The Christmas Mystery Page 7

  I tune out of Julien’s lecture early on. His words come as a sort of sweet background music in my odd world of jet-lagged half sleep.

  Then I hear a woman’s voice.

  “Luc,” she says. “Luc,” she repeats. It sounds very much like Burke’s voice, but…well, she never uses my Christian name—“Luc.” I am always “Moncrief” to her. She is always “K. Burke” to me.

  “Luc,” again. Yes, it is Burke speaking. I open my eyes. I turn my head toward her. I understand. With Julien and the driver here she will be using my first name. I smile and say, “Yes. What is it…Katherine?”

  “Monsieur Carpentier asked you a question.”

  “I’m sorry. I must have dozed off,” I say.

  “Understandable. The jet lag. The long flight. The sadness,” says Julien. “I merely wanted to know if you cared to stop and refresh yourselves at your father’s house before we go to the pompes funèbres to view your father’s body.”

  I have already told Burke that we would be staying at my father’s huge house on rue de Montaigne, rather than my own apartment in the Marais. Burke knows the reason: I cannot go back to my own place, the apartment where I spent so many joyful days and nights with Dalia.

  “Yes, I do want to go to the house,” I say. “A bath, a change of clothes, an icy bottle of Perrier. Is that all right with you, Katherine?”

  K. Burke realizes that I am having entirely too much fun saying her name.

  “That’s just perfect for me, Luc.”

  “So, Julien,” I say. “That’s the plan. Perhaps we can allot a few hours for that, but then…well, I think we can hold off on the viewing of the body.…”

  I pause and suppress the urge to add, “My father will not be going anywhere.”

  “I see,” says Julien. “I just thought that you would…”

  I speak now matter-of-factly, not arrogantly, not unpleasantly.

  “Would this perhaps be a better expenditure of time instead to meet with Valex attorneys, get a bit of a head start on the legal work?” I ask.

  “You’re in charge, Luc,” says Julien, but his voice does not ring with sincerity.

  “Thank you,” I say. “What I’d like you to do is assemble my father’s legal staff. Invite Babette, of course. We can meet in my father’s private library on the third floor. I am sure there are many matters they have to discuss with me. Ask anyone else who should be there to please be there. Only necessary people—division presidents, department heads. This may also be a convenient time to reveal the main points of the will.”

  Julien is furiously tapping these instructions into his iPad. I have one final thought.

  “The important personages who are not here for the funeral—North America, A-Pac, Africa—Skype them in.”

  I am finished talking, but then K. Burke speaks up.

  “What about other family members, Luc?” she asks.

  There is a pause. Then Julien speaks.

  “Luc is the only living family member.”

  “As I may have mentioned, Katherine, my father had two daughters and a son out of wedlock. I never met them. The girls are younger than I. The boy is a bit older. But arrangements have been made. Correct, Julien?”

  “Correct. The lawyers settled trust funds upon them years ago,” he says. He nods, but there is no complicit smile attached to the statement. “They have been dealt with quite a while ago.”

  Meanwhile Julien continues to tap away at his iPad. The car is now closing in on Central Paris. Julien looks up and speaks again.

  “I have texted the IT staff. They are on their way to the house now. They will set up Skype and two video cameras, a backup generator…the whole thing.”

  “What about sleeping arrangements?” I ask. I look to see if there is a change of expression on Julien’s face. Nothing.

  “All the bedrooms are made up. You may, of course, do what you wish,” says Julien.

  “What I wish is for Mademoiselle Burke to have my old bedroom. It is quite large. It has a pleasant sitting room, and it looks out over the Avenue.”

  I look at Burke and add, “You will like it.”

  “I’m sure,” she says.

  “As for me, I will sleep in the salon d’été.” The summer room. It is spacious and well-ventilated and close to my father’s library. It was where I always slept during the summer months when I was a child. It is no longer summer. And I am no longer a child. But I can forget both those facts.

