On the way across campus, Emily and Marguerite encountered Douglas, who was coming out of Eliot Hall. He nearly passed them completely, looking preoccupied and almost dazed, oblivious to his surroundings. Emily hailed him, and he blinked like one coming out of a dream.
‘Oh, hello, Emily, Marguerite. How are you this afternoon?’ His courtesy was ingrained but Emily sensed no real attention behind it.
‘Fine, thanks. How are you holding up?’ Emily realized with a jolt that she hadn’t seen him since discovering Taylor’s body.
‘Me? Oh, you know. I couldn’t say I’m exactly grieving for Taylor – not as she was lately – but there was a time when we loved each other. Or at least when I loved her. Her death brings up such memories and at the same time makes it absolutely certain that those days can never return.’ His eyes grew misty, and Emily wondered if she should have said nothing.
‘What brings you back to campus?’
He waved his hand to include all of Eliot Hall, where the administrative offices of the college were housed. ‘Business. The ugly business of death.’ He grimaced. ‘It seems wrong, unkind, that one should have to deal with such emotional upheaval and such petty practicalities all at the same time.’
Emily had the thought that at least he did not have to plan a funeral just yet, since the police would not be releasing Taylor’s body right away. But she didn’t think Douglas would find that especially comforting.
Marguerite put in unexpectedly, ‘This is not a time when you should be alone, I think. Come to dinner this evening. Both of you. We will drink wine and eat real French food and all your troubles will be washed away.’ She flashed Douglas her most winning smile.
He brightened. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ He blinked and smiled from one woman to the other. ‘I feel better already.’
Marguerite gave him her address and a time, and they continued on their separate paths. ‘That was very kind of you, Margot,’ Emily said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be so spontaneously hospitable. Usually you want at least a week to plan.’
Marguerite put a finger to her lips. ‘I am not being kind. I am being cunning. We will ply him with drink and disarm him with our charm, and then we will winkle his whole story out of him. You will see.’
At Marguerite’s insistence, Emily put on her green velvet Christmas dress with its slightly daring V neckline and swooshy mid-calf-length skirt over the highest heels she owned, which did not quite attain three inches. She arrived at Marguerite’s modern, mostly white apartment a few minutes before the stated time of seven o’clock so she could help with last-minute preparations. But Marguerite had everything in hand. Her table was set with sparkling china and crystal and adorned with a single blue orchid in a sinuous white porcelain vase.
Marguerite’s white Persian, Colette, greeted Emily with a leg rub and a purr, decorously demanding the attention that was her due. Emily obliged, picking the cat up and scratching her head as she talked to Marguerite in the streamlined white-and-stainless-steel kitchen. Marguerite’s slim red silk sheath stood out like a splash of blood against the spare background.
‘Do you have a definite plan for winkling information out of Douglas, or are we going to wing it?’
‘We will improvise according to the opportunities of the moment,’ Marguerite replied as she tossed the salad. ‘You will notice I have put on some jazz to sharpen our improvisational skills.’ Emily heard Stéphane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt in the background.
‘Good. The best-laid schemes gang aft agley anyway.’
‘What means this “gang aft agley”? Monsieur Burns is so obscure with all his Scottish words and peculiar grammar.’
‘I think it means “‘go oft awry”. But as we are neither mice nor men, perhaps it won’t apply.’
Marguerite laughed. ‘No. We are two attractive women entertaining a susceptible man. We are sure to succeed.’
But at what cost, Emily wondered. Never mind; if Douglas did get a little too amorous, Marguerite would be sure to divert his attentions solely to herself, and she would be able to handle them.
The doorbell rang, and Emily deposited a slightly huffy Colette on the couch as she went to answer it. Douglas stood on the threshold with a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of white roses in the other.
Coals to Newcastle on both fronts. But Emily smiled graciously and let him in, closing the door behind him.
‘Margot, Douglas has come bearing gifts,’ she called. ‘I’ll take the flowers and put them in water.’
‘Douglas brought wine,’ she whispered to Marguerite in the kitchen. ‘What shall we do with it?’
‘Let him uncork it. It will not hurt to have two wines with dinner. Is it a decent wine?’
‘I didn’t see the label, only that it’s red. He could afford something good, though, assuming he knows how to pick it.’
‘Red is wrong for the meal, but ce n’est rien. We can linger over it with the cheese.’
Marguerite finished the salad and carried it to the dining area, where the other dishes stood ready: individual servings of coquilles Saint-Jacques on chargers at the three places, and platters of chicken cordon bleu, potatoes au gratin, and braised asparagus with hollandaise sauce waiting on the sideboard. Marguerite must have been busy since the moment they parted.
Douglas cast an appreciative eye over the spread and the two hostesses. ‘You ladies are a vision of loveliness, and this meal is worthy of Gourmet magazine. This is just what I needed to soothe my wounded soul.’
He pulled out their chairs for them one by one, then sat and unfolded his linen napkin from the flower shape Marguerite had created. ‘How on earth did you manage all this on the spur of the moment? It’s like a five-star restaurant.’
Marguerite smiled mysteriously. ‘We Frenchwomen have our ways.’ She filled his glass with the white wine she had chosen, a mid-range Sauvignon Blanc. ‘We will keep your wine for the cheese course.’
Douglas took a long sip and addressed himself to his coquilles St Jacques. ‘Delicious,’ he said after the first bite. ‘We don’t get seafood like this in Chicago.’
‘You live in Chicago?’ Emily asked. ‘I assumed you were from England.’
‘Many years ago, yes,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve been in America most of my adult life.’
‘Do you ever miss your native land?’
‘I miss certain things about it. The gardens, for instance. The cool summers. The village pubs. But honestly, England is no longer the country of my childhood. The population has exploded, and its face has changed completely. Ethnic Brits are practically the minority now. Not that I’m racist, but the influx of other cultures means the old traditions are dying out. Especially in the cities.’
‘America is at least equally diverse, surely,’ Emily said.
‘Yes, but – pardon me – you never had the centuries-old traditions to begin with. Your culture has always been in flux. So it’s less disturbing here. Besides, there are many things I prefer about America. The openness and friendliness, for one. It’s possible to have too much of the famous British reserve.’
That accounted for his forwardness when they first met, Emily thought. And it boded well for this evening’s conversation also.
‘What about you, Marguerite?’ Douglas asked. ‘I assume you’re from France originally. Do you miss it?’
‘Mais oui. The French do everything better – food, wine, fashion, to name a few. But France also is changing. I visit every summer, see family, do some shopping, and that is sufficient to assuage my homesickness.’
Marguerite rose to clear the starter plates and bring the other platters to the table. Emily helped her and refilled Douglas’s glass.
‘Where did you and Taylor meet?’ she asked Douglas when they’d filled their plates, hoping to steer the conversation in the desired direction.
‘Chicago. My business is based there, and she taught at the University of Chicago before she came here. We met at a fundraiser for the university.’
‘How long were you together?’
‘Only five years. We weren’t starry-eyed teenagers; we’d both been married before. But in the beginning I deluded myself that it could work. She was less … restless then. The itch seemed to grow on her as she got older, strangely enough.’
Marguerite and Emily exchanged glances as Marguerite filled Douglas’s glass, which was already empty again. The two women were still on their first glass each.
‘It is not so strange,’ Marguerite said. ‘It was peut-être her form of mid-life crisis. When a woman who has always relied on her sex appeal starts to lose it, sometimes she tries to reassure herself by pursuing younger men. Hormones can also play a role. It is not so different for many men.’
‘True. But for my own part, I have always valued the wisdom and experience of women d’un certain âge. I suppose that was my mistake – marrying a woman a decade younger than myself. The experience was there, in spades, but the wisdom was rather lacking.’
‘Age doesn’t necessarily equate to wisdom,’ Emily said. ‘Some never acquire it, while others have it from a relatively young age. Svetlana, for instance. She’s quite an old soul.’
Douglas turned an inquiring face to Emily. ‘Svetlana?’
‘A student of mine. The female half of the young couple I mentioned whose lives Taylor was making rather difficult.’
‘Ah. And that young man they’ve arrested – Daniel? – is he the other half?’
Emily nodded. ‘Only I’m sure he’s innocent.’
Douglas spoke carefully. ‘He had sufficient provocation, surely.’
‘Yes, but I just have a feeling about it. Everything doesn’t quite seem to add up.’
Douglas finished his chicken and dabbed at his mouth. He took a last long drink of wine and looked longingly at the empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
Marguerite took the cue and cleared the plates, even though Emily was not quite finished. Emily rose and helped her to serve the cheese – an assortment of Brie, Gruyère, and Camembert – and open the wine Douglas had brought, which proved to be a fairly pricey port. ‘Parfait,’ Marguerite whispered to Emily as she opened it. ‘He will be most relaxed after drinking this.’
Emily let Douglas get halfway through his port and cheese before returning to the subject of the murder. ‘You say Daniel had sufficient provocation. But so did several other people. You must admit Taylor was a provocative sort of woman.’
Douglas rolled his eyes with a slight head-wobble. ‘She was that. I myself’ – he stopped for a tiny hiccup – ‘I have been provoked by her many a time.’
‘I got that impression,’ Emily said. ‘In fact, I must confess, we happened to be passing her office and overheard a tiny part of one such confrontation.’ She need not admit that they had deliberately stopped to listen.
Douglas’s fair cheeks had already begun to redden from the wine; now they turned purple. ‘That time we met in the hallway and went for coffee.’
Emily nodded. ‘Oui, c’est ça,’ said Marguerite. ‘But, vous comprenez, we did not hear about what you were arguing. Only the angry voices.’ Marguerite was more comfortable with outright lying, whereas Emily could usually go only as far as omitting parts of the truth.
Douglas’s consternation visibly faded. That conversation had been compromising to his manhood, whether or not he had anything to do with the murder. Emily did not blame him for hoping it had been kept private.
‘However, it was our impression that Taylor had won the argument,’ Marguerite said. ‘If I were you, I would not have been content to leave it there. I think I might have gone back later to try to have the last word.’
‘I did,’ Douglas mumbled. ‘Go back, that is. Late that night. But she still had the last word.’ The wine-fog seemed to lift for a moment, and he gazed at them intently. ‘I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was alive when I left her.’ He closed his eyes with a tiny shudder. ‘Very much alive.’
The two women gave him a moment to recuperate as they cleared the cheese and made coffee, to be served with a chocolate torte. ‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ Emily whispered. ‘How about you?’
‘In vino veritas,’ Marguerite replied. ‘It is dangerous to assume, but yes, to me he seems sincere. She broke him, but he did not kill her. You have yet a mystery to solve.’