I walked over and took two of the cookies, macaroons being a particular favorite. Actually, anything coconut I put at the top of my list. I even used coconut scented shampoo.
“How’s the history coming, Bradley?” Mrs. Brissart asked her grandson.
“Fine. I can’t work on it as much as I’d like, but it’s coming along. I’ve come across something very interesting to say the least. I’d like to talk with you about it.”
“Of course. You’ve got my interest up, but can we talk tonight?” Mrs. Brissart’s normally smiling lips turned into a frown.
“What’s wrong?” Bradley asked, gently touching his grandmother’s shoulder.
“Nothing, really, it’s just those two pathetic sisters of mine.”
“Are they pestering you again? I want to do a bit more checking, but if my research is....”
“Oh! The rest of the macaroons. They’ve probably burned to a crisp by now.” Mrs. Brissart jumped from one of the deep chairs and sprinted down the hall.
Bradley grabbed another cookie and turned to me. “I’ve got some other stuff I’ll probably need your help with, but I’d like to go over it myself first. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll take a handful of these,” Bradley grabbed several macaroons, “and go outside. It’s really nice today. You know maybe I’ll just take my stuff and go up in my tree house.”
“Your tree house?” I asked, stopping my typing and reaching for another cookie.
Bradley blushed. “Yeah, it’s outside.”
Chantal looked up from her sorting of a stack of papers. “I’ve seen it. I didn’t know anyone used it.”
Bradley pushed a stray strand of hair out of his face—an endearing trait that probably melted many hearts. “I loved going up there as a kid. I know it sounds weird, but I still like it. It’s peaceful. I used to hide up there when the family gathered. They were nuts back then, too. I’ll just take this blanket. If you need anything or can’t read my writing, just shout. I know I should use my laptop, but writing it out by hand just suits me better.” Bradley took an old crocheted afghan off the back of a chair and left the room.
“Alex, if it’s okay, I’m going to leave for the day,” Chantal said, as she gathered up her things and touched up her lipstick. “I’ve got to stock the kitchen with food before I go or else my husband will starve while I’m gone. I’ll be in tomorrow morning for a few hours and we can go over any last minute questions you have.”
When Chantal left, I turned back to the computer and the Brissart family history. I read:
In 1815, Lucien Cournet, then thirty years of age, was a French businessman doing rather nicely in Paris. Together with his cousin, Joseph Jaeger, they ran a business as suppliers to the French Napoleonic administration, mainly metal for the army weapons factories. Joseph, located in Strasbourg and thus near the iron-ore source, ran the supply side while Lucien, located in Paris and near the Napoleonic decision center, took care of the sales side. Raymond Thiry, slightly older, was an upper-level purchasing agent of the Napoleonic administration. Lucien and Raymond vaguely knew each other but only on a professional basis.
After 1815 and the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, the period that would come to be known as the “Restauration”, started in France. In actuality, it was a cleaning-up period; a nice way of saying prominent figures, who had in one way or another done well under Napoleon, were gently—or less gently as the case might be—put aside and replaced by those more friendly to the new rulers. This produced a profound effect on the careers of both Lucien and Raymond, so much so that independently and without knowledge of each other’s plans, they both decided to try their luck under more friendly conditions and immigrated to America.
I stopped typing and reached for my cup of tea only to find it empty. I picked up the papers in one hand and my cup in the other, and went to the kitchen.
“Can I help you, Alex?” Mrs. Platz asked.
“No, thanks. I can do it. I just need some hot water.” I filled the kettle at the spotless stainless steel sink and put it on the front burner. I absentmindedly picked up a decorated macaroon, this one sneering at me with its chocolate chip teeth.
“Mrs. Platz, do you know anything of the family history?”
“You must be doing something for Bradley,” the old woman said while she rinsed my cup out and dried it.
“Yes, I am. I’m typing up his notes. It sounds fascinating. Maybe I should do something like this with my own family.”
“Be careful. You never know what you’ll find out.”
“That sounds rather ominous, Mrs. Platz,” I said, staring at the woman who was as old as Mrs. Brissart and only an inch or two taller. “Maybe I’ll find my family goes back to some king or queen. Do you know anything about Mrs. Brissart’s family history?”
“A bit. There’re enough old portraits around this place and the summerhouse. So I know what they all look like—old. And dusty.”
“Mrs. Platz,” I laughed. “You’re priceless.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be laughing if you had to dust all of them. I do know old Lucien and that partner of his, never can remember the fellow’s name, prospered nicely.”
Mrs. Platz poured hot water into my cup and handed it to me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Platz. I was going to do that, wasn’t I?”
“That’s what I’m here for. Now, get on with your work and let me get on with mine.” The old woman smiled and pushed me gently out of the kitchen.
After a few tentative sips of the hot tea, I turned back to my typing.
When he decided to emigrate, Lucien tried to convince his cousin Joseph to come along. But Joseph, married and the father of twin boys, declined. The cousins, always close, kept in touch inasmuch as the uncertain mail delivery between continents would allow.
Lucien Cournet and his young wife arrived in the United States in the early eighteen-hundreds and became reacquainted with his colleague, Raymond Thiry in Boston within a few weeks of their arrival. Both being French, and having monetary resources, modest as they were, they decided to become partners and bought a piece of land.
I paused for a minute and took another sip of tea. Mrs. Platz added a cookie onto my saucer, and I munched on the toasted coconut while I thought of my own family—Italian and Irish on my mother’s side and a mixed up pedigree on my father’s. Sam and I always spent most of our time with my mother’s mother and the relatives on that side of the family, so we considered ourselves to be more Italian than anything else, even though it only accounted for a fourth of our lineage. I gobbled the cookie down and resumed my work for another hour.
At exactly five o’clock I packed my things, done for the day. A few moments later the doorbell rang and the vultures, as Mrs. Brissart referred to them, began to arrive. First came May and June, though if asked, June would tell anyone foolish enough to listen that it was June and May. She, having been born six minutes before, was the eldest and therefore should be addressed first. Chantal clued me in on all their foolery. They were soon followed by an assortment of children and grandchildren from the look of it, and a man I assumed to be the local developer Chantal had told me about. Mrs. Brissart, not wanting to subject me, on my first day, to her miserable family, sent me home with the assurance she would deal with the vultures with the help of Mrs. Platz and Bradley.
At exactly seven o’clock the next morning, I would later learn, the sound of Mrs. Platz’s screams could be heard all through the grand old house.
CHAPTER FOUR
I rolled over and stretched my right leg to the other side of the bed in search of the human furnace, otherwise known as John Van der Burg. My foot found a cold sheet and my nose found the smell of fresh coffee coming from the direction of the kitchen.
“Well, here you are,” I said a minute later, stifling a yawn and wrapping my terry cloth robe tightly around me.
“Good morning.” John came over and placed a warm kiss against my lips just in time to stifle another yawn. “I didn’t mean to w
ake you.”
“You didn’t. A cold bed did.” I reached for the kettle and filled it with water. “What’s on your agenda for today?”
John and I began dating ten months earlier, ever since I stumbled over the body at the mannequin factory and he was the detective assigned to the case. Of course, there were times I thought I was the person assigned to the case and we had butted heads more than once. With the resolution of the murder, John finally asked me out.
“I’m working on the series of robberies on the west side of town. And I start working with a new man today. He just got promoted to detective and they’ve assigned him to me.”
“Oh, right. Jim Maroony?”
“Maroni.”
“No new developments on the robberies?”
“It’s probably a couple of kids who should be in school. Too shoddy work to be that of professionals and besides, the people who they’ve held up so far said they didn’t sound old enough to shave. No weapons, no violence. They just come in and ask for money.”
“Then why are people giving it to them?”
“Probably just scared. You never know if they have a knife or gun. And so far they’ve only made off with about sixty dollars so they’re not getting too far. More of a nuisance than anything else, if you ask me. How about you? What are your plans for the rest of this week?”
I stood at the kitchen window and looked out on another glorious fall morning thinking I should really get out there and rake up some of those leaves covering my lawn in a blanket of russet, but to be honest, I liked the way it looked. When I was ten, I went to all the neighbors’ yards and took as many leaves as my wagon would carry, and brought them back to my yard. My dad was not amused and when a fierce wind picked up during the night and scattered the leaves all over our neatly raked yard his anger sizzled. I suggested returning all the leaves to their rightful owners but not wanting to instigate World War III with our neighbors, dad finally shrugged and joined me outside for a morning of raking.
“What are you thinking about?” John asked as he handed me a cup of tea.
“Just about how much I love the fall.”
“Autumn and winter. What kind of person have I gotten myself mixed up with?”
“One who does not like hot, sticky summers like the one we just finished. I don’t like feeling like a wet towel in a dryer with the setting on hot!”
John laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s about the only thing I dislike about this state.”
“You’re not working this coming weekend, are you?” I asked, while putting an English muffin into the toaster. John shook his head. “I thought we could take our bikes and find a nice little country inn and maybe a field for a picnic.”
“Sounds good to me. A country inn, cool autumn night, hmmm, very romantic,” he said while nuzzling my neck.
“Do you want some toast?”
“No. I’ll just grab something on the way to work. I better get going.”
A “something on the way to work” usually meant a donut and another cup of coffee. When he did take the time to eat a decent breakfast it usually consisted of a bowl of shredded wheat and a glass of milk. But John was a morning person, just like me, and he started moving the minute he rolled out of bed. Sitting still long enough for breakfast put a strain on him.
John kissed me good-bye—one of those kisses that had it not been a workday would lead to other things—and left.
I smiled. Definitely the best way to start a morning.
*****
“It’s a big decision. I think we need to do more research and give it some serious thought,” Sam said an hour later as we sat in my office. We had been toying with the idea of expanding our agency. Rather than sending our employees out on temp jobs, we would take over the personnel departments for firms that didn’t want to bother with this aspect of business. All employees would work for Always Prepared with our agency doing taxes, benefits, and hiring.
“You know,” Sam said, “if we do expand we’ll have to hire more staff ourselves. And if we hire more people, we’re going to need a bigger place.”
I leaned back in my chair and pushed my hands through my short brown hair. “Yeah, I thought about that. I’d hate to leave this place.” Our agency was located in an old house that felt a lot more like home than a sterile building would.
“Expansion would be good for Millie. If we hired more admin staff, the logical progression of things would be to promote Millie to admin manager.”
“You’re right. She’d be great and I’d love to give her more responsibility.” I turned my head as Millie entered Sam’s office.
Millie’s ensemble remained subdued, but I did notice the addition of another pumpkin on the doorstep along with a scarecrow sitting on the wooden chair out front. “Sorry for the interruption but I have Chantal Bradbury on the phone for you, Alex.”
“You can put Chantal through to me in here.” Sam twisted the phone around and handed it to me. “Good morning, Chantal. I’m on my way shortly.”
“Alex!” Chantal hesitated for a moment and then I heard her voice again. “Alex, you have to come now! Please.”
“Chantal, what on earth is the matter? Where are you?”
“I’m at the Brissart house. Something terrible happened. They found Bradley this morning. Dead.”
“Dead? Good God! You mean over at Mrs. Brissart’s house?”
Samantha stopped working and came over to stand by me.
“Mrs. Platz, found him this morning when she woke up. He spent the night but I don’t know the details yet. The police are here asking a lot of questions. Poor Mrs. Platz is hysterical, and from what I can gather, I don’t think he just died in his sleep or anything. They want to talk to me about my position here, and well, I didn’t know if I should mention the agency or what. I don’t want to bring you any unwanted problems or publicity. Oh, Alex, why would anyone want to kill Bradley? He’s such a great guy.”
“What do you mean kill? You mean he was murdered?” I asked as goosebumps sprouted along my arms. I couldn’t believe it. Not in our small town again.
“Well, no one said anything to me yet, but the police questioned Mrs. Platz and there’s a detective in with her now.”
“Do you know who the detective is?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“No. Listen, I better hang up. Will you come?”
“Of course. I’m leaving right now.” I handed the phone back to Sam. “Mrs. Brissart’s grandson is dead. The housekeeper found him this morning. It looks like murder.”
“Oh, my,” Sam managed to say.
I covered my mouth with a hand while a tear escaped down my cheek. “I just met him yesterday. How could he be dead? He ate macaroons with us and then worked in his tree house all afternoon. Chantal wants me to come over right away.”
“Poor Mrs. Brissart.”
Mrs. Brissart, in addition to being a valued client of Always Prepared, was also one of our favorites. She came around each year at Christmas and brought us some home-baked goodies and wine. The whole town respected her for all her good works.
“I better get going. I’ll call you later and let you know what’s going on.”
“Hey!” Sam said. “Let the police handle it this time, okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” I gave Sam a smile and wondering if it was true.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cars littered the driveway. The one I hoped to see was there—John’s. I parked next to Chantal’s car, away from the front of the house, and went in.
Chantal paced the front hall, her eyes red and puffy and her eyeliner streaked across her cheek. I recognized the look from my own experience with death.
“Oh, thank God you’re here. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Bradley is dead.” She sniffled and pulled out a ratty looking tissue from her pocket. “I’ve never been questioned before. I don’t know what to tell them. Why would someone kill Bradley?”
I also recognized hysteria building up inside Chantal.
“Relax. It’s okay. I’ve been through this before.” I sighed. “It’ll be fine.”
“Really?” She looked at me with blackened eyes. “You’re over your…experience?”
“Sure.” I had to lie, right? I didn’t want to panic her anymore than necessary, but the fact was it wouldn’t be fine. At least not for a while. True, I felt better than before, but every once in a while I still awoke in a sweat after another nightmare. At least Chantal hadn’t stumbled onto Bradley’s body herself. I mustered up a smile and took her by the shoulders. “The man I’m dating is the detective in charge so that should make things easier for you.”
But not necessarily easier on me. John hated my interference the last time murder came to Indian Cove. Of course, mad, passionate love hadn’t consumed us at that point. This time I had l’amour on my side though somehow I didn’t think it would help. I was about to find out.
A door on the right of the hallway opened and Mrs. Brissart came out clutching a tissue in one hand and holding onto the arm of a young man with the other. John stopped in the doorway and spoke with an officer.
“Who’s that?” I asked Chantal.
“Stuart Brissart, Bradley’s brother.”
“Mamoo, I’m going to try to reach my parents again. Will you be all right?”
“Yes, thank you, Stuart. Please, go and call your father.” The old woman walked toward Chantal and me.
“Mrs. Brissart, I am so terribly sorry about your grandson.” My voice caught and I quickly composed myself before the tears started rolling again.
For a minute it didn’t look like Mrs. Brissart recognized me, but then her eyes focused through the tears and she smiled up at me. I’m five-foot seven, and quite a bit taller than the five-foot Roberta Brissart.
“Alex. Thank you for coming. This is dreadful. I can use all the support I can get.” She patted my arm and walked into the living room on the opposite side of the hall, with me and Chantal following.
The housekeeper arrived almost immediately with a tray of both coffee and tea. Her hands shook and her face looked pale as milk. I knew the feeling. Mrs. Platz found Bradley’s body and would never forget it.