by Mary Vee
The bell chimed. Jeanie looked at her watch then leaned close to Branson and whispered, “We need to get to our table.” She smiled at the two guests they’d been speaking with and said, “Excuse us.”
Branson gave a slight nod to the couple. “It’s been a delight.” He turned and walked to his seat, winding around the tables. He hobnobbed with a few others along the way, displeased in the lack of helpful information, but content he might learn more during the dance.
A woman walked across the platform and to the microphone. He recognized her as president of the Children’s Hospital. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming this evening. Your contributions help provide care to countless children.” She paused while a short slide presentation boasted their success cases on the big screen behind her. At the end of the video, she stood closer to the microphone, applauding along with the audience. “There is more to tell. But first, I invite you to enjoy your meal.”
Waitstaff entered the ballroom through unmarked doors on cue, carrying oversized trays of food. Bowls of steaming hot soup clanked against dinner plates.
Branson inhaled the delicious aroma. Festive pea soup with red edible flowers floating on top. Once everyone at the table received their soup, he picked up the wider based spoon on the far right and dipped it into his bowl. Delicious. He kept an eye on the others at his table, pacing his eating the same as theirs.
A woman seated to his right looked his way and smiled. She dipped her spoon into her soup. “Do I know you, young man? I thought Sylvia would be here this evening.”
“My name is Branson Carhill, and this is Ms. Holloway. Mrs. Duvet had a headache and was unable to attend. You probably understand her commitment to this cause and why she’d send someone in her stead?”
“Of course. The poor thing. Send her my regards. My name is Myra Babineaux and this is my husband, Richard.” The two men nodded. “I’m quite surprised she suddenly became ill.”
“Why is that?”
“She seemed so spry only three days ago at tea. Quite different from Vera who would have sat on your other side. The poor dear has been in the hospital a month after the accident. I hear Stephan hasn’t left her side, didn’t you, Myra?”
“Yes. The Griswold’s certainly have had their problems lately. We should send her flowers.”
“I agree.” She leaned forward and spoke softer. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say our friend Sylvia had some grand adventure planned. Do you know she talked about her French club high school friends my entire visit? Well, maybe not the entire time. She always conducts a conversation with the utmost decorum.” She sighed ever so slightly. “I wish I’d stayed connected with my high school friends.”
There was another woman seated at the table. The centerpiece candlelight reflected off her diamond necklace. “Come, come, now, my dear Myra. You have more friends than anyone I know.” The woman didn’t lift her head with the remark that stated a fact without a shred of emotion.
Myra slipped her spoon into her bowl then sipped the broth. “Chelsea, you’re so kind. I do have a few friends I suppose.”
“A few? Your holiday guest list is longer than all the Christmas wishes sent to Saint Nicholas.” She faced Branson. “My name is Chelsea Dover, and this is my husband, Mark.”
“Pleased to meet you. You are acquainted with Jeanie Holloway?”
“Why yes. You’re Sylvia’s assistant. Do tell her we missed her this evening.”
Jeanie swallowed her soup. “I will. Thank you.”
The competition to one-up the compliments between Chelsea and Myra appeared to have only just begun.
Myra set her spoon down on her plate, indicating she’d finished this course. “Chelsea, wouldn’t you like to have a core group of friends with whom you could share your deepest secrets?”
“You don’t seem to have any problem sharing.” Chelsea drew her glass to her lips and sipped.
These two ladies and their quick banter could easily produce fodder for his investigation over the course of the evening. He considered dancing with each one. The main course followed the baby arugula salad course. The meal more than met Branson’s expectation of fine dining, especially having a choice between pan-roasted halibut with saffron risotto and filet mignon with shaved zucchini.
Chelsea and Myra’s volleyed comments entertained everyone at the table, dominating the conversation. Branson and Jeanie, along with the husbands, laughed at the quick-witted words.
“Myra, dear. Despite what you’ve said, you still call me your dearest friend.” Chelsea cut a small piece of filet mignon and ate it.
“Only as far as propriety dictates. I mean you eat animals. How can you do that?”
“Not everyone can survive on plants and vegetables without a bushel basket of vitamins. Don’t get me wrong, Myra. Grains and vegetables taste delicious only as supplements to the main entree. You must admit, you’re looking dreadfully pale. The proteins and natural vitamins in this filet mignon add color and oils to the skin.” Chelsea cut another piece. “Mmm.”
“Mr. Branson,” said Myra. “Is Mrs. Duvet a vegan or at least a vegetarian? Sometimes it’s difficult to tell at the ladies’ luncheons.”
“I believe I can answer that for you,” Jeanie said. “Mrs. Duvet enjoys foods from all over the world, especially European foods, including the meats.”
Myra’s eyes sharply widened. This information apparently did not sit well with her at all. She raised her chin. “Perhaps if Sylvia ate vegan, she might not have had a headache and would be dining with us at this very moment.” Myra sipped her tea.
