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ELIZABETH
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“YES! WE DID IT!”
Charlotte Fontaine thrust her small, manicured hand into the air as we watched the TV in her living room. “We made the evening news! This is better than I expected.”
I laughed. “Yes, we did it indeed, and you made the evening news. They cut me out. On the bright side, my heritage efforts will be saved for posterity in my police record. And I owe you bail money.”
She dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, there’s a bottle of your favorite unoaked Chardonnay in the fridge. Why don’t we have a glass while we’re waiting for the others?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fontaine,” I said, touched by her consideration. I’d mentioned once that only certain unoaked white wines didn’t give me migraines, and she’d remembered.
I went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine and filled two glasses. Back in the living room, I passed one to Mrs. Fontaine and sat across from her in an armchair. Sipping my Chardonnay, I watched as she phoned the committee members one by one, inviting them to join us later to celebrate our victory.
Charlotte Fontaine, a petite, feisty woman with vivid blue eyes, was the widow of the former Rosenthal mayor. Our acquaintance had started last November, when Mrs. Fontaine had contacted CBB Restauration, the small Montreal-based company owned by me and my partners Rick Barclay and Alain Besson. CBB stood for the initials of our last names. We specialized in architectural conservation and restoration and she’d offered us a job: to evaluate a little nineteenth-century hotel and estimate the cost of restoration, with a possibility of carrying out the work on it.
I hadn’t been in the office when she’d phoned, but my partners had accepted the offer without a blink. It was a harsh time in the heritage building restoration business and the big jobs were few and far between.
Excited about the contract, Rick had offered a competitive price, but admitted to Mrs. Fontaine that our specialty was churches and that we had only done a few public buildings. “I’m not concerned about that, Mr. Barclay,” she’d said. “I’ve checked your credentials; you always do exceptional work. You’ll find the structure of the Cosmopolitan not very different from a church from that time period, including the stained-glass windows and doors. We have permission from the owner to do an estimate, so I’d like one of you to come here and take a look.” Rick had suggested me, and Mrs. Fontaine agreed, adding that, if the cost of the renovation was reasonable, I might lead the project.
I was grateful to her. Both Rick and Alain were more experienced and had been in the business longer than me. I worked on small parts of the projects. I guess our employer figured I’d have more time for her venture than my partners.
The following week I arrived in Rosenthal, and Rick and Alain had gotten several significant conservation projects on the West Coast, thanks to Mrs. Fontaine and her connections.
I settled in a lovely little house left vacant after the previous owner, a friend of Mrs. Fontaine, had moved out of town.
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EVERYTHING HAD BEEN just perfect, only I didn’t think I’d enjoy my new life for long.
The small hotel’s future wasn’t looking bright. It was set to be sold, along with the entire block, to the land developer with the highest offer. So far, only one company—Urban Imprint—had shown interest in buying it. Unfortunately, they were more focused on building new structures than in restoring and developing existing ones, regardless of their potential historical significance.
The grim perspective didn’t discourage the heritage passionate Rosenthalers and the mastermind behind the plan for saving the hotel—Charlotte Fontaine.
The moment I saw the Cosmopolitan, I fell in love with it and I wanted more than anything to restore it to its former glory.
Neglected due to lack of money and proper care, the Cosmopolitan was still a beautiful structure. Built between 1870 and 1872 as a much smaller replica of the famous neo-classical Hotel Royale in Vienna, it had forty-two guest rooms, the original furnishings, stained-glass windows and doors, rosewood paneled elevators and marble bathrooms with heated floors.
For almost a century and a half, the small hotel had been the center of the town’s social life. Rosenthalers, well-to-do, cosmopolitan, sociable, albeit a little bit snobbish and eccentric, were proud of their town and its history and loved their little hotel dearly. There they held their wedding receptions, celebrated birthdays and other important days, welcomed their amateur golf guests from all around the world and promoted the work of local writers and painters.