  “Very well, Luc. As you wish. I will have a Call button installed, so you can summon a maid if you need one,” Julien says as he flicks his iPad back on.

  “Thank you,” I say. “But that won’t be necessary. I doubt if I’ll have any need to summon a maid.”

  Julien smiles and speaks.

  “As you wish, my friend.”

  Chapter 31

  Babette enters the library. She is dressed entirely in black, the whole mourning costume—stockings, gloves, even une petit chapeau avec un voile. Drama and fashion are her two passions, so my father’s funeral is a glorious opportunity to indulge those interests.

  “Luc. Mon petit Luc,” she says loudly. She embraces me. She flips the short black veil from her forehead. Then she kisses me on both my cheeks. She is not an exaggerated comic character. She is, however, one of those French women trained to behave a certain way—formal, slightly over-the-top, unashamed.

  She keeps talking.

  “Mon triste petit bébé.”

  “I will agree to be your bébé, Babette, but not your ‘sad little baby.’”

  She ignores what I say and moves on to a subject that will interest her.

  “And this, of course, must be the very important police partner, Mademoiselle Katherine Burke of New York City.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle Babette,” says K. Burke.

  Detective Burke extends her hand to shake, but Babette has a different idea. She goes in for the double-cheek kiss.

  The attorneys are arranging stacks of papers on the long marble table in the center of the room. Two of the housemaids, along with my father’s butler, Carl, are arranging chairs facing that table. Three rows of authentic Louis XV chairs. We will be like an audience at a chamber music recital.

  The attorneys introduce themselves to me. They extend their sympathies on “the loss of this magnificent man, your father.” “He was one of the greats, the last of his kind.”

  One of the attorneys, Patrice LaFleur, the oldest person in the room, the only attorney I actually know, asks me if I would like to join him and his colleagues at the library table. I decline.

  The doors to the book-lined room remain open. Well-dressed men and women enter and take seats.

  “They are employees of Valex, important employees,” Julien says.

  Some of them smile at me. Some give a tiny bow.

  “I’m a New York City cop, Julien. I’m not accustomed to such respect.”

  Julien Carpentier takes me by the shoulders. He looks directly into my eyes. He moves his head uncomfortably closer to mine. He speaks.

  “This is a gigantic company. Sixteen offices. Twelve factories. Valex manufactures everything from antacids to cancer drugs. Thousands of people are dependent on Valex for their employment, hundreds of thousands are dependent on Valex for their health. You are their boss’s son. Allow them to respect you.”

  I am a little nervous. I am a little confused.

  “But this is not my company,” I say. “It’s my father’s enterprise.”

  “But it is your responsibility,” Julien says. I want very much to trust his sincerity, to trust Babette. But I have spent so much time in my life listening to the lies of heroin dealers and murderers that I cannot wholly embrace the sincerity of my father’s two most trusted employees.

  I nod at Julien. He smiles. Then I sit. Front row center. The best seat in the house.

  Julien is to my left. K. Burke is to my right.

  “What are you thinking, Moncrief?” whispers Bu
rke.

  “You know me too well, K. Burke. You can perceive that my instincts are telling me something.”

  The room is settling down. All is quiet. Burke leans in toward me. She whispers.

  “Can you ask the lawyers to hold off for a few minutes, so you and I can talk?”

  “No. What you and I have to say can wait.”

  Chapter 32

  The lead trusts, wills, and estates attorney is Claude Dupain, a short-nosed, large-eared methodical little man who has devoted his entire life to my father’s personal legal matters.

  “Good afternoon to the family, friends, and business colleagues of my late great friend, Luc Paul Moncrief. Monsieur Moncrief’s funeral memorial, as you know, will take place tomorrow. Today, however, at the request of his family, we are deposing of Luc’s…forgive me…Monsieur Moncrief’s will…forgive me once again…I am, of course, referring to Luc Moncrief père, Moncrief the elder. He is the Moncrief I shall be speaking of here.