Chelsea leaned slightly to the side, allowing the waiter to pick up her plate. “I’ll wager she’s at home writing to her close friends and arranging a wonderful trip for all of them while sipping a medicinal cup of hot tea. She said something to that effect last week when I called. Can you imagine going to Paris for Christmas? Mark, dear. Would you take me to Paris for Christmas?”
He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. “If that is what you wish. We’d have to cancel the cruise in Spain.”
She laughed. “Don’t you dare. Where are you and Richard going for Christmas, Myra?”
Richard looked up over his glasses. “We’re staying home. This will be a cozy, warm Christmas in our own place where I can sleep in my own bed. The children will return from college, filling the house with laughter and holiday cheer. I’m looking forward to eggnog and crushing whole walnuts myself.”
The conversation finally swung in a useful way. Other than Jeanie, the other guests at the table didn’t know Branson’s connection to Mrs. Duvet as a private investigator. His next questions would be phrased to not garner suspicion. He picked up his water glass and addressed Chelsea. “You spoke with Mrs. Duvet last week?”
“We mentioned that earlier, Mr. Carhill. You really must try to keep up with the conversation.”
“Yes, I apologize. Perhaps you could relate the adventure she alluded to planning.”
“Well, apparently, one of her friends begged to whisk her away from her empty home. Find some adventure and put pizzazz into her holiday. She seemed quite happy about it. I don’t know why you don’t know this, Ms. Holloway. Don’t you keep account of her appointments?”
“I do. She, unfortunately, never mentioned this one to me.”
Branson ate a bite of his peach dessert, a colorful ending to this delicious meal. “Did she say where her friend encouraged her to visit and whether her friend planned to go with her?”
“She didn’t have to. Either the five friends will meet at one of their homes or they all slip away to France, visiting sites they saw during their high school days. Either way, they’d all go together. I’m so jealous.”
“Imagine that. Revisiting a high school event?” Myra laughed.
“I wouldn’t want to revisit mine. We went to Brazil. It was hot and miserable. Bad timing. I doubt I could say more than a few words of Portuguese anymore.”
The hospital director walked acros
s the platform to the microphone again. “I hope you enjoyed your meal.”
The guests applauded. Waiters quietly worked the room collecting dishes and taking them beyond the side doors.
As she introduced the speaker, Branson tuned out the message and dwelled on the dinner conversation. More than ever he felt Sylvia had left home by her own wishes. Why she didn’t record the meeting in her planner, inform her staff, or her daughter, was far from being answered. Those details could be settled later. For now, what he wanted most was to find Sylvia. The woman who apparently ran away from home for Christmas.
Chapter Eight
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the hospital director, “I invite you to dance, mingle, and most of all, leave your generous contributions inside the envelopes on the table. No gift is too large.” She laughed and pressed her hands together and turned to the band. “Start the music.”
Richard and Mark, the two husbands sitting at Branson’s table, excused themselves and walked to another table where several businessmen had gathered. He took the opportunity to conduct his investigation with Sylvia’s acquaintances by offering to waltz with those sitting alone.
The women seemed delighted to dance with someone who flowed across the floor like Fred Astaire. They freely shared their not-so-humble opinion of their dearest friend who had failed to attend this important event due to a headache yet found a way to gallivant around the country with her closest friends. By the end of the night, he felt sure Sylvia and her Cinq Amis friends had planned a secret trip to celebrate Christmas somewhere away from home.
Jeanie walked past him and slightly raised her chin, the signal to leave.
When the music stopped, he escorted his partner to her table. “My apologies. Please excuse me. I have a meeting.”
The woman smiled and sighed. “Mr. Carhill, you must attend the next ball. You’re a delightful dancer.”
“Thank you.”
She took his hand in hers. “Please remember to give Sylvia my best, won’t you?”
“I will. Excuse me.” He slipped his hand away from hers then turned to find Jeanie.
Her elegant ivory gown stood out in a sea of dark evening dresses. She turned many male eyes as she passed, including his. He walked across the dance floor and met her at the door. They walked arm in arm to the limousine waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “So, Branson, were you able to gather helpful information for your case tonight?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, the conversations stirred new questions. Do you know where Mrs. Duvet’s passport is?”
“At home in the safe, of course.”
“Are you sure?”
“I put it there myself, after her last trip. I’m the only one who ever retrieves it and am the only one who knows how to open the safe.”
“Sylvia knows the combination, though, correct?”
“I suppose so. But, seriously, she has never removed anything from there. It’s my job and a task she’d consider beneath her.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Check the safe?”
“That’s right.”
Thomas stepped around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door. “Ms. Holloway. Mr. Carhill.”
They entered the vehicle and waited for Thomas to pull into traffic.
Jeanie turned to Branson. “I’m glad we went tonight. After hearing the conversations, I feel like wherever Mrs. Duvet is, she is safe.” She laughed. “Perhaps having some long-awaited and needed fun. I really hope that is true.”
“I’m inclined to think the same. The question that remains is where did she go, and is she truly safe?”
“What are you going to do next?”
“Go to Manhattan.”
“To visit Elizabeth Alexander?”
“That’s correct. I have a feeling Mrs. Alexander owns a dark red BMW.”
