. She felt bad to have hung up on André, whose well-intentioned nature often ende
d up irritating her. It was his job to grab every business opportunity, to promote the brand of Cartier House. She just wished he was more tight-lipped about her personal details. She peered out of the window again—dark, still, only the sound of raindrops pattering against the windowpane.
She almost laughed at her jumpiness. Maybe it was because she’d been under pressure and stressed for the past several weeks. Traveling across the world didn’t help. Her meridian system had been punishing her with sleepless nights and diminished appetite for normal food. She’d been largely running on caffeine and wine. That could do strange things to her brain. She tottered back to the salon and sank back in the armchair. The red folder was perched on the edge of the side table. She should finish reading Meigui’s diary. Gerel was even more curious now to know what Meigui had known about the face of the seal, other than that it was just a red stone given to her by her mother Sarnai.
The entries in Meigui’s diary continued to be short, intermittent, mainly about the Emperor’s plans to turn the Qing Dynasty into a republic and her concern for the fate of the country. There was no mention of the Empress Seal. Gerel turned another page. The entry was a long one.
Eunuch Li brought me the latest Gazette. It had an article about the recent interview the Emperor granted to the chief correspondent of a foreign newspaper, The Telegraph. It is the only time a foreign reporter has been allowed inside the Forbidden Palace to talk to the Emperor face to face. I guess the Emperor wanted to show he’s serious about the reform that’s going on throughout the country. The article reported that the Emperor wants China to step into a modern era, establish economic and education systems like those in the West. During the interview, the Emperor showed the reporter a pair of seals, one was the Emperor Seal, the face made of white jade with a fleur-de-lis etched on it. It was a gift from the French ambassador. As for the other one, it’s a gift the Emperor has bestowed upon me. The Emperor told me in private that he’d named it the Rose Seal, because Rose is my name and the face of the seal is made from a red gemstone my mother left me. She said the stone had miraculously appeared on the altar table in Jacques Bernard’s—my papa’s—house of worship near a small village outside Canton when he was getting ready for his first mass. He considered the stone a message from God, crimson red like the blood of Jesus. He later gave the sacred stone to my mother, telling her to keep it on her person always to guard her against any harm.
The Face of the Seal Page 24