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Thursday, December 26th, in the evening
Helene had invited Charlotte for a Boxing Day supper, not that it had anything to do with Boxing Day, but she wanted to get together with her “Elm Grove family” during Christmastime, having spent so much of it away or with faculty friends.
It dawned on her that Donovan was likely to be there—and Simon, as well, if he was back in town, since Helene had practically adopted him.
Oh lord.
When faced with possible social awkwardness, dress nicely, she thought, and she put on a simple long-sleeved black fitted tee over a knee-length gray wool skirt, and sheer black tights with her good pumps. Her favorite silver hoop earrings and bracelet came next, and a dash of lip color and mascara. The effect?
It probably wouldn’t have mattered what she wore—she was glowing.
I look like I’m falling in love.
Snap out of it!
When she arrived at Helene’s, she half-expected a request to pick up Donovan, but to her surprise he was already there, and had risen to greet her while Helene fussed over her with kisses on both cheeks and profuse holiday wishes.
They stood there and smiled across the sitting room at one another, but didn’t move.
“Donovan.”
“Charlotte.”
Once again he looked good, in a collarless knit shirt over the gray chinos from the other night. He was standing straight and strong without the help of his cane, which was on the floor next to his chair. Her thoughts moved effortlessly to what she knew was underneath his clothes. And his eyes told her he was doing the same with her.
“Well, aren’t you two looking nice,” said Helene. “Pardon this mess,” she gestured to the large number of papers and files covering the coffee table, which Charlotte hadn’t even noticed until now. “Olivia’s estate is just about settled, and the lawyers brought over all these files and papers. We decided to go over them, since it looks like it will just be the three of us tonight, and Donovan said he wanted you to be part of it.”
“Oh, of course, anything I can do, say the word.”
She was aware that Donovan kept looking at her legs, so she crossed them. The skirt slid up a little, and his eyes sparkled.
Charlotte smiled to herself, then pulled her thoughts together for the task at hand, paying particular attention to anything that would help with transcribing Olivia’s notebooks. Most of it was pretty mundane—nothing compared to the documents Donovan had received about his parents’ marriage and his own birth, and Helene said as much.
“It makes me so happy that you have proof of your parentage, Donovan. On the other hand, it makes me sadder than ever about your mother. She made such hard work of her life.”
“Charlotte’s work on Mom’s notebooks is helping me to understand. I don’t agree with what she did, but—”
“Well, between that news and the fact that all is in order to sign off on the estate, you can now auction off the book and then do what you like with the house. It looks like you’re finally coming into your own, Donnie.” Helene smiled at him fondly.
“Oh, it was already happening before this, Aunt Helene.” He turned his gaze to Charlotte. “This is just the icing on the cake.”
Charlotte began to help organize the papers. “What do you think you’ll do now, Donovan?”
“Where do I start? The first thing I’ve got to do is to get out of that house. It’s got too many bad memories. There are a few good ones, of course,” he smiled at Charlotte just then, “but when I’m—ready to move on with life, I don’t want it to happen there.”
Charlotte understood perfectly. “I don’t blame you. Not one bit.”
Helene had put together a simple meal of crusty bread, imported cheeses, pâté, olives, and grapes, which Charlotte helped to set out on the coffee table.
Donovan opened a bottle of wine and handed them each a glass.
“I hope this is enough for you two,” said Helene with a touch of apology. “I’ve eaten so much ham, turkey, and roast beef lately, and I realized at the last minute I was too tired to actually cook.”
“It looks wonderful, Aunt Helene. A real treat.”
Charlotte seconded Donovan, then added, “You once told me that Paul did a lot of the cooking.”
“Yes, he did.” Helene turned back to Charlotte. “In fact, it was the result of one of our first fights. Like most men in those days, he assumed I knew my way around a kitchen, and like most women in those days, I assumed it was my job to meet his assumptions, part of being a good wife. And of course I wanted to be a good wife. So, after one of my concert tours we settled into a flat in Chelsea. It had a rather sparsely-appointed kitchen.” She took a small bite of cheese, closing her eyes as she savored it.
“So he didn’t do the cooking from the get-go?” asked Donovan.
“Oh, no—neither of us did, because we got married right before I went on tour, and we were living in hotels for several months. We combined it with an extended honeymoon.” Helene smiled. “My manager didn’t know whether to be happy for or furious with me.”
Charlotte thought about it for a moment, and nodded in understanding. “He thought it would be a distraction.”
“Exactly. However, he was convinced it was for the best when he saw how well my publicity photos turned out—the radiant bride!”