“I hadn’t even considered that. Well, with the way things are going, it sounds like you’ll find her within a day or so.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. If her passport is missing, France will be a big country to search. There are several questions yet to be answered before I book a trip abroad, though. Having those details will cut the search time in half.”
“Like what?”
“The missing night clothes. I’d like to know where they are. I’d planned to call Martha, the head housekeeper, and request a search of all the trash from the last few days. There is a possibility Mrs. Duvet bundled the clothes and hid them there.”
“You must be joking. No lady would ever do that.”
“Nonetheless, if I knew for sure, the pursuit of a secret appointment or trip would be easier to follow up. On the other hand, as much as I dislike the possibility, if the nightgown can’t be found, I would be forced to entertain the idea she may be roaming the streets lost.”
“You said the doctor clarified the issue for you.”
“He did. I still need conclusive proof.”
“Let me help. I’ll conduct a full search of the trash and the entire house for the clothes while you go to Manhattan.”
“You’d do that? What about your work?”
“Without Mrs. Duvet, I have nothing pressing.” She pulled her evening wrap closer. “I need to know she is safe. Let me help.”
“All right. You have my card. Text me what you find. Also, can you check the closet for her coat? Let me know if it is gone.”
“I will. Did you still need to stop at the Duvet’s home? It’s late.”
“No, thank you. I have a long day tomorrow.” He pressed the intercom. “Thomas, please drop me off at my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jeanie sat back, leaning her head against the seat. “It’s kinda funny. I mean, if she really left without telling anyone. A grown woman running away from home to have fun.” She giggled. “Shows her strength. I’d like to be like that.”
“I don’t think her daughter finds this amusing, especially if the papers find out somehow.”
“Well, they won’t get a quote from this household. There isn’t a single staff person who isn’t loyal to Mrs. Duvet.”
“They won’t hear a word from my office, either.”
“Thank you, Branson. I know you’re paid for this service, but still, I appreciate your sincere efforts.”
“You’re welcome.”
The limousine stopped outside Branson’s office building. Christmas lights brightened the doorway. Thomas put the car in park, walked to the passenger side, and opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Carhill.”
“Good evening, Thomas.”
Jeanie leaned toward the window. “You will let me know when there is any news.”
“Yes. Of course. Good night, Ms. Holloway.”
“Good night, Mr. Carhill.”
* * *
Prior to stepping onto the elevator, Branson hadn’t thought about the restrictive penguin suit required for this evening’s event. He ran his hand between the collar and his neck and couldn’t wait to peel away the layers. He pushed the button and watched the numbers creep up to the fourth floor. The doors opened. Half of the corridor lights remained on for evening security. He walked to his office, unlocked the door, and switched on the lights.
The inner office had a private bathroom where he’d left his clothes earlier. He removed the bowtie first, then the shoes, the jacket, the cummerbund, the cufflinks, the shirt, and last the pants. So many pieces. It felt good to get out of the formal attire. Although jeans and a tee would have been comfortable to slip on, he’d made a policy back when opening this business to always maintain a proper appearance at the office, no matter the time. So, he put his suit back on, leaving the tie in his pocket as a compromise.
He checked his desk for messages and found one from his secretary. “No new developments from the taxi drivers.”
At this point, he didn’t expect any. He gathered up the yearbook, the planner, and the letters from Mrs. Duvet’s home that sat on his desk and locked up the office.
Due to the late hour, he wasn’t surprised at the long wait for a taxi to drive up the road. When one finally turned the corner and stopped, he climbed in and set his work on the bench. He rested against the car seat and relaxed. It was too dark to work even with the streetlights. He closed his eyes and rewound every conversation from the night.
The taxi stopped long before he expected. He must have dozed a bit. The driver tapped on the seat. “This is your stop, Mac.”
Branson pulled out his wallet and paid the fare, including a tip. “Have a nice evening.”
“You too. Thanks for the nice tip.” The driver pulled away as soon as the car door closed.
Branson dragged his feet up the stairs to the building entrance and on up to his apartment. Exhausted from the long day. A former client passed through his memory. A nice woman who ended up in the morgue. Hopefully, Mrs. Duvet was safe.
Chapter Nine
Planning a drive from Boston to Manhattan—in the morning rush hour—on an icy weekday, and during Christmas shopping season typically wasn’t Branson’s preferred time to be on the road. He poured himself a super-sized coffee and dumped in some cream. The train or a commuter flight would have been faster in theory, but the arrival times put him on Elizabeth Alexander’s front porch much later than if he drove. He called his office, and as he expected from a secretary he didn’t deserve, she answered. At this early hour.
“Yes, Mr. Carhill?”
“I need a car rental. Have it delivered to my home in one hour. I left my tux in the office. It needs to be returned. Have the appointment calls to Mrs. Duvet’s four friends routed to my cell. What time did you arrange for me to speak with them?”
“I left you a message with that information.”
There must have been another note on his desk that he overlooked. “Sorry.” He went to his suitcoat and pulled out the message about the taxies from the pocket and found a second one behind it.