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WHEN ROSEMARY AND HER friends stepped out into the corridor, it was to find that the cause of the commotion was none other than Charlotte Marlowe. Evidently, she’d remembered where she’d seen the clutch containing the threatening letters, because now she stood at the threshold of her husband’s suite, waving the handbag in Geneviève’s face while throwing out allegations like rice at a wedding.
“That hideous clutch isn’t mine, and even if it were, it doesn’t make me a murderer! How dare you come in here and make these—these accusations ridicules! Mon Dieu!” Geneviève spat the words at Charlotte, who clenched the hand not holding the clutch into a fist. She appeared poised to pounce on the French woman.
“You’re a despicable excuse for a human being! An adulterer and a homewrecker! Why not a blackmailer, and a murderer, too?” Charlotte screeched back.
Geneviève’s eyes narrowed, and she held out her hands in a gesture of frustration. “You stupid girl! If I wrote the blackmail letters, why would I keep them in my own handbag? A quoi penses-tu?” Again, she reverted to her mother tongue, which Charlotte appeared to get the gist of even if she didn’t understand every word.
“I couldn’t begin to explain your motives, but then, unlike you, I have scruples!”
While Rosemary and her friends stood back, mouths agape, Geneviève lunged at Charlotte, dragging her into the suite and slamming the door behind her.
Max rushed forward, jiggled the handle, and then looked back at his companions with a furrowed brow. “It’s locked,” he said. The fight raged on, the women’s voices carrying clearly through the closed door.
“It’s not my fault your husband doesn’t love you anymore!” Geneviève screamed, aiming the blow right where it would hurt the most.
Charlotte growled with rage and shot back, “He only wants you for your money, and if you haven’t figured that out by now, you’re even more daft than I thought you were! He’s always catting around, always has been a cheat and a liar. He left me with nothing, and he’ll do the same to you!”
For a moment, all was silent, and then Geneviève laughed loudly, her voice filled with derision, “Then answer this: why did you want him back so badly?”
“Because!” Charlotte stuttered. “Because I made a vow! He’s my husband, for better or for worse. Some people still take marriage seriously! We aren’t all tramps like you!”
Rosemary rapped on the door and looked at her friends with wide eyes. “This has nothing to do with Cecily’s murder, and it’s getting out of hand.” Through the door she yelled, “Let us in, right now, or we’ll call the police!”
The women inside ignored her demands and continued berating each other. “If you keep insulting me, I’m going to—to rip you apart with my bare hands!” Geneviève’s voice had gone past shrill and was now approaching angry desperation. Her threat did nothing to convince Rosemary she wasn’t capable of murder, even though her comment on the idiocy of carrying around blackmail letters she’d written herself made a lot of sense.
“Go and find Benjamin.” She threw the directive over her shoulder. “This is his problem to clean up.”
Desmond hastened off to do just that, muttering something under his breath about women being the death of a good man.
For the ten minutes it took Desmond to return with a haggard Benjamin trailing behind, accusations and recriminations flew behind the locked door, along with what sounded like at least one crystal bar tumbler that crashed against the wall with a tinkling sound.
Those noises were bad enough, but the utter silence that followed was worse.
“Come on, man,” Desmond urged Benjamin. “Open the door, for goodness sake! Your fiancée has gone crazy and is threatening to kill your wife!” Stranger words he had never uttered.
Benjamin’s face went white and slack, and then he seemed to get a handle on himself. He fumbled in his pocket for the room key, his hands shaking so much he nearly dropped it, and eventually managed to fit it into the lock. When he finally burst through the door and into the suite, Rosemary and her friends hot on his heels, the scene before him did nothing to calm his nerves.
“Vivi, what on earth are you doing?” he exclaimed. Geneviève had Charlotte on the floor next to the settee, one hand gripping her hair, the other pressing a gleaming steak knife to her throat. On the settee lay a dinner tray, the remainder of its contents having been strewn across the cushion. Had Charlotte arrived sometime later, the dishes might have been cleared, and Geneviève might not have had such a convenient weapon at the ready. “Let her go. It’s not her I want, it’s you.”