They laughed and Charlotte wanted to know more about the cooking fight. “So after the tour, a flat in Chelsea, and a fight. What happened?”
“Well, during the tour I was the center of attention, as was to be expected. But Paul was developing his own professional career—and had his own artistic temperament. He’d already won a prestigious design prize, but it was risky for him to be off the radar for very long, and lose out on opportunities for high-profile projects. The morning after my last concert, in Brussels, he said it was time that I became Mrs. Paul Dalmier—at least for a while—and he stopped being Mr. Helene Bernadin.
“And I agreed. It was only fair. He had an opportunity for some interesting work in London, and to London we went.” She took another sip of wine, and leaned forward on her arms as she continued her story. “I took his concerns to heart, as the young do, wanted to make up for the imbalance of attention I’d gotten. I wanted him to feel he was just as important as me, to feel appreciated, all very well-intentioned. Of course, now we were living on our own money, since most of the hotel expenses had been covered by my booking company. We weren’t going to be able to eat in hotel dining rooms every night anymore, and the fish and chips diet had its limits. I picked up a women’s magazine at a news stand, and it had one of those articles typical of the time that said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. It featured some recipes, including boeuf bourguignon.”
“The Julia Child version? With the separately-cooked onions and mushrooms?”
“Oh, no, this was before her book came out. But it was similar to a dish my father did well. You’ll remember he was a chef.”
“Of course! You probably saw him make things like that.”
“Not really—the kitchen was his professional domain, and I just stayed out of the way. I did, however, remember how it tasted. The magazine article waxed poetic about beef in red wine, and I was convinced it would be the very thing for Paul. I went around to all the shops and got the meat, the bacon, the potatoes, onions, mushrooms, wine, and so on. Paul wasn’t due back until about seven, so I felt I had plenty of time. I was slow, did things in the wrong order, wasn’t entirely sure I’d gotten the right cut of meat, that sort of thing. I didn’t know anyone to ask a question—overseas calls were expensive, so asking my father was out. But it smelled pretty good. Just about anything cooked in wine smells good.
“Then came time to boil the potatoes. The kitchen only had one good-sized heavy pot, and that was the one in the oven with the meat. I had to make do with a rickety saucepan. When the potatoes were done, I took the pot over to the sink to drain, holding a lid loosely on it to keep the potatoes from falling out, since there was no colander. That’s when the handle snapped, and boiling water poured all over my hand and arm. I ran cold water over it right away, but it was clear the burn was bad and it was unbelievably painful. I ran out to the chemist, but it was closed. A passer-by directed me to a clinic, where I got my hand salved and bandaged. I was so worried that I wouldn’t be able to play the piano for weeks.”
“How awful! But it did eventually get better.”
“Yes, it did. But my bad day wasn’t over. By the time I returned to the flat, it was all smoky and reeking of burnt beef stew. Paul had just gotten back, and was storming around, throwing open the windows, angry at my carelessness—until he saw the bandage. It went from my fingertips almost up to the elbow, and I’m sure looked pretty serious. And he went from being angry to being worried. He told me that he thought I’d gotten fed up with him being almost an hour late and just threw the potatoes in the sink and didn’t bother to turn the oven off. I told him what really did happen, and about never learning to cook as a girl, but was willing to give it a go. That is when he really surprised me. He salvaged some of the potatoes, a few leftover onions and other things we had on hand, eggs and such, and made some kind of fry-up that was every bit as delicious as anything my father ever served us. And he said that he didn’t want me to worry about cooking anymore, he would be happy to do it if I could take care of going to the shops for him. He didn’t want me to risk hurting my hands, getting cut with a knife. I asked him, what was the difference, he was an architect and needed his hands, too. But he said he could always get a draftsperson to do the blueprints if needed. No one else could play for me if I couldn’t play the piano myself. So that’s how that all came about. And I never did cook again until his own work took him away so often that I pretty much had to learn if I wanted to eat.”
Donovan looked at her with affection. “I love hearing these stories, Aunt Helene. I wish I had gotten to know Uncle Paul better.”
Helene just smiled and settled back into her corner of the sofa. “Maybe it’s just as well it’s only the three of us tonight. I was going to invite Simon, but he never returned my call the other day. Did you ever get hold of him?”
Charlotte nodded, but felt a little strange talking about him under the circumstances. “He’s in Chicago, on a job.”
Donovan snorted. “Some job. He’s with his old girlfriend.”
Helene looked taken aback, and Charlotte explained the situation as neutrally as she could.
“That really surprises me on one hand, not so much on the other.” Helene seemed to think about it for a moment. “It does explain a few things, though.”
