The Eulalie Park Mysteries Page 3

  Eulalie had just decided to focus on the insurance fraud when her phone started beeping as messages came through. It was probably just her grandmother wanting her to stop off at the market, but she picked it up anyway.

  Four different people had messaged to tell her that Fleur was involved in a public fight with Marcel Faberge.

  Eulalie closed her eyes. Marcel Faberge was the owner of the new health food emporium that Fleur was so worried about. The trouble with Fleur was that she had a temper. She took pride in living up to the reputation of the fiery redhead. Sometimes, Eulalie thought the fire had entered her brain. She acted first and thought later. She was notorious for doing things in the heat of the moment that she later regretted.

  Eulalie saved the document she was working on and rushed out to rescue her friend from the consequences of her own impulsiveness. She brought along her powers of persuasion and her reasonable voice, but privately thought a fire extinguisher might be more useful.

  She ran out onto Bonaparte Avenue and jogged up the hill towards Lafayette Drive. A couple of blocks down Lafayette took her to the center of the problem.

  Fleur and Marcel Faberge were standing in the middle of the road screaming at each other in a wild mixture of French and English. They were holding up traffic, but no one seemed to care because this was the best show in town. Buses, cars, and pedestrians were all stopped in the middle of the road watching the altercation.

  “You are unethical,” Fleur screamed. “A fraud! You have no morals. You come in here thinking you can pass off your second-rate products as organic? Who do you think you’re fooling?”

  “The people love me!” Faberge yelled back. “They trust me.”

  “Trust you? I would trust a snake in the grass sooner than I’d trust you. I wouldn’t feed your products to my dog.”

  There was a collective indrawn breath from the crowd. Everyone knew that Marcel Faberge hated dogs.

  “The next time I see that mechant chien of yours, I’ll kill it. I’ll poison it, and see how you like that.”

  A dangerous flush suffused Fleur’s pale cheeks.

  “You touch my dog – you lay one finger on my dog – and you’ll be the one who’s dead. I will shoot you myself. I will stab you through the heart, again and again and again.”

  Faberge did an exaggerated double-take, and looked around at the watching crowd for support.

  “Did you hear that? Did you hear what this madwoman said? I should get police protection. I should get armed security guards to protect me from her and her mechant chien.”

  Fleur took a purposeful step towards him.

  “You call him that one more time …”

  “Mechant chien,” he taunted. “Mechant chien.” Fleur flung herself at him, murder in her eyes.

  Eulalie leapt forward and put a hand on her friend’s chest. Fleur didn’t even seem to see her. Her fist shot out and grazed Eulalie’s cheek as she moved her head out of the way just in time.

  “Okay, that does it.”

  Eulalie scooped Fleur up into a fireman’s lift over her shoulder. Fleur was tall and bony, but Eulalie was much stronger than she looked. Ignoring the kicking and squealing, she carried her friend into the candy shop and slammed the door behind them both.

  As soon as they realized the show was over, the crowd reluctantly dispersed.

  Night fell hard and fast in Queen’s Town, even in the height of summer. By seven, the last of the light was gone. Angel’s Place was humming by the time Eulalie got there. She walked in to the beat of salsa music and the spicy hint of creole cooking. There were linen-draped tables in the restaurant area and various booths in the bar, but Eulalie chose her favorite corner at one end of the long, glossy bar counter.

  A young waitress came up to take her order.

  “Hi, Eulalie. Nice night. What can I get for you?”

  “Hey, Gigi. It’s a lovely night. Can you bring me the all-day breakfast and a double cane brandy on the rocks?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Eulalie smiled. That’s what she liked to hear. Instant, unquestioning agreement, rather than a lecture on her culinary choices. She leaned back against the bar and surveyed the room. It was mostly regulars this early in the evening, and she raised a hand to greet those she knew. The tourists would come in later, lured by the music and the lights and the unmistakable air of authenticity.