  “In the upcoming months, Monsieur Moncrief’s bureau of attorneys will begin the complex filing of all business documents, debt documents, mortgages, and other Valex-related items. As you all know, Monsieur Moncrief paid strict attention to detail. While his death was terribly unexpected, he recently had become…shall we say…somewhat preoccupied with preparations for death. He brought his will and estate planning up to date in the last few weeks. And that recent planning is reflected in what I announce at this gathering.

  “I must add that while it will take many months, even years, to honor all legal procedures in company matters, Monsieur Moncrief’s wishes in other matters, personal matters and bequests, are quite simple and very clear.”

  I realize easily what Dupain’s legal babble means: Valex is a monstrosity of a company, so it will take a great deal of time to sort out its future. However, my father’s personal directions about his estate will be, like my father himself, easy to understand.

  Dupain opens a leather portfolio and removes a few pieces of paper. I bow my head. I look down at the floor. The attorney speaks. And, as promised, the information is simple.

  Babette will receive a yearly income of 150,000 euros with annual appropriate cost-of-living increases. She will also receive rent-free housing in her current house at Avenue George V. After her death, her heirs will receive the same annual amount for one hundred years.

  Julien Carpentier is to continue at his annual salary of 850,000 euros annually. And, subject to the approval of the board of directors, Julien will be named Chairman and CEO of Valex and its subsidiaries.

  The American phrase comes to mind again: I could not care less.

  There now follows a long list—at least forty names—of disbursements to office personnel and household staff members in Paris, as well as at my father’s London house, his château in Normandy, his house in Portofino, and—a stunning surprise to me—his apartment at 850 Fifth Avenue in New York.

  The amounts of the disbursements are generous, excessive by traditional standards. Housemaids will be able to stop scrubbing and dusting. Butlers will retire to Cannes. Gardeners will become country squires. Frankly, I am delighted for all of them.

  After the listing of the bequeathals to the staff members, Dupain dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief. An assistant presents him with a large glass of ice water. He drinks the water in one long gulp. Then he says, “There is but one item left. I shall read it directly from Monsieur Moncrief’s testament.”

  Dupain removes a single paper from yet another leather envelope. He reads:

  “To my son, Luc Paul Moncrief, I leave all my homes and household goods, all attachments to those homes and household goods, all real estate, all attachments to that real estate. I further leave to him all monies and investments that I may own or control.

  “With the following stipulation: After assigning this distribution to my son Luc Paul Moncrief, any monies remaining in excess of three billion euros will be divided equally among the Luc and Georgette Moncrief Foundation, the Louvre Museum, the Red Cross of France, and the Museum of Jewish Heritage in the United States.”

  There is a long pause, a very long pause. It is the kind of pause that comes when you hear that someone has just inherited three billion euros.

  My head remains bowed. I continue to stare at the floor. The silence is punctuated by an occasional sob, a smattering of whispering. Finally, Dupain the attorney speaks again.

  “I believe that it is now appropriate for the remainder of this meeting to be conducted, not by me, but by Luc Moncrief the younger.”

  I hold up my head. But I do not rise from my seat.

  “Monsieur Dupain. I think that there is nothing more for me to add to the proceedings. However, I would like to ask a question of you,” I say. “And I ask it here in the presence of all assembled, because it has troubled me since I was first informed of my father’s death.”

  “But of course, monsieur.”

  “Are there police reports or medical reports or coroner reports or any kind of reports available concerning the death of my father?”

  Dupain appears startled by the question, but he does not hesitate to answer.

  “As you must know, Luc…er…Monsieur Moncrief, your father was a man in his late seventies. He had suffered from heart disease. He was discovered dead at his desk. Of course, there is an official death certificate signed by Doctor Martin Abel of the French Police Department.”

  “And that is all?” I ask.

  “That is all that seemed necessary.”