Charlotte was curious. “What’s that?”
“I’ve always wondered why a photographer of his caliber would want to hole up here, at least before he was anywhere near retiring.”
“He said he was working so much in order to ensure his contract was renewed, because if it wasn’t, his visa would expire and he’d have to leave the country.”
Helene scoffed. “Nonsense! He’s high-profile enough to write his own ticket with an artist and performer visa, and if he is going to teach, he can have his pick of schools, ones that could afford to pay him more than Corton.”
Donovan pointed at her. “What about your settling here yourself, Aunt Helene? You’re a world-class pianist.”
“But I was married to a world-class architect, too, and it suited him to have his base of operations here, close to Chicago. Simon had no such attachments. I always felt he was in exile from something—like a bad relationship.”
Charlotte found this illuminating. “Philippa. He’d broken up with Philippa Dawson-Jones a couple of years ago, I think, which would be right before he came here?” Helene confirmed it with a nod. “Maybe he wanted to get away from being in the spotlight or being reminded of her left and right.”
“Still no excuse for his behavior,” said Donovan. Helene looked at him pointedly, and he looked right back. “Oh, c’mon! We already know I’m a bad boy, but he’s the paragon of virtue around here, so it’s a different standard, right? Just saying.”
Helene rolled her eyes, but in good humor. “Fair point. It’s out of character. But where does that leave you, Charlotte?”
She shrugged. “He’s irrelevant. I broke it off with him.” She took another sip of wine. “He insisted there was nothing going on between them, but that didn’t bother me as much as what wasn’t going on between us, and this situation with Philippa, fortunately, served to point that out. He’s quite a guy, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not for me.”
“I would have thought you would have reserved judgment until you saw him.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Actions speak louder than words, Helene.”
“Or lack of action,” said Donovan, his eyes lit up in amusement. Charlotte felt herself struggling to keep a straight face.
To her relief, the conversation moved on to Helene’s own personal life.
“I do enjoy Gottfried’s company, he’s very courtly and he has a wicked sense of humor, which is a rare combination. I sometimes get the feeling, though, he’s working up to propose.”
“Marriage?” ask Charlotte.
“Or something,” said Helene. “But I don’t want to go there. I love dating him. But I don’t want to have to get used to sharing space with a man again. Especially an old man. Younger ones are hard enough to adjust to, but an old one—virtually impossible.”
Donovan nodded. “We men are too much trouble, especially us old or infirm ones.”
“You’re not so infirm anymore,” said Charlotte, with a smile.
He looked down, and patch of pink appeared on the left side of his neck. “There are days I’ve never been better.” He pushed up his glasses and looked at her. “Seriously, though, I wish I was further along in my progress and could make sure you’re okay. I talked to Barnes a little while ago.”
“Detective Barnes?” asked Helene. “Why, what’s happened?”
Charlotte and Donovan brought Helene up to date about the pictures of the cross-burning, which she found appalling.
“I don’t think there will be any repercussions,” said Charlotte. “Barnes doesn’t either, but thinks I should play it safe, anyway, and I agree.”
“Do they know any more about Alonzo’s murder?”
“No,” said Charlotte, “but I’m helping the detective with some research.” She explained about the tunnels, then talking to Honorine, and finally spotting the solar panels that afternoon from Bishop Hall and the possible tunnel access in the outbuilding next to Garibaldi’s laboratory.
Donovan groaned, as this was the first time he was hearing about her day. “Oh, Charlotte, you’re killing me. Somebody in that bunch very likely shot Dr. Garibaldi, and you shouldn’t be going there on your own.”
“But Alexa and Gani are my friends. Or at least I thought they were. If what Gani said to me is true, Alexa has lied to me and is using me to set up an alibi for herself. But it doesn’t make sense that she’d kill her father when she needed him for a kidney and financial support.”
“Do you think you could continue investigating without actually going over there on your own?” asked Helene.
Charlotte hesitated, thinking it through, but Donovan leaned forward and spoke, his voice finally giving him away. “Charlotte, sweetheart, please don’t go there anymore. Not by yourself.” Helene looked at him in surprise, but he didn’t notice.
“Okay,” said Charlotte. “And if, for some reason, I have to, I will let you know.”
“Me and Barnes, both. Please?”
She smiled impishly. “Need proof?”
“Nah. Just strong legs, so I can run after you.”
By this point, Helene was looking at Charlotte and Donovan speculatively, but seemed to change her mind about what she was going to say. “Paul, as I’ve said before, did the barn renovation. There might be something in the blueprints or the site surveys that you would find useful. I think I’ll contact the firm and get you a set.”