  Her eyes fell on the narrow doorway with its beaded curtain that separated the bar lounge from Angel’s back room. A silhouette of a woman wearing a turban and peering into a crystal ball was picked out in neon tubing that flashed red, green and white in succession. Underneath it was a sign that read, “Let Madame Angelique glimpse your future, heal your troubles.”

  Eulalie’s lips tightened. Angel had replaced the neon tubing so that it flashed as brightly as ever. It had been mercifully dark for the last few days, and Eulalie would have liked it to stay that way forever.

  Gigi came back bearing a tray, so Eulalie forced herself to stop glaring at the sign. She looked at what was being put in front of her.

  “What is this supposed to be?”

  Gigi refused to meet her eye. “Grilled chicken breast with Cajun spices, a mixed vegetable stir-fry, and some new potatoes with parsley.”

  “My grandmother’s in the kitchen, isn’t she?”

  The bead curtain swished open and Angel swept into the bar. She surged forward to kiss Eulalie on both cheeks, greeting her in French.

  “Yes, indeed I am here, mon ange.”

  Eulalie embraced her grandmother, but she was still grumpy.

  “I really felt like that all-day breakfast and cane brandy.”

  “Ma fille, that is not a good meal for you. It is only fit for my drunk patrons who are trying to sop up the alcohol in their stomachs in order to avoid a hangover the next morning. You eat what Grandmère has given you like a good girl. And if you finish all of your légumes, you can have the brandy afterwards.”

  Eulalie rolled her eyes. She picked up her knife and fork and began to eat. The food was good, of course, but bacon and eggs would have been better. When she had finished, Angel poured them both some brandy and sat down to ask her about the public fight between Fleur du Toit and Marcel Faberge.

  Angel de la Cour needed to be on top of local gossip all the time. Eulalie might have been able to provide her with an eyewitness account of the fight itself, but Angel knew the cause.

  “I asked Fleur,” said Eulalie. “But she was too mad at me for stopping her from scratching his eyes out to tell me anything.”

  “La pauvre.” Angel shook her head. “You have to feel sorry for her. You know she’s been planning a day-long organic festival with activities for the whole family and fire sales on all her products throughout the day?”

  “Of course. I helped her design the flyers.”

  “Well, Faberge has announced his own organic festival for the same day. But his goods will be less than half the price of hers. He has ruined her big publicity campaign.”

  Eulalie gaped at her. “But how did he know? Nothing has been announced yet. The whole idea was a secret. She was going to start advertising it next week.”

  “Who knows how that scoundrel gets to hear of anything?” Angel’s eyes tracked to the door where a single customer had just arrived. “Well, well. Look at that. If it isn’t the long arm of the law.” She shook her hair back and smiled up at the chief of police.

  “Good evening, Ms. De la Cour,” said Chief Donal Macgregor, standing to attention in front of them.

  “Ah, now. You call me Angel, chéri. Everyone does.”

  “That would be inappropriate, Ma’am. You are older than I am and a member of the community I am sworn to protect.”

  “Not that much older,” Angel said with her irresistible smile.

  “Twenty-six years older,” said Chief Macgregor. “I turned thirty last week.”

  Angel seemed inclined to sulk, so Eulalie drew her attention to a table that was waiting for service.
It seemed to her that Chief Macgregor had business with her, and she wanted to get it over with.

  She leaned her elbows back on the bar and looked up at him. “What can I do for you, Chief Macgregor?”

  “I have received a complaint from Nicolas Moreau of 15A Edward Drive that you entered his home under false pretenses and assaulted him and his wife in their living room. How do you respond to these allegations, Ms. Park?”

  Eulalie was unflustered. She had been expecting this.

  “Nicolas Moreau is a liar.”

  “Can you tell me the truth then?”

  “I went to their house to tell Sophie Moreau that her husband had hired me to follow her around and prove she was having an affair. I told her that I knew he was abusing her and that I had chosen to bring the evidence to her rather than to him because I didn’t want to give him extra reason to hurt her. I had brought some flyers about battered women’s shelters that I offered to share with her. It was at this point that she started flinging porcelain and glass ornaments at my head.”

  A muscle twitched in Chief Macgregor’s face. “Porcelain?”

  “Porcelain. I was dodging the flying ornaments when Nicolas Moreau walked in. Sophie told him I was attacking her, so he pulled out a gun and started shooting at me. I escaped by jumping out the window and climbing over the gate.”

  Chief Macgregor regarded her steadily.

  “The living room is on the second floor. Fifteen feet above ground level.”

  Eulalie swung her leg back and forth. “My left knee has been a little stiff today. It was a hard landing.”

  Chief Macgregor’s eyes flicked to her legs for a milli-second before returning to her face.

  “I presume you made a contemporaneous report of this matter?”

  “I did. If you give me your email address, it will be in your inbox first thing tomorrow morning.”

  He nodded and handed her a card. “Then I’ll say goodnight, Ms. Park. If I need any further information from you, I’ll let you know.”

  Eulalie smiled at him. “You have a good evening now, Chief.”

  “That man is so fine I could eat him up with a spoon,” Angel said, appearing at her side as they watched the tall figure retreating from the bar.

  “Be my guest,” said Eulalie. “I prefer my men less complicated.”

  “He was wondering how I can be only fifty-six when you are twenty-eight.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. Should we have explained?”

  “No,” said Angel. “Our family’s history of teenage pregnancies is nobody’s business. Let him wonder.”

  Chapter 3

  That night, Eulalie Park slept deeply and dreamlessly, just the way she liked it.

  At half-past-two in the morning, a stealthy hand grasped her window and pulled it open, inch by inch, until it was wide enough to allow a human body to pass through. A dark figure appeared against the glass, briefly blotting out the light from the street lamps. The figure pulled itself up, and, with a muscular, slithering motion, slid through the window and into Eulalie’s bedroom. The figure paused for a moment, watching her sleep. She didn’t move, and her breathing remained deep and regular. The figure crept up to the bed and stretched out a hand towards her.

  Eulalie struck like a snake.

  She sat up, seized the figure by the shirt front, and pressed the muzzle of her Smith & Wesson Shield 9mm to the side of his head.

  “Eulalie!” squeaked the figure. “C’est moi – Louis-Martin!”

  Eulalie let her breath out in a rush. She flung herself back against her pillows and pressed a hand to her heart.

  “Louis-Martin!” she said, lapsing into Guillaumoise – the dialect spoken in her forest village. It was the language of her childhood, and of Louis-Martin’s childhood too.

  “Idiot!” she berated him. “Imbecile! Fool! I could have shot you dead. I could have broken your stupid neck. What were you thinking?”

  Her nineteen-year old cousin grinned at her. His dark eyes, so similar to hers, gleamed in the dim light.

  “I wanted to see if I could sneak up on you while you slept. I never could when we were children, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. And you still can’t, if tonight is anything to go by. I heard you while you were still on the ground. Next time knock on the door when you want to come up for a visit.”

  “How was I to know you sleep with a gun under your pillow?”

  “I keep it in the drawer next to my bed.” She put it back there now. “I took it out when I heard you climbing up the drainpipe. To what do I owe the pleasure, Louis-Martin? And does Angel know you’re in town?”

  His eyes went wide. “Grandmère? No, she does not, and I’d like to keep it that way. She’d freak out if she knew about this.”

  “I won’t tell her,” said Eulalie. “But she’ll find out somehow – you know she will, so you might as well tell her yourself. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Papa sent me. A child has gone missing from the village. Nine years old. The son of Phillippe and Rosa. You know who I mean?”

  “Of course,” said Eulalie. “Little Bibi. I know him. Skinny kid with hair that sticks up at the back. He helped me find my earring the last time I was home. What do you mean he’s gone missing? That’s a kid who can find his way home in the dark.”

  “Exactly.” Louis-Martin punched a fist onto his thigh. “We know he didn’t wander off into the forest and get lost, but the police refuse to take it seriously. They think it is easy for a child of that age to go missing in the forest. They think he will come home soon. But we know something has happened to him.”

  “And you want me to investigate?”

  Louis-Martin nodded. “Phillippe and Rosa asked for you specifically. They know you’re good at finding people.”

  Eulalie could only imagine the terror that had Phillippe and Rosa in its grip right now. Bibi was the last child in the world to go missing by accident, which meant this was no accident.

  “Of course, I’ll help. If the village is where he disappeared, then the village is where I need to start my investigation.”

  “Will you return with me tonight?”

  “No, you go on ahead. There’s something I need to take care of in the morning. Tell Uncle Virgil I’ll be there by nightfall tomorrow.”

  “Papa will be relieved.” Louis-Martin squeezed her hand in gratitude. Then he left the way he had come in – through the window and down the drainpipe.

  It had been tempting to leap out of bed and head straight into the deep forest with Louis-Martin, but Eulalie knew she needed to see Fleur first. She wasn’t comfortable leaving town while her friend was in this volatile state.

  Eulalie hated to think of her doing something stupid while she was out of town. If her explosive temper was still boiling, Eulalie would ask Angel to keep an eye on her while she was gone.

  She had a bad feeling about Fleur. Angel would have called it a premonition, but Eulalie shied away from such terms. Still, it was strong enough for her to know she shouldn’t leave town without seeing her friend first.

  She stocked her backpack with provisions for two days in the forest. She pulled on a pair of tight, stretchy leggings, her Carhatt boots and a tight, long-sleeve top that was made of the same technical material as the leggings. When she got to the edge of the forest, she would bundle her hair into a skullcap. Nobody moved through the forest faster than Eulalie Park, and her choice of clothes was part of that.

  She arrived at Sweet as Flowers long before it opened. She knew Fleur would be inside, fortifying herself for the day with coffee. She tapped at the door until her friend came to open it.

  Eulalie could see at once that something had happened overnight. Fleur looked relaxed and happy. She was almost unrecognizable as the furious woman from the day before.

  “What’s up?” she asked. “You look like you swallowed a bucket of Namaste.”

  Fleur gave her a peaceful smile.

  “I feel so much better this morning
. Chalk it up to a good night’s sleep and a little voice in my head reminding me that Marcel Faberge doesn’t have the power to destroy what I’ve created here. I am stronger than that, and I won’t let him win.”

  Eulalie didn’t even try to hide her relief.

  “Well, thank goodness for that. I’m heading to the village today and I didn’t want to have to worry about you while I was gone.”

  “Go with a clear conscience, young Padawan. I’m fine. Just remember that you promised to take me into the forest with you one of these days.”

  “The day the forest gets WIFI and somewhere to plug in your hairdryer is the day I’ll take you there.” Eulalie peered through the window to where Lafayette Drive was slowly waking up. “Where is Marcel Faberge today anyway?”

  “I have no idea. He’s usually in by now. Maybe he’s too scared to face me, even from across the street.”

  “Maybe.” Eulalie tapped one of the glass jars Fleur had set up on the counter next to the till. “How about a piece of fudge for the road?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Eulalie took a piece and waved goodbye to her friend. She was almost at the door when Chief of Police Donal Macgregor appeared on the other side of it.

  “What now?” she muttered as she pulled the door open. “I don’t have time to chat, Chief. I’m in a hurry.”

  “I know you are. You’re going into the deep forest to look into the case of the missing child. I want you to take me with you.”

  Eulalie nearly laughed. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m not satisfied with the report my officers put on my desk this morning. I’m not convinced the child just wandered off. I want to look into it properly and the only way I can do that is by going to the village myself. There’s no way I’ll find it on my own, so I need you to guide me.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Chief. I am not a tourist guide, and I’m not about to start being one now.”

  “But I could help.”

  “No, you couldn’t. You’d be a fish out of water.”

  “You could help me.”