A Shortcut to Paradise (18 page)

“Mr Masdèu?” he piped. “You don't know who I am but we must talk. I'm the person who mugged Amadeu Cabestany the night Marina Dolç was murdered.”

17

On Friday the St John's Eve party on our roof terrace ended in a great splash, with the Rottweiler screaming and throwing eggs at our guests, furious because the
mossos
and Guàrdia Urbana were totally ignoring her calls and because the decibel-measuring gadget lay smashed in the middle of the street. The twins had the best time of it because after seeing off that gadget they went downstairs, cleared our fridge of eggs and tomatoes and repaid the Rottweiler in the same coin while the adults turned a blind eye. When the battle of the eggs began, Borja and Lola scarpered with the bottle of Cardhu, and the next morning, it was Montse and I who had to go up and clean the terrace. I spent the rest of Saturday playing with Arnau, and on Sunday we had lunch out. That evening, feeling totally lethargic, I accompanied Borja on a visit to Mariona Castany.

Although my brother's friend had only recently surfaced on the landscape of Catalan literature with memoirs that were already sold to a publisher, Borja was convinced Mariona could supply us with useful information about the deceased Marina Dolç, about whom we knew practically nothing apart from the fact she was a wealthy woman and a very successful
author the critics agreed to hate. If we started from the hypothesis that Amadeu Cabestany wasn't her killer and the motive hadn't been theft, we could only refocus our investigation by ignoring forensic leads and concentrating on what kind of person the writer was, on her enemies, if she had any, and on finding out who would profit from her death. Her legacy was incredibly juicy, what with her properties, shares, cash and royalties, and the first thing we needed to know was who would stand to gain from her will. We hoped to obtain that information from Lluís Arquer, whom we'd arranged to see the following Tuesday on the Plaça Reial for an aperitif. In the meantime, Mariona had assured us she would try to find out any gossip we might find useful by consulting some of her writer friends. She had summoned us to her place for a drink at seven and seemed delighted to see us. She clearly liked to act as an aide to a classy detective like Borja.

Mariona was a slim, distinguished lady. Her white, wavy hair was gathered up in a bun. She was tanned and wore light make-up. If it weren't for her hands, which always betray whatever plastic surgery and botox struggle to conceal, nobody would have said she was over sixty. That afternoon she was wearing a sort of diaphanous red tunic and gold-coloured high-heeled sandals. I caught Borja's eye and discreetly touched my nose. Borja looked back at me. Message received.

As he is colour-blind – in fact, deeply colour-blind – this is the secret code we agreed as kids, from the age of seven, the moment Borja discovered he was unable to distinguish green from red: if the colour we are looking at is red, I discreetly scratch my nose, and if it's green, I put my hands in my pockets. Naturally it would be much simpler if my brother didn't insist on hiding this anomaly from all and sundry, but that's how he liked to play it. He didn't want anyone to find out he was colour-blind, particularly not Merche or Lola. It's beyond me, but he reckons it's a vulgar imperfection that doesn't marry with his desire to play the elegant and sophisticated man of the world.

Mariona sat us down on a sofa, where, according to her, Alfonso XII had also once sat, and immediately started on the matter in hand.

“My dear boys, that woman's past is a complete mystery,” she informed us while pouring out three generous Cardhus. “I mean, no one knows where she comes from, though I have no doubt she's not from Sant Feliu,” she announced proudly.

“What do you mean? Marina Dolç wasn't born in Sant Feliu de Codines?” asked Borja, taken aback after tasting that delicious liquid. “Sant Feliu is small enough for people to remember her and her family. Besides, I thought she lived there, and in a splendid mansion, at that.”

“Yes, she did. And it's also true she told people she was born there. But that's not what the register says,” she smiled slyly. “Take a look at this.”

Mariona showed us a hazy photocopy of a birth certificate corresponding to one Maria Campana Llopis, born in Barcelona, in the Maternitat, 22 March 1954. Borja and I were all ears.

“For starters,” Mariona went on, enjoying her dramatic coup, “she was fifty-two and not forty-nine. But that's nothing to worry about; we women like to play these little tricks,” she remarked coquettishly. “However, as you could see, she wasn't born in Sant Feliu, but here in Barcelona.”

“Perhaps she just happened to be born here, but her family was from Sant Feliu,” I interjected. “You sure Sant Feliu has a hospital?”

“The real issue,” Mariona interrupted, “is that nobody recalls her family in Sant Feliu. Marina certainly showered money on the town and the neighbours refuse to talk about her, so my sources tell me,” she said enigmatically. “Last year, while Marina was in Italy, a student of something or other writing a thesis on her work visited the place and talked to the locals, hoping to find some skeletons, I expect. But she unearthed nothing.” She shook her head. “Where the family lived, how she did at school or her father's line of work. Zilch.”

“So where does her family live now? She must have a relative or two…”

“Ah, that's where you come in, my friends!
You
are the detectives. I have simply used my influence to secure a copy of her birth certificate and identify a couple of items of gossip. Not much, in sum.”

“Go on then.”

“She has an ex, but they were only married a couple of years, when she was very young. Apparently he teaches and they've barely had any contact since the divorce. Water under the bridge.”

“But she must have other boyfriends,” interjected Borja. “She was a good-looking woman and wealthy.”

“You mean we wealthy women are more likely to have boyfriends than poor ones?” responded Mariona, fluttering her eyelashes and signalling she was offended.

“You know what I mean, my dear…”

“Well, as far as this neck of the woods goes, she seemingly had none. Which means that either she really didn't, or it wasn't a man… or was a married man,” Mariona pontificated.

“In short, Marina Dolç wasn't born in Sant Feliu but lived in Sant Feliu and acted as if she had been born there. And, according to you, she may have had a girlfriend or a married man for a lover,” my brother replied.

“Yes, in a nutshell,” nodded Mariona.

Unlike those two, I'd never had the pleasure of meeting Marina, but I decided I'd stick in my oar as well: “I think you've both forgotten she had an Italian lover.”

“True enough,” agreed Borja. “Clàudia told me she had a palace in Tuscany and a lover there as well. An aristocrat.”

“That's as may be, but no one has ever seen this famous aristocrat… But I gather the palace in Tuscany does exist and is magnificent. Evidently Marina is an art and antiques lover, particularly Greek and Roman works. Her private collection is one of the best in Italy. They say she spent a fortune on it. But obviously she had the wherewithal…”

“Well, she's hardly the first person to invent her own life-story,” commented Borja, who knew all there was to know about such things. “It's very human. But I'm intrigued about the kind of life she led. She was very rich.”

“She lived by herself and was childless. She travelled a lot, particularly abroad, promoting her own books, but she wasn't on the circuit here. The critics reckoned she was superficial and too commercial. They gave her horrific reviews!…” Mariona looked shocked. “One was especially vicious towards her books. I don't know if you
have heard of him – Oriol Sureda. She has a very loyal readership now and that's why they envied her so.”

“Sureda was there on the day of the prize. Do you remember, Mariona? He walked down to the bar with us,” said Borja.

“Yes, that's true. I don't know what the hell he was doing at that party… he couldn't stand Marina!” our friend rasped indignantly. “I expect Sureda is a friend of Francesc, her publisher. Or perhaps Francesc was working on him to nip in the bud one of those reviews of his.”

And then she added, “If anyone knows anything for sure, it will be Maite, her secretary. She worked for her for years and Marina always took her on her travels. But she's very discreet… A discreet and efficient woman. I'm thinking of contracting her to help me with my memoirs now she's out of work. She's agreed to see you tomorrow morning in Sant Feliu, as you requested.”

“You're a jewel, Aunt Mariona,” responded Borja.

My brother would sometimes address her like that, “Aunt Mariona”, in honour of the friendship Mariona Castany and Borja's imaginary mother had enjoyed as young girls, a spin-off from my brother's fake aristocratic ancestry.

“So, Marina Dolç had a murky past,” I said, returning to our subject.

“In fact, Marina Dolç had no past, Eduard. She was a nobody. I mean she didn't belong to any of our great families, or descend from writerly, artistic or patriotic stock. One would know if she did. None of her forebears has an entry in the
Catalan Who's Who?
let alone has a street named after them in Barcelona. She was an outsider,” she said, jutting her chin out.

“But she
was
awarded the St George's Cross,” I replied.

“And that must have cost her! It's the advantage of having a pile of money: you can buy everything, even respect.”

“That didn't stop her bad reviews…” I insisted.

“That's true, Sureda never got off his high horse. But he was the only one. As a matter of fact, Marina's last two books were received much more positively by the critics thanks to the feminists, who read her as a kindred spirit.”

“Mariona, you've turned into a real detective!” exclaimed Borja gallantly. “If we don't watch out, you'll be taking business away from us.”

“I'm doing this for Clàudia, the poor dear. How could she bloody embroil herself with that twit Amadeu (if you'll excuse my French)…” she retorted, looking sorrowful.

“Sex and money, Mariona. It's what makes the world go round!” sighed Borja.

“Come on, there is such a thing as love…” I countered timidly.

Borja and Mariona smiled at each other and gave me condescending glances.

“Well, call it what you will,” she conceded with a sigh. “I suppose Clàudia gets it from her family.”

“Her mother, in her time, also fell for an adventurer, a private eye who moved in the underworld. She was married to a very wealthy industrialist and it caused a real stink, but they covered it up. Those were the days…” she said with a hint of nostalgia. “However, they do say that Clàudia takes after her father.”

“They have the same eyes,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but a different bank balance!” Mariona sighed. “Clàudia was an only girl and, despite all the fuss, she inherited the Agulló fortune. So you can see how she developed her love for literature! Though she takes her work seriously. Perhaps too much so. She's a fine woman.”

“Listen, Mariona. What's happened to Marina Dolç's agent? Where is she? She must have one, I suppose?”

“Well, no, her publishing house acts as her agent, so I gather.”

After pouring us another whisky, Mariona and my brