Formula for Murder

by Diana Orgain

  “Oh. Never mind.”

  Suddenly, I heard voices at the other end of the balcony. I realized I’d been leaning against the door and with my black dress on and in the absence of lighting I was invisible to the parties that had just come through the main balcony doors.

  I squinted. One figure was a large man. Definitely not the boy. And the other figure was feminine. I watched them embrace and kiss.

  Paula’s voiced filled my ear. “Well, I reached the end of the building. No sign of your perp.”

  The couple laughed. They didn’t know I was there. The man said something in French and the voice . . .

  It was the consul.

  Uh . . . oh. Wasn’t he married? His wife was in her sixties. I couldn’t tell much about the lady he was with right now, but she definitely wasn’t the wife.

  I pressed myself into the wall. The last thing I needed was to encounter the wrath of a high-ranking official for witnessing his infidelity.

  “I see the door,” Paula said.

  I froze. If she opened the door surely that would alert them to my presence. But what other escape would I have? I was already chilled to the bone, and waiting until they left could take forever. I’d glaciate!

  No. Better to have Paula let me in. Even if the consul did see me, Paula and I could pop back into the party and disappear before he identified me.

  “Hey!” A man’s voice barked in the background of Paula’s phone.

  “Oops! Sorry,” Paula said.

  “Who’s that?” I whispered to Paula.

  “I didn’t know anyone was here in the dark.” I heard Paula’s voice although at a bit of a distance as if she wasn’t holding the phone to her ear.

  “What are you doing here? No one is allowed back here. The party’s limited to the foyer,” the man’s voice said.

  “Right. Sorry. I was looking for a restroom,” I heard her say.

  Did this mean she wasn’t going to be able to open the door?

  My teeth were chattering now. I glanced back at the consul. He had his hand inside the top of the woman’s dress. The woman began to pull off his jacket.

  Geez, they must really be hot for each other, because it was colder out here than the heart of a man who would smash into a woman and infant and leave them at the side of the road.

  There was silence on the phone. I checked the digital display. The connection had dropped. Either Paula had hung up or . . .

  What if she was in danger? Should I pound on the door? Were they even in this room? What if Paula was in a different room altogether? I had to get back to her.

  Why would she be in danger? Stop getting ahead of yourself! Paula’s probably fine, focus on catching the pinhead.

  The consul and the woman descended the stairs and walked in the direction of the garden. Now was my chance to scoot down the balcony and get back inside the ballroom.

  Suddenly the ivy trellis next to me began to vibrate.

  Oh God! Ponytail had been hiding and now he was going to jump me.

  Ire rose inside me. I pressed a button on my phone to make it light up and aimed it at the ivy. “Who’s there?” I demanded.

  The bush shook violently and then something shot out toward me.

  I recoiled.

  A huge hairy rat trampled across my feet.

  I let out a bloodcurdling scream and involuntarily began to dance around, the heebie-jeebies taking over my brain and causing me to shout, stomp, and shudder repeatedly.

  Footsteps pounded up the staircase, and the consul appeared by my side. “Mademoiselle! What it is? Are you all right?”

  His hands grabbed at my arms in an effort to calm me down.

  I gave another stomp and tried to shake off my disgust. “A rat,” I said breathlessly. “I saw its beady little eyes.”

  Another round of willies shot up my spine, shaking my shoulders.

  “A rat?” The consul let out a belly laugh. “Is that it? I thought you were being killed.” He laughed again.

  A mix of anger, adrenaline, and bravado surged through me. “It’s not funny!”

  The consul reined in his laughter and composed his features, putting a hand over his heart. “Cherie, I’m sorry. The screams, the noise, I thought there was a fight up here.”

  I squinted at him. “There could have been. I was following the driver who—”

  The main door to the ballroom flew open, a swell of party laughter escaping.

  The man with the unruly curly hair stepped out. “Eloi!”

  The door closed, silencing the noise, and the consul bolted toward the man with me in tow.

  “Ici,” the consul said, steering me toward the man.

  The man’s eyes widened when he saw me.

  The consul fired something off in French.

  The man nodded at the consul and replied in rapid French. They seemed to come to an immediate understanding.

  The man said, “Mademoiselle, please come back inside with me.”

  The consul straightened his jacket and retreated down the balcony toward the locked door and ivy trellis. He fished a set of keys from his pocket.

  “No! Wait! One of your staff or whatever crashed into my car—”

  The consul ignored me, inserted a key into the door, and disappeared.

  I turned to the curly-haired man. “He’s here tonight, a boy with a ponytail—”

  The man dug into his sports coat and pulled out a brown wallet. From the wallet, he retrieved a card and handed it to me.

  “I followed him out here—” I continued.

  “Please, mademoiselle, come see me on Monday. This is my direct number.” He opened the door to the ballroom. The din swept over us.

  His hand was on the small of my back and he unequivocally thrust me inside. “Let’s take a look at the Christmas tree.”

  I broke free from him, jerking away from his touch.

  He frowned but I ignored him, scanning the crowd for Paula. I rushed toward the back of the building, guessing that she could still be there trying to figure out a way to break me in through the door.

  But then wouldn’t the consul have run into her? And if so, so what? They couldn’t do anything worse to me than they’d already done by smashing into my car when my most valuable treasure was in it.

  I scrambled over the red rope, clearly there to keep guests out of the area. My heel got hung up on the rope and I pitched forward, breaking my fall with my hands.

  “Mrs. Connolly,” a voice said from above me. “May I help you?”

  Hands gripped my shoulders and righted me.

  Jean-Luc.

  He remembered me. Of course he did. His pretending earlier had just been a snub.

  He spun me around. “No one is allowed back here except consulate personnel.”

  I shrugged his hands off me.

  What was with these people touching me?

  “Consulate personnel who run into women and infants and then flee the scene of the crime?”

  Anger flashed across his face. “This is not the time nor the place to discuss your accusations!”

  I squared off against him, my eyes boring into his. “I saw him. I saw the boy who hit me. Does he have diplomatic immunity, too? You were talking with him. You and the reporter Kimberly Newman. Does she know consulate personnel are in the habit of running into American citizens and then disappearing? Would that make a nice frontpage headline?”

  Jean-Luc’s upper lip twitched into a sneer. “What is it you want? You want money? We can pay for your car.”

  “Your insurance is denying—”

  Voices filled the corridor. I spun around to see a band in tuxedos emerge from one of the rooms with Paula in tow.

  “Kate!” Paula laughed happily.

  One of the band members handed Jean-Luc a glass of champagne. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Jean-Luc smiled over his shoulder at me as he walked with the band member toward the foyer. “You have my number, Mrs. Connolly.”

  I squinted at him. “I have you
r number, all right.” On a whim, I followed him for a few steps and said, “Let me give you mine.” I pressed my business card into his hand.

  He snickered but gave it a cursory glance. His head whipped up. “You’re a private investigator?” he said, his voice full of annoyance.

  A gentleman standing apart from the crowd whipped his head in our direction. He had gray hair but a dark mustache and eyebrows. He watched the exchange between Jean-Luc and I with interest.

  Now it was my turn to smile.

  Playing games isn’t reserved for the French.

  Before Jean-Luc could say anything else, he was pushed toward the stage by a band member. He took the stage and grabbed a microphone. He made several remarks in French, which were greeted with cheers and whistles from the crowd.

  I looked at Paula for a translation. She shrugged. “The usual, you know, Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming, hope you’re having a blah blah—” Paula raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh!”

  “What?”

  “He just announced that the consul has been awarded the Légion d’honneur. That’s a big deal. Huge.”

  I scanned the crowd for the consul. I found him making his way to the podium with his wife at his side.

  What happened to Miss Hot and Heavy?

  When I’d screamed, he’d come running, but what about her? Was she still outside in the garden?

  The consul’s hand swept through his hair. He laughed as he took the stage. To others the laugh probably came off as if he was happy about the award, but to me it played arrogant and cocky. He accepted the microphone from Jean-Luc.

  Apparently, fidelity is not a requirement for the Legion of Honor.

  Several reporters snapped pictures of the consul as he gave his speech. I thought of Nancy Pickett. Could the award have been the story she was working on? Maybe she’d gotten wind of his affair and was looking into it.

  What about Kimberly? Was she working on the same story as Nancy? I searched around for her, but didn’t see her.

  “Where’s the award?” I asked Paula.

  Paula pulled her eyes off the consul and looked at me. “What?”

  “Does he get a plaque or something, a trophy?”

  Paula waved her hand in dismissal. “Oh, they’ll have an official ceremony for him in France. I think they get a ribbon, you know, a badge.”

  As the consul droned on, I perused the crowd for the boy. No sight of him. However, I saw that the gentleman with the gray hair and dark eyebrows kept an eye on me.

  Feeling a bit deflated, I asked Paula, “Are you ready to go? I didn’t tell you but on the balcony I saw two rats.”

  Paula’s eyes widened.

  “One real, that attacked me from an ivy tower and another one who commits adultery but still gets the highest commendation in the land.” I nodded toward the consul.

  Paula made a disapproving face. “Jerk. Let’s go.”

  As we walked toward the exit, a waiter materialized in front of Paula and knowingly waved his tray in front of her. She played coy for a moment, then gave up and popped a few more oyster fritters into her mouth.

  “For the road,” she said.

  I felt a light touch on my arm.

  I looked up and was surprised to see the man with gray hair and black eyebrows that had been watching Jean-Luc and me.

  “Did I overhear you say you’re a private investigator?” he whispered urgently.

  I nodded.

  He pressed a cocktail napkin into my hand. “Please call me.” He glanced around nervously and then sped toward the exit.

  “Who was that?” Paula asked through a mouthful of oysters.

  I wiggled my eyebrows at her. “My mystery man.”

  Paula snorted a laugh through her nose and then punched my arm. “Don’t make me laugh with food in my mouth. You want me to choke?”

  I rubbed my arm. “If I say you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full then you’re going to hit me again, right?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, casually linking her arm through mine and pinching my wrist.

  “Ouch!”

  She steered us toward the exit. “I was going to step on your foot, but I figured your feet were already sore enough.”

  I pushed open my front door and waved at Paula’s car as she sped off. Before I could even greet my mom, I kicked off the high heels.

  “Instruments of torture!” I said.

  Mom laughed. “Nobody forced you to wear those.”

  She stood in my living room holding Laurie and slowly rocking her back and forth. Laurie’s tiny face peeked out from the tight swaddle. She was sound asleep.

  I threw my pocket-size Rafē New York purse onto the coffee table and took Laurie out of Mom’s arms. I clutched her to me, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude and love for my little angel.

  I held Laurie close so I could breathe in her scent, but instead all I could smell was Mom’s face cream.

  “Did you put her down at all?” I asked.

  A guilty expression crossed Mom’s face. “Yes,” she said unconvincingly.

  “No, you didn’t,” I countered. “She’s smells exactly like you. I bet you held her the entire time, didn’t you?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Mom asked. “I don’t get to see her very often.”

  “You’re over here every day! And I don’t care if you hold her the entire time, but just yesterday you were giving me a hard time about it, telling me that if I don’t put her down to sleep, I’m going to spoil her.”

  “Well, that’s true. You shouldn’t hold her all the time. But I’m her grandmother, it’s totally different.”

  Before I could object, Mom picked up my purse from the coffee table and asked, “What is this?”

  “My purse.”

  “Well, no wonder your feet were hurting! Haven’t I told you a million times? You need to have a purse big enough for an extra pair of shoes!”

  Mom never left the house without a backup pair of shoes. If she wore high heels to a dinner, she always stashed a pair of flats in her bag. Even when she wore flats or tennis shoes she took along an extra pair, proclaiming proudly that if her shoes inadvertently got wet she had a backup plan.

  My feet throbbed, but suddenly I didn’t want to admit it. “Oh. The shoes weren’t that bad.”

  Mom made a face. “You’re limping!” She upturned my purse on the coffee table. “What can you get in this thing, anyway?”

  My cell phone, lipstick, and cash tumbled out along with the crumbled cocktail napkin.

  “The necessities.”

  “No. You don’t have the necessities! No backup shoes! And if you go without those then at least you have to have an emergency Band-Aid for the inevitable blister or blisters you’re going to get.” She picked up the crumpled cocktail napkin. “And what’s this? You need to pack a handkerchief so you don’t have to blow your nose on a napkin!”

  “I didn’t blow my nose on it—”

  Mom opened the napkin to reveal the name Chuck Vann and his phone number in black marker. She gasped, “One night without Jim and—”

  I laughed. “Don’t be so melodramatic. I didn’t pick up the guy—”

  Mom talked over me. “Well, with the dress and heels and all . . . I hope you told him you were married with a baby.”

  “Oh, stop.” I shook my head. “It’s a lead. Someone interested in my services—”

  Mom raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean, you know, as a private investigator.”

  Mom squinted. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. He seemed nervous and rushed.” I shrugged. “I’ll call him in the morning.”

  Mom gathered her bag. “Did you find the guy who ran into you?”

  With my free hand, I dug into the side zippered pocket where I had put a few of my own business cards along with the one the curly-haired gentleman had given me. I pulled it out now and examined it.

  It read, Christophe Benoit, Deputy Consul, Press Attaché .

&n
bsp; I showed the card to Mom. “Sort of, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Instead, I have to call this guy.”

  Mom nodded and stroked Laurie’s cheek. “She was a dear, took her bottle at seven, just like you said.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Will you need me to baby-sit tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so. You have a hot date?”

  She wiggled her eyebrows at me. “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  After being divorced and single for years, Mom had finally stepped into the dating scene and currently juggled two boyfriends: my boss, Galigani, and a pharmacist, Hank.

  “Hank.”

  I smiled inwardly. Good. That meant that maybe Galigani would be available to meet with Mr. Vann and me.

  Mom examined the heels I’d kicked into the corner. “Can I borrow these?”

  • CHAPTER SEVEN •

  To Do:

  1. Reschedule holiday photos—get Laurie’s dress cleaned.

  2. Christmas cards and shopping.

  3. Get Jim to follow up with insurance company.

  4. Call Mr. Vann.

  5. Call Christophe Benoit.

  6. Decide on Christmas dinner recipes and practice (butternut squash soup?).

  7. Pick up Jim from the airport.

  In the morning I dialed Chuck Vann.

  “Hello, Mr. Vann. This is Kate Connolly, the private investigator. We met briefly at the French consul’s Christmas—”

  “Mrs. Connolly. Thank you so much for calling me. I’d like to speak with you about retaining your services.”

  What could I tell the guy? I’d been dragged into a few investigations and gotten lucky?

  I cleared my throat and sat up a little taller hoping that would make my voice sound more professional. “Certainly.”

  There was silence on the line.

  Was he going to ask me something? Or should I say something?

  “Uh . . . yeah. I do investigation work. Mostly for private parties. Sometimes for attorneys.”

  That much was true. Yes. I’d worked for both! Wow, now my little business was starting to really sound like something! Never mind that I didn’t have a license! So what?