When my cost estimation assignment was done, I didn’t return to Montreal. Mrs. Fontaine didn’t have any trouble convincing me to stay in Rosenthal for a few more months and join the Save the Cosmo! Committee as a professional consultant.
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“ELIZABETH, DARLING, please check if I uploaded the evening news to YouTube properly, will you? I want to send the link to a friend of mine,” Mrs. Fontaine said and passed me her iPhone.
I smiled as I watched the short video. I didn’t need to check anything. When it came to modern technology, Mrs. Fontaine was the savviest senior I knew.
“All’s good,” I said and passed her the iPhone.
She took it and speed-dialed a number.
“Rowena? Hi, Lottie here ... I’m fine, thank you. How’s Ahmed? And the little fella? ... I promise I’ll visit you as soon as my little business here is done ... Yes, the hotel and a few other buildings. We had a public protest today, and guess what? They arrested my architect and me, can you imagine? My lawyer bailed us out ... No, no, we’re okay, don’t worry. We were on the news. I’ll send you a link. Did you check our website? save-cosmo-exclamation-mark-dot-com, all one word ... You did? Great! Did you have a chance to talk to Jack and Astrid? Maybe Millennium Properties would be interested in buying it or investing in the renovation.”
Ah, there we were. Sam was right. The entire purpose of today’s commotion was to try to find an investor who’d save the Cosmo and the Baker Block from demolition. And yes, Charlotte already had someone in mind.
Mrs. Fontaine was giving Rowena—whoever she was—a frank account of the events related to the future of the hotel and the block. “Even if my friends and I had enough money to buy it out, what would we do with it?” she said. “We’re not business people. Trust me, Rowena, it’s a good investment. Once renovated, the hotel can be profitable again. The other four buildings of the block are also versatile. They can be turned into anything. They’re beautiful structures. We can’t let them destroy them ... Yes, you’re right ... It’d be great for our economy, but we need a big investor. That’s why I thought maybe if Millennium Properties ...”
As Mrs. Fontaine listened to her friend, the smile on her face widened. “A land developer? Why, that would be great! ... Ahmed’s cousin? Right, I remember you mentioning him. And you think he’d consider? ... Thanks a lot, Rowena ... I know ... What is his name again? ... Uh-huh ... I’ll text you my architect’s cell phone number. He can call her anytime. Her name is Elizabeth Chatwin ... Yes, she’s young but very capable ... All right then, talk to you soon. Say hello to everybody. Kiss Aydan for me, will you? Bye now.”
Mrs. Fontaine placed the phone on the table, beaming. “Well, I just might’ve found us an investor.”
I chuckled. “The one that can call me anytime? And who are all those people—Rowena, Jack, Ahmed, his cousin? How well do you know them?”
“Rowena Vandermeer and Dr. Ahmed Demir are my friends,” she said, taking a seat across from me. “Dr. Demir used to live and work in Rosenthal for years. He’s originally from Turkey; his family is very old and noble. Astrid, Rowena’s daughter, also lived in Rosenthal and worked in the hospital. She’s an orthopedic surgeon. And then she married Jack Canagan and moved to Colorado. They’re my close friends, too. I visited them last year.”
Too many names; I wasn’t sure I’d gotten who was who. “And who’s Aydan? Rowena’s grandson?”
“No. Astrid and Jack have a daughter. Aydan is Rowena’s son with Dr. Demir.”
Aware of my arched eyebrow, she explained, “Rowena was a teenager when she had Astrid. Anyhow, Astrid and Ahmed had been friends and colleagues. And then Ahmed met her mother, fell in love with her and also moved to Colorado. So romantic, isn’t it? The house you live in is Astrid’s house, you know. And the car you drive, it was hers as well.”
Interesting. “The house has a nightingale floor in the bedroom,” I said. “Did she have it built, or did it come with the house? It’s so beautiful. I’d never dreamt I’d live in a house with a nightingale floor.”
Now it was Mrs. Fontaine’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “Nightingale floor? What’s that?”
“A sort of safety device. It’s called uguisubari. It’s a wooden floor designed to make a chirping sound when you walk on it. They were common during the Edo Period in Japan. Why did she need a nightingale floor? Was she in danger?”
Mrs. Fontaine shrugged. “Nah. It must be because she liked all things Japanese, you know, ink paintings, sliding doors, minimalist design, things like that. Back to our business, the Canagans own a real estate company, Millennium Properties. Have you heard of it?”
I hadn’t, so Mrs. Fontaine explained that Millennium Properties was a profitable medium-sized real estate enterprise. Best of all, the recent recession didn’t seem to have affected it at all.
“You think Millennium Properties would be interested in buying the hotel and the rest of the Baker Block?” I said.
“I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Rowena promised to talk to Astrid and Jack, but before that, she says she wants to have a word with Ahmed’s cousin. He lives in Copper Ridge.”
“Where’s Copper Ridge?”
“Why, near Red Cliffs, in the Colorado mountains, of course.”
I’d never heard of those places before, although Mrs. Fontaine’s voice clearly suggested I should have.
“Anyway, Ahmed’s cousin is a developer,” Mrs. Fontaine carried on, “very rich, an architect, and an architect at that.”
“This is great! This is the best news we’ve heard in the last two months.”
Mrs. Fontaine blinked once, twice. “He’s a bit of an eccentric. But it’s not our concern.”
“What do you mean by eccentric?”
“Maybe eccentric isn’t the best word. Perhaps not very social. He lives on his estate with two caregivers and his secretary. He was in some kind of accident, so he’s in a wheelchair. He can walk, but with difficulty and he’s in and out of the hospital. He underwent numerous surgeries and he’s doing better, but could be quite moody, according to Rowena.”
No wonder he wasn’t in good spirits. “Maybe he’s depressed. Maybe he’s in chronic pain, who knows? Why does she think he’d want to get involved in this? Is she trying to pull him out of his despondency?”
“Rowena says he’s passionate about heritage buildings, or at least he used to be before the accident.”
“What is his name again? Maybe I know him.”
“Khalid Nouri.”
I smiled. “Eternal Light.”
Mrs. Fontaine’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what his name means in Arabic. It doesn’t sound familiar, though. Maybe Rick or Alain have heard of him. I’ll ask them.”
“They might not have heard of him. Rowena mentioned he lived in England before he came here,” Mrs. Fontaine said and then changed the subject. “You speak Arabic?”
“Yes. I lived in Egypt for several years when I was a child. My father was a professor of Oriental Studies at the Al-Azhar University.”
“What about your mother? She was also a university professor, wasn’t she?”
“A medievalist. She was an expert on the Early Middle Ages.” I reached for Mrs. Fontaine’s MacBook Pro that sat open on the coffee table. “Now, let’s google our Mr. Nouri.”
“Oh, don’t bother now. Medievalist, you say. I wondered how you got your middle name. Bertrada. Very old, but beautiful.”
“Thank you. I was named after one of my mother’s favorite research subjects, Queen Bertrada of Laon.”
“Charlemagne’s mother ... It suits you, you know.” Mrs. Fontaine refilled my still half-full glass.
I took a sip of wine. “How old is he?” I said, eager to know more about our potential investor.
Mrs. Fontaine stood up, closed the Mac and unplugged it. “Our guests are about to start showing up. We won’t need this tonight. How old is who?”
I sighed. “Mr. Nouri.”
All I got from Mrs. Fontaine was a strange faraway look and an unexpected answer. “That’s the million-dollar question, my dear.”
I looked at her, puzzled. Sometimes, Mrs. Fontaine had bizarre answers to simple questions.
Before I could ask what the heck she had meant this time, the doorbell announced the first group of our party guests.