The Eulalie Park Mysteries Box Set 1 Read online

  Her hair was almost dry after her shower, so she tied it back at the nape of her neck instead of bothering with a blow-dryer. No longer the tangled mess it had been in childhood, it was more manageable these days thanks to the small fortune she spent each month on hair products.

  She swiped on a few lashings of mascara, applied her favorite lip gloss, and considered herself good to go. She was halfway out the door when she turned around and went back to make her bed. It wasn’t as though she had a long commute, after all. Her office was just one floor below her apartment.

  She let herself into the premises of Eulalie Park Investigations and flipped the “Closed” sign around to “Open.” She unlocked the glass doors and opened them onto the sights and sounds of Bonaparte Avenue. Right now, these included the many temptations of La Petite Patisserie, which was situated diagonally across the road from her.

  Eulalie turned away from the aromas of ground coffee and fresh baking. She would probably succumb to a café au lait and tarte aux fruits later in the morning, but for now she needed to get on with some work. She wrote up a final report on the Moreau case and printed it out. Then she downloaded the images from the night before and printed those out too. When all the hard copies had been put into a binder, she wiped all traces of it from her camera memory and from her computer too. Now the only copies in existence were those she would give to Sophie Moreau to destroy.

  It was nine o’clock, which was as good a time as any to hand the binder over. Sophie should be awake after her night of passion, and her husband wasn’t due back until the evening. Sophie would have plenty of time to shred or burn the evidence before he got back.

  Eulalie put the file into the leather messenger bag she wore cross-body on a long shoulder strap. She locked up the office and put up her “Back in one hour” sign. Then she hopped onto the cherry-red Vespa she kept parked outside and drove towards Edward Heights where the Moreau mansion was situated. The route took her down to Beach Road and along the curve of the coast towards the Port of Prince William. A large inlet on the east side of the island, this harbor was protected by steep cliffs on either side that were known as the Prince William Heads. A long spit of rock and sand on East Head stretched out to sea. At the end of this was the lighthouse. Once occupied three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, it now stood empty, having been fully automated a while ago and controlled remotely from the coast guard’s headquarters.

  The harbor was divided into two sections separated from each other by a long concrete bulwark that stretched out into the still waters of the bay. On one side was the Yacht Club with its cheerful marina – a millionaire’s playground of yachts, sailboats, and catamarans. On the other side was the busy port, where freight ships stopped to refuel on their journeys to and from Europe, Africa, and India.

  Edward Heights was situated high up on the cliffs, exactly halfway between the yacht club and Cinq beach. Most residents had a view of either the marina or the beach, but a lucky few, whose houses were situated on the bend of Edward Drive, had views of both. Nicolas and Sophie Moreau were among the fortunate ones.

  Eulalie’s scooter carried her from Beach Road to the Coast Road. She turned right up the steep incline of Cliff Road and then left into Edward Drive. When she reached the bend in the road, Eulalie stopped her scooter and took off her helmet to allow the breeze from the ocean to wash over her face and tease her ponytail into a gentle dance. She breathed in the salty air and allowed herself to enjoy the beauty of the island. The marina was as festive as ever with bright sailboats bobbing in the water and the floating palaces of visiting billionaires moored further out in the deep waters.

  On the beach side, holidaymakers splashed in the gentle waves or floated on their backs, buoyed up by the high salt content of the ocean. Beach towels and striped umbrellas decorated the powdery sand of Cinq Beach.

  It was a cheerful scene, and one that never failed to lift Eulalie’s spirits.

  She turned back to look at number 15A Edward Drive. The graceful French colonial villa that Eulalie remembered from her school days had been flattened to make way for a Tuscan McMansion. She rang the doorbell and gave her name to the housekeeper, claiming to have an appointment with Sophie Moreau. She was counting on the fact that most people couldn’t resist coming in person to find out what a private investigator might want with them.

  The housekeeper led her into a white-tiled sitting room and invited her to wait. Eulalie perched gingerly on the edge of a snowy white sofa. How could anyone relax in a room like this? She would be terrified of leaving marks everywhere. There was already a grey mark on the tiles that had probably been caused by one of her boots.

  She turned at the sound of heels clicking on tiles.

  Sophie Moreau was a vision in white and taupe. Her pants and stiletto sandals were the color of stone, while her sleeveless silk top was white. Eulalie could see the ring of bruises on her upper arm where a man’s hand had gripped her. It was interesting that she made no attempt to hide it.

  Eulalie stood up to introduce herself. They were about the same age, in their late twenties, but Sophie’s hand was limp, her fingers cold.

  “Do you mind if we close the door?” Eulalie asked.

  Sophie looked a little surprised, but clicked across the tiles to close the double glass doors.

  The two women sat down.

  “Mrs. Moreau,” Eulalie said. “I need to start off by telling you that I was hired by your husband to find out whether or not you were having an affair, and if so to obtain photographic and video evidence of it.”

  Sophie swayed in her seat. The color drained from her cheeks.

  Eulalie tapped the plastic binder on her lap.

  “I did what he asked because it’s my job. I have all the hard copies here. What I’m …”

  “Money,” Sophie interrupted her. “You want money. Of course you do. I’ll pay you anything. Just hand over those photos and swear to me you haven’t kept any others.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m not asking for…”

  The woman jumped up and began to pace.

  “If you give this to my husband, he will … well, you have no idea how angry he will be. You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Just name the amount. I’ll pay anything.”

  “Mrs. Moreau,” Eulalie interrupted. “I’m trying to tell you that I came here today to give you the photos. I had already decided not to hand them over to your husband, and I don’t want any money for them. Here.” She held out the binder. “Take them and burn them. I don’t want to see them again.”

  Sophie took the binder but eyed Eulalie suspiciously.

  “Why would you do that? My husband paid you to do a job. Why wouldn’t you take this to him, unless you’re looking for a bigger pay day?”

  “Mrs. Moreau … I’ve seen what your husband does to you. I’ve seen the bruises he leaves on your face and body. I couldn’t bring myself to give him any more ammunition.”

  Sophie’s pacing stopped. She whirled around. Two spots of color flamed on her cheekbones.

  “What do you mean? What gives you the right to say that? My husband loves me. He does!”

  Eulalie glanced at her upper arm. “Is that how he shows his love?”

  “You don’t understand. He only does it because he cares. If he didn’t love me so much he wouldn’t be disappointed when I don’t live up to his expectations.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Moreau, but that’s not true. When a man lays violent hands on a woman, it’s not love, it’s abuse.” Eulalie looked down at her messenger bag. “I have here some pamphlets…”

  She broke off as all the light and sound in the room seemed to be sucked away, leaving a ringing void in its wake. She seemed to see Sophie Moreau sweep a white Lalique vase off a side table and fling it at Eulalie’s head.

  Eulalie shifted almost lazily to the right. The vase whizzed past to explode against the tiled floor. The light and sound rushed back into the room. She shoved the pamphlets back into her bag and
stood up quickly.

  “There’s no need for that.” She held up her hands in a gesture of peace. “I was only trying to help.”

  “How dare you come into my home and start insulting my husband?” Sophie picked up a heavy silver candlestick and flung that at Eulalie too. “Get out! Get out, get out, get out!”

  Eulalie found herself caught in a hail of porcelain. A Dresden Shepherdess zoomed past her head, followed by a decorative wall plate, a Venetian glass bowl, another wall plate, and the base of a lamp. The more effortlessly she avoided them, the more infuriated her hostess became.

  Then the double glass doors crashed open and Nicolas Moreau stormed into the room.

  Sophie gave a little scream and flung herself into his arms.

  “She attacked me, Nicolas. She tried to hurt me. She came into our home and assaulted me.”

  Moreau’s eyes narrowed in recognition at the sight of Eulalie.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw that he was carrying a gun in his jacket pocket. She saw that he was about to take it out – a Smith & Wesson 9mm – and start firing at her.

  That was quite enough for Eulalie. Snagging her messenger bag with one hand, she rolled backwards off the sofa, flung open the sash window directly behind her, and jumped. A bullet pinged off the window frame.

  It was a drop of about fifteen feet down onto the driveway below. Eulalie landed on all fours and took off running towards the elaborate wrought-iron gate.

  Another bullet shot up a spurt of gravel to her right. She swarmed up the gate exactly like the monkey she had been nicknamed at school, and landed lightly on the other side. She swung a leg over her Vespa and was halfway down the hill when two more gunshots sounded behind her.

  Chapter 2

  “It was a tsunami of knick-knacks.” Eulalie flipped open a compact mirror and repaired her lipstick. “Murano, Lalique, Royal Albert. You name it, it was flying at my head.”

  “What a waste.” Fleur du Toit paused in her shelf stacking and turned to look at Eulalie with raised eyebrows.

  “Waste of bullets too when the gentleman of the house started firing at me.”

  “No wonder you’re looking a little ruffled.”

  Eulalie opened her messenger bag and took out a hair brush and a bottle of detangling spray. She set to work on taming her mane.

  “Jumping out a second-story window and escaping from a hail of bullets will do that to you. Not to mention the helmet hair.”

  Fleur put the last tin of blackstrap molasses onto the shelf. “What is wrong with people?”

  “I don’t know about people, but the Moreaus are straight-up crazy.”

  “You really think he hits her?”

  “I know he does. She admitted it. But as soon as I raised the issue, the Lalique started flying.”

  “Well, I hope she gets the help she needs.”

  “Me too. Or rather, I hope she starts throwing ornaments at her husband’s head instead of mine. Deadly aim she’s got.”

  “And yet here you are with not a mark on you.” Fleur switched on the coffee machine. “All her ornaments somehow failed to hit their target, despite her deadly aim.”

  Eulalie sighed. “I ducked, okay? I got lucky.”

  “Lucky, my ass. The only luck involved is the fact that you know what’s going to happen before it does. Café au lait okay for you?

  Eulalie nodded.

  “That’s a fairytale, Fleur, and you know it. I’m a modern woman. I rely on my computer skills and investigative abilities to get the job done. Anything else is fake news. You shouldn’t listen to rumors, no matter who is telling them to you.”

  “It was you, actually, that time we got drunk together in our first year at college.” She put a cup of coffee down in front of Eulalie and sat opposite her.

  “The operative word is ‘drunk’. I was obviously talking nonsense. Don’t you have any other customers to attend to?”

  Fleur looked around the bustling confectionery and coffeeshop she had called Sweet as Flowers. It wasn’t very big, but she had managed to cram ten four-seater tables into the space, with some spilling out onto the sidewalk. There was also extra seating at the bar counter where she and Eulalie were currently sitting. All but two of the tables were occupied. A waiter in a striped apron moved efficiently between them. Most of the customers had their laptops open, taking advantage of the free WIFI and bottomless filter coffee.

  “Jethro’s taking care of it. I can sit here and ask you uncomfortable questions all afternoon if you like.”

  Eulalie thought about sighing again, but decided she would probably pass out from hyperventilation. “You’re delusional, but you make good coffee.”

  “I’m tempted to prove it right now by throwing this cup of coffee in your face and watching you begin to duck before the thought has even left my brain, but as you say, it’s good coffee.”

  The two women smiled at each other. They might bicker, but their friendship went back ten years and was unbreakable. They had met at college when Eulalie had spent four years off-island studying computer science and criminology at the University of Cape Town in South Africa.

  Eulalie Park had been desperate to establish herself in the world of science and technology and to get as far away from the old ways of her forest village as possible. Fleur du Toit had been a trust-fund baby determined to make her own way in the world and to be as unlike her parents as she could.

  The two had bonded instantly in their race to escape their roots. But however much Eulalie might try to escape the forest, it was an integral part of who she was. Throughout their final year at college, she had regaled Fleur with tales of Queen’s Town. She had made it sound like a land of opportunity, which it was. Its limited regulations and relaxed tax code made it a magnet for entrepreneurs hoping to make a quick buck. But as Eulalie explained, the future no longer belonged to the dodgy import-export dealers. It belonged to those poised to take advantage of the tide of gentrification that was starting to sweep the island. The islanders were looking for high-end clothing labels and artisanal farmers’ markets rather than contraband cigarettes.

  So, Fleur du Toit had come to Queen’s Town with start-up capital she had borrowed from her trust fund. She had rented the best space she could afford on Lafayette Drive and turned it into an organic candy emporium. Sugar cane was one of the most important crops on the island, so her venture got enthusiastic support from the locals. She specialized in gluten-free and vintage treats and tapped into a nostalgia for the old days.

  “You know what really burns me?” asked Eulalie.

  “The money?” said Fleur.

  “The money.” She nodded. “I could have taken the photos to Nicolas Moreau in the first place and got paid for the job, and it would have had exactly the same effect. The only thing I managed to do was lose my fee.”

  “How about a shot of cane liqueur in that coffee?” Fleur offered.

  “Tempting, but it’s a little early. Better not. And that’s enough about me. What’s up with you, chérie?”

  Now it was Fleur’s turn to sigh.

  “The new health food store is going ahead. It looks like there’s going to be a lot of overlap between my stock and theirs. They’ll be doing a huge confectionary section, at much lower prices than I can afford to charge.”

  “They took over from the old drycleaners, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, and the car wash next to it. It’s going to be huge, Eulalie. At least three times the size of Sweet as Flowers. I don’t know how I’ll keep my customers loyal when they’re getting the same products for half the price just two blocks away.”

  Eulalie stood up. “That’s capitalism for you. They’ll be the big, bad supermarket and you’ll be the cute little family-owned business. People will keep coming back to Sweet as Flowers because it’s homely and charming, and that counts for a lot these days.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m always right. I’d better get back to the office, chérie. I’ve been gone si
nce this morning.”

  Eulalie let herself into her office. She groaned when she saw message slips stuck to the door, and the answering machine light blinking furiously. She should really hire a receptionist. If her office weren’t open and functioning during office hours, she would lose business. It wasn’t possible for her to be physically present all the time because she had to be out in the field, but someone should be there.

  Just the thought of advertising and interviewing people made her feel tired. Why couldn’t the perfect candidate just walk through the door?

  “In five, four, three, two, one…”

  When no one walked in, she sat down at her desk and unwrapped the stuffed croissant she had bought at Sweet as Flowers. She would catch up on paperwork while she ate.

  The first order of business was putting the Moreau file to bed. She typed up her final report describing what had happened that morning, marked it “no charge,” and printed it out. Then she archived both the physical and electronic files.

  After that, the only difficulty was in deciding which piece of business to attend to next. It was good to be busy, and Eulalie took a moment to be grateful for it. Her memories of the early days were all too vivid. Hour after hour of inactivity, of longing for a paying client to walk through the door. All those humiliating cold calls to businesses, offering her services as an investigator. They often didn’t even let her get through her pitch before hanging up. And the few trickles of work that did come in inevitably involved following a cheating spouse, just like in the Moreau case. Eulalie could only be thankful that she was finally in a position to say no to that kind of work. One or two of the law firms would protest, but they could find someone else to do their matrimonial investigations. There was so much else that she was better suited to.

  Right now, she needed to decide whether to follow up on an insurance fraud investigation, an industrial espionage case, or an electronic payment scam. It was all good work, and would not only pay her bills at the end of the month, but leave her with a surplus that could be put towards upgrading the credit-checking services she subscribed to.