A Rather Charming Invitation (25 page)

Hilary and Erik and Tim now behaved like relieved students who’ve just been released to summer vacation. They went off into the corner chattering, excited by each other’s suggestions, and they began swapping anecdotes and opinions about various period furniture.

“May I suggest we arrange the chairs in a semicircle, so everyone can view the exchange of vows and that enchanting tapestry?” Hilary asked. “We can still have one big central aisle through it, for the wedding procession. Also, I see we’ll need more chairs, so I’m thinking Louis XIV, I mean, everyone
thinks
Versailles when you say Sun King, but the fact is that his chairs are plainer and saner and downright
austere
compared to those curlicues and whirligigs that came after him!”

“I totally agree,” Erik replied diplomatically, giving me a big wink the minute that Hilary’s back was turned. Hilary sighed rapturously. And I watched, totally amazed, as Honorine joyfully guided everyone into the dining room for lunch.

I was getting that tremulous feeling again, especially when Jeremy popped open a bottle of chablis and everyone clinked glasses. It really felt like the wedding was definitely going to happen, right here. And I must say that, once Margery realized the inevitability of this, she plunged right in. Giles was given the assignment of telling me so.

“Penny, my mum has an idea,” he said. “She wants to receive and sort out whatever gifts your guests send to decorate the train cars, and she and Amelia could work directly with your charity person. I hope you agree. Amelia is a very good organizer,” he added nervously, citing Margery’s credentials as an expert on railroads, because her husband had been “a railroad man”.

I grinned. “That’s an excellent idea!” I said, for it would surely keep Margery extremely and usefully busy. “It will be such a relief to know that Margery and Amelia are taking charge there. Please tell Amelia I’m ever so grateful to have her handling this!” I said. And the funny thing was, I meant it.

I went into the kitchen and found Aunt Sheila, who told me that Guy had tactfully vanished, going off to Nice, where the two of them were visiting for a few days. Aunt Sheila said, “Darling, Jeremy tells me that Mum and Hilary and Giles are staying here at the villa overnight. Here’s my hotel number, so call us if you need anything whatsoever. Otherwise we’ll just stop by in the morning to touch base.”

“Fine,” I said, and I hugged her for volunteering to be “on call” to stomp out any fires if Margery should suddenly feel feisty and ready to cause trouble again.

So, that night, after our houseguests settled down to sleep, and it was so quiet that it seemed as if even the owls and cicadas outside had gone to bed contentedly, I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief. My wedding was really going to happen, after all. Right here in Great-Aunt Penelope’s villa. Everything finally felt right, at last.

T
he next morning, I rose early, showered and crept quietly downstairs, feeling like a little kid on Christmas day. The house was very quiet. Celeste had come early, and was in the dining room, preparing a breakfast buffet for our guests. She’d already made a fruit salad of melon, berries, and grapes. I nibbled on some, then took a cup of coffee from her, and I wandered out to the garden patio, settling onto a lounge chair with my organizer, to dreamily indulge in pleasurable musings about my wedding day.

Aunt Sheila had offered to coordinate the RSVPs with my mother, and she would interface with Honorine, who was now the efficient command center, managing all the other details of the wedding. Everything was beginning to come together with a speed and energy of its own, in that pleasurable way when people instinctively start to pull together and inspire one another.

I hummed to myself, going over my notes of the sample CDs that Aunt Sheila, through her old contacts at the record companies and the BBC, had scoured up from various available musicians. Jeremy and I had played them on the way down here, and found that they were all very good, but we’d especially liked a quiet classical trio, whose delicate balance of violin, cello and flute was both light and yet profoundly moving, with just the right appeal to mind and heart. Now, imagining where the trio would sit, I could almost hear their music for the ceremony, resonating in the beautiful drawing room.

As I went back inside, I contemplated the wedding procession. Some latent feminist instinct had prompted me to decide against being handed off from one man (my father) to another (my husband), so we’d agreed that, while our parents would all participate in the procession, I would walk down the aisle after them, alone.

Following the ceremony, there would be champagne cocktails and the wedding feast at tables in the garden if the weather was fine (and why shouldn’t it be?), and then Erik and Tim had agreed to take charge of Jeremy’s “playlist” of recorded music for people to dance to. Finally, Jeremy and I would depart for our honeymoon on
Penelope’s Dream
. Suddenly, for the very first time, I could picture the entire wedding, from start to finish. It was a thrilling moment.

I went into the drawing room quietly, with a light tread so as not to wake any late sleepers, and I traced the path of the bridal procession, walking straight up to where Jeremy and I would take our vows before the tapestry. But the wall between the big windows was empty. Someone had taken down the tapestry overnight.

I frowned. David had carefully surveyed this location, and advised Leonora that it would be perfectly okay to leave the tapestry hanging here, with the drapes drawn to darken the room, until the wedding day, rather than carry the tapestry back to the château where it would have to be re- hung, only to return it here again in just a few weeks. Leonora, still looking slightly dubious, agreed to leave it behind, but she’d stipulated that she wanted to come back here this morning to check on it once more, just to make sure that not a single shaft of summer sun would fall across it and fade it.

I guessed that she must have shown up early today, been somehow displeased, and decided against letting even a speck of salty air land on it. I could picture her, fussily insisting on taking the tapestry home after all. Perhaps Leonora instinctively hadn’t trusted Erik, Tim and Celeste not to touch it. This could be the first little ripple of trouble, but I resolved not to get sucked back into the flurry of clashing egos over wedding minutiae.

“Delegate, delegate,” I muttered to myself, repeating Erik’s advice like a mantra, determined to let Honorine handle the details.

My thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of French voices at the front door, as Celeste greeted Honorine’s family and ushered them into the dining room for breakfast. I heard Honorine asking for me, and then, a few moments later, she came into the drawing room, smiling broadly.

“David and my mother are here; thank you so much for the lovely breakfast.” She paused. “Did you take down the tapestry already?
Maman
will not be pleased, you know. There is a special way to roll it and store it . . .” Her face puckered in worry at the thought of a needless kerfuffle with her mother.

“But I didn’t,” I said. “I assumed that David came here early and took it back. You’ve just arrived now?” She nodded. “Maybe Erik or Celeste took it down, so we could clean up without disturbing it?” I suggested. But I knew perfectly well that they’d never do that without consulting me.

“No, no, I told them that you and I were going to look at it today, to compare and coordinate the swatches for the table setting with the colors on the tapestry,” Honorine said, confused.

Jeremy entered the room now. “Margery, Giles and Hilary are still upstairs, they’re just waking up now,” he told us. Then he saw the looks on our faces. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Jeremy, did anybody tell you they were going to take down the tapestry last night?” I asked idiotically but hopefully. It took him a second to register what I was really asking. His gaze travelled to the empty wall between the windows.

“Of course not,” he said.

I went to the table and picked up my mobile phone, which was lying there recharging. I think I woke Erik. He and Tim had gone to visit some friends in Saint-Tropez. I asked if he could shed any light on this, but he said, “No, darling, it was still hanging there when I left, and nobody said anything to me about taking it down for safekeeping.”

Another car had pulled into the drive. It was Aunt Sheila and Guy, as promised, here to see if we needed anything. Guy, apparently not a man to ever hold back his thoughts, said as he entered the drawing room, “Gracious, you all look stunned. Say, where’s the tapestry gone to?”

I had been feeling slightly anaesthetized by my fear, but now, hearing the word “gone” aloud simply forced my mind to abandon the woolly feeling that was cushioning me from the truth. My heart began to beat rapidly with mounting panic. Still, I found myself pulling open closet doors and peering inside, in the desperate hope that someone had seen fit to put the tapestry away somewhere.

I could hear David and Leonora greeting Uncle Giles in the dining room. A few moments later, I heard French voices coming our way. David entered the room first, followed by a brisk and efficient Tante Leonora. Mercifully, Oncle Philippe had remained behind at the château.

The pleasant smiles on their faces pierced my heart, especially when they faded slightly at the sight of the empty wall. “Oh!” said Leonora. “I thought we made it clear that you should call on us to take down the tapestry properly, if that is what you have decided to do . . .”

For a moment, nobody had the heart to speak.

“Where is it?” David asked in a resigned tone, knowing that his mother would make him inspect it carefully before they carried it home. Another silence.

“It’s gone!” Honorine cried, unable to hold back. Leonora’s slightly reproving look changed to puzzlement, then deep concern, as if we were speaking a language whose nuances escaped her.

“You don’t mean to say . . . someone
took
it?” David said, with a quick intake of breath.

“Aaaaaugh!”
Leonora let out a scream that echoed in the room, igniting my frayed nerves.

Jeremy and David had a brief pow-wow, and then the house was searched from top to bottom. I couldn’t even hear what they said, because I felt as if my blood was draining out of my head and I was actually on the verge of konking out. I sat down quickly to steady myself, while, all around me, rapid footsteps and excited voices went to and fro.

Then, the house became ghastly quiet. At last, Jeremy came back into the drawing room, from which I had not budged. He spoke to me gently, as if dealing with a mental patient who might go off the deep end at the slightest nudge.

“Penny,” he said quietly, “I think we’d better call the police.”

A
nightmare. That’s what it was. A nightmare. First, we called Thierry, who, technically, was a marine gendarme with the harbor police in Nice, so his jurisdiction was boats and sea troubles. But we knew and trusted him, because of what happened last year with the yacht. He, in turn, called a cop friend of his at the proper police department, and the cop came over quickly, accompanied by an Inspector who would be in charge of the investigation.

They arrived dramatically in a car with flashing lights, but parked on the road below us, so that they could come up the driveway slowly, on foot, searching for clues along the way. It was hard to learn anything from the tire tracks, though, since we’d had so many visitors with cars criss-crossing over one another’s path in the gravel driveway.

The Inspector was a short, elegant yet tough-looking man, with a bald head and very pale blue eyes set off by his suntanned face. He had a penetrating, no- nonsense stare that was a bit unnerving, as if experience had taught him to trust absolutely nobody. He was a proud dresser, right down to his gold watch and a gold chain around his neck. He gave short, sharp orders in rapid French that I couldn’t make out; but the young cop, who had big ears like a sugar bowl, sprang into action, checking windows and doors for signs of forced entry, looking for footprints inside and outside of the house.

Then they methodically began combing the first floor rooms for any other telltale traces of the thief. Whenever we asked a question, the Inspector was brief and brusque, and once he even held up his hand as if we were interrupting his thoughts and therefore jeopardizing the investigation.

“Later, we will talk,” he said.

I wasn’t in any particular mood to chat. My normal Girl Detective instincts had completely deserted me. Instead, whenever I passed by the drawing room, I kept staring at the wall where the tapestry had hung only a few hours ago, and I seemed to be trying, by sheer force of will, to make it materialize again.

I even found myself once more peering into closets and cupboards, harboring the wild, ridiculous hope that some well-meaning member of the group had put it there and forgotten about it. I had turned into an automaton, and I didn’t care if anything I did made sense or not. So it fell on Jeremy and Honorine to manage the police and our guests. At one point, though, Jeremy must have seen me walking about with my vacant gaze, and he took me aside.

“The police think they’ve figured out where someone may have entered the villa last night,” he reported. “One of the French doors in the dining room. The lock isn’t broken, exactly, but it looks as though it was tricked open. Possibly the thieves had cased it out earlier, and set it up for re-entry later at night. They could have put something in the door—a stick or even a piece of cardboard—to prevent it from locking properly, yet making the door appear locked. They might have been watching the house ahead of the theft for such an opportunity, say, if one of the doors was left open when Celeste was airing out the room. It’s a fairly sophisticated way to break in, probably done by a professional.”