  It is then…finally…that I feel my eyes fill with tears.

  Chapter 33

  When I was younger, much younger—ten years old, fifteen years old—I visited magnificent homes of my school friends: huge châteaux in western France, thirty-room hunting lodges in Scotland, outlandishly large London town homes smack in the middle of Belgravia.

  Many of these houses had rooms dedicated solely to pastimes like billiards and swimming and cigar-smoking and wine-tasting. Many had entire floors that housed ten to twenty servants. Some of the houses had stables with rooms put aside for tanning saddles and polishing stirrups.

  But I had never seen in any other home the sort of room that we had in our house on rue du Montaigne.

  Our house had a “silver room.”

  This room was about the size of a normal family dining room. It had perhaps fifty open shelves. These shelves were loaded with sterling silver serving pieces—everything from fingerbowls to soup tureens, asparagus servers to butter pats, charger plates the size of platters, water goblets as ornate as altar chalices. Open bins were neatly filled with stacks of dinnerware assorted into categories like “Cristofle” and “Buccellati” and “Tiffany.” Subcategories were sets of silver dinnerware wrapped with red velvet ribbon, each bin marked with a note signifying when the pieces had been used:

  1788, one year before the Revolution

  1872, one year after the ending of the Franco-Prussian War

  1943, a dinner for General Eisenhower and his secretary, Kay Summersby

  Babette, Birthday

  Luc, Partie de Baptême

  In the middle of the room is a simple pine table. It can easily seat eight butlers to polish and buff silver. It can also seat eight people for a party.

  This early evening it seats only K. Burke and myself.

  We sit facing each other. We sip a St. Emilion. The wine’s château and vineyard names mean little to me and nothing to K. Burke.

  Our moods are…well, I can only speak for me. I am slightly touched now with sadness, and yet I am happy that the process of the will has ended. Tomorrow is the funeral to get through, but then—after perhaps a day or two of shopping and museum-hopping—we will return to our favorite pastime—NYPD detective work.

  We ignore the fruit and cheeses and charcuterie that the kitchen has assembled for us. We drink our wine.

  Finally, Burke speaks.

  “I see the newspaper headline now,” Burke says. “Luc Moncrief, the Gl
oomiest Billionaire on Earth. Sob. Sob. Sob.”

  “K. Burke, surely you, of all people, are smart enough to know that a great big pot full of money does not make a person happy. Too many people in my position have jumped from skyscrapers, overdosed on drugs, murdered their lovers, died alone…money is a fine thing, especially if you do not have it, but it guarantees nothing other than money.”

  “Skip the lecture, Moncrief. Of course, I know all that. And I also know that your heart was broken into pieces when Dalia died. There’s no amount in the world—no money, no work of art, no beautiful woman—who can repair that.”

  A pause, and then I say, “It is because of that wisdom that you and I are such fine friends.”

  “So, what’s the problem, Moncrief? Is it just that your father has been good to you in death and that you wish that he had…”

  “No. No. It is not the usual, not the obvious.”

  I decide to be blunt. I speak.

  “I believe that my father was murdered.”

  Burke does not flinch. She barely reacts. Her eyes do not pop open. Her jaw does not drop. If anything she is a woman acting as if she’s heard a very interesting piece of casual gossip.

  “Hence, your one and only question to the attorney. The question about the doctor’s report,” she says.

  “Of course. I knew you would deduce that.”

  “What makes you believe that…other than your impeccable instinct?” she asks.

  “Sarcasm does not flatter you, K. Burke.” I pause. Then I say, “Yes, it is my instinct, of course. But there are two small issues. One, my father was a man of great importance and great wealth. You know that the newspapers and political blogs referred to him as le vrai président, the real president. Surely the police and detectives would require an autopsy or some sort of medical investigation to assure that there was no foul play. That would be done for a cabinet minister or an ambassador’s wife. But it was not done for one of the most important men in France? Ridicule!”