“Then why were you with her the night that woman was killed?” Geneviève demanded. “Did you think I didn’t know? About her and all your other conquests?”
Benjamin flushed, embarrassed, but didn’t take his eyes off his fiancée. “What other conquests? I’ve been taking care of business, not catting around like everyone thinks. I tried to get Charlotte to agree to petition for a divorce, and yes, I used every means necessary. But I’ve never hurt you like that, and I never will.”
“Are you serious?” Charlotte squeaked around the knife that had gone slack against her throat. Some of the fight seemed to have drained out of Geneviève, and she was now staring at Benjamin as though wondering how many of his words to believe. She tossed the knife aside, and Charlotte scrambled to her feet.
“You still want her, even after she just tried to kill me?” she asked her husband incredulously.
“It’s always been her,” he stated, not even looking at Charlotte.
Geneviève crossed the space between them and allowed herself to be gathered into Benjamin’s arms. “It’s only ever been you, too, darling. The rest, it’s just—je ne sais quoi—mon ego, je suppose.” The two embraced, oblivious to the six other people in the room, especially Charlotte, who stared at them in disgust.
“I think I might be sick,” she said, turning a yellowish shade of green.
“I think I might join you,” Rosemary agreed. She locked eyes with Charlotte, a long, silent look, and then Charlotte bowed her head.
When she raised it again, there was a steeliness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Benjamin, you win. Give me the proof I need, and I’ll file the petition immediately. You can have your divorce. I want the money you promised me, and I never want to see either of you ever again.”
“That’s probably a very wise idea,” Max agreed. His tone cut through the haze of romance surrounding Benjamin and Geneviève, and the two split apart reluctantly. “Why don’t you two take care of your business elsewhere. Desmond,” he said in a harsher tone, “why don’t you tag along with them. Frederick, too. Rosemary and I will stay here with Miss Chevalier. It’s time we had a conversation.”
Benjamin tried to put his hand on Charlotte’s waist and lead her out of the suite, but she cringed out of his reach, slapped his hand away, and stalked out in front of him. The men followed, Desmond directing a scathing glare at Max. Rosemary sighed internally; the state of her love life would have to wait. That was a problem for another day.
“Now,” Max said when they were safely out of earshot, “you’re going to answer any question the lot of us have for you, and you’re going to do it truthfully. I could have you arrested for what you’ve just done, so don’t even think about lying.”
Rosemary knew Max was putting on more of a show than he needed to and suspected he thoroughly enjoyed doing so.
Geneviève nodded gravely. “Yes, yes. Of course. What do you want to know?” She sat down delicately on the edge of the settee as if she hadn’t been holding a knife to someone’s throat less than five minutes before.
“What I want to know,” Rosemary said loudly, “is where you were the night Cecily was murdered. Clearly, you weren’t with your fiancé, as he’s just explained he was with his wife.” The whole thing sounded so ludicrous, Rosemary could hardly believe she was asking the question to begin with.
“You still think I killed that woman?” Geneviève had the nerve to ask.
Rosemary sat down on one of the chairs opposite her and glared at the woman. “I think you just proved you’re perfectly capable of having done so. Convince us you’re innocent, if you can.”
“I was here, alone in my suite the evening Cecily DeVant died, waiting for Benjamin.”
“Then why did you lie?”
“N’est-ce pas évident?” Geneviève asked. “Because of you. All of you. You saw me the night she was killed. Heard the way I spoke to her. I had no alibi, and I’d touched those blackmail letters. Wouldn’t you try and save yourself? I may not have liked the woman, but I didn’t care enough about her to kill her. Could I take a chance and hope the police would believe me? Perhaps, but I chose not to.”
Rosemary exchanged a look with Max, and he watched as the wheels turned in her brain. It was a sight to behold, and one of the things he enjoyed most about her: her mind. “What was your connection with Cecily?” she demanded.
Geneviève sighed. “I had the unfortunate experience of meeting her years ago. We had a row over a man, and she won his affections.” She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “It’s well over now, and he certainly wasn’t someone I cared enough about to make me want to kill her.” Her face smoothed into an innocent, wide-eyed expression.
“You mean like you just tried to kill Charlotte?” Vera said pointedly.
Through a laugh, Geneviève’s eyes pierced Vera’s. “You’ve never been in love, have you? It has a certain effect on a woman, and sometimes causes one to act brashly.”
Vera blanched and promptly shut her mouth.
Even more thoroughly irritated than she’d been before, Rosemary snapped, “Your commentary on my friend’s love life is unnecessary, and jealousy is a sorry excuse for threatening someone’s life. Enough of this; explain what happened when you returned the handbag to Cecily.”
“Mon Dieu! What difference does it make? The bag wasn’t hers, as I’d supposed it was. She denied having received those letters, though I didn’t believe her for one second. Not after seeing the look on her face when she realized what I’d found, and that I’d seen her sitting in the chair where I found that hideous handbag.”
“Which chair? Where?”
“One of those green ones with the silk-mohair upholstery in the reception area. We exchanged a few...unpleasantries if you like, and she told me, essentially, to mind my own business and let her handle hers. I was still angry when I saw her at the reception desk that evening. Her indulgent attitude towards her guests did not extend to the ones she did not like, that I can assure you.”
At Rosemary’s and Max’s insistence, Geneviève ran through her tale twice more, without revealing any inconsistencies, and they were forced to admit she was likely telling the truth. Rosemary declared she’d like to return to her suite, after, of course, checking to ensure there would be no repeat performance of the fight with Charlotte.
Max would have followed Rosemary to her room, but she gave him a look that said she hadn’t yet forgiven him. Vera fared better, as she’d managed to pry the offending clutch from Charlotte and had spread the contents out for perusal. The letters sat off to one side, but it was one item among the rest that held Vera’s attention.
The clutch hadn’t held much: a small compact, the letters, and a lipstick. Rosemary sank onto the settee and picked up each item. She opened the compact, then closed it.
“Rosemary,” Vera said. Something about her voice made Rosemary’s head whip in her direction. “I know whose handbag this is.”
“How?”
“That shade of lipstick; there’s only one person I’ve seen wearing it. Only one person with the right color of skin to get away with red with a hint of orange. This lipstick belongs to Gloria.”
Stunned, Rosemary sat back while the pieces of the puzzle in her mind changed places.
“If the handbag is Gloria’s, the letters are hers, too. Do you suppose she was the one stealing money from the hotel?” Vera asked. “It makes a lot of sense, and if Cecily found the letters and confronted her, maybe Gloria killed her to keep her quiet.”
Rosemary bit her lip and thought. “Except Cecily didn’t have time to talk to Gloria, at least not with the letters on her. She left them here the day she died.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t mention them. In fact, it might have benefited her not to have them on her. An insurance policy of sorts.”
“Perhaps she thought so, though it didn’t keep her from being bludgeoned to death,” Rosemary replied. Her throat tightened, and tears threatened to spring to her eyes at the thought. The image of Cecily’s body seared into the back of her eyelids, and no matter how many times she blinked, she couldn’t stop seeing it. “Who do you think wrote the letters?”
Vera opened her mouth, realized she had no answer to that question, and closed it again. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted, “but it seems as though it would have had to be one of the staff. Someone who figured out what she’d done and threatened to tell Cecily about it.”
“It’s possible Gloria doesn’t even know who sent them,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “It’s even possible that Cecily was the one who wrote the letters. It would explain why she brushed off Geneviève’s questions—aside, of course, from the obvious fact that she couldn’t stand the woman. I hate to think that of her, but we can’t rule out the possibility.”
“We need to talk to Gloria, don’t we?” Vera asked. “I suppose there’s no time like the present, but I will say this, Rosie: we’re going to need to take a holiday to recover from our holiday.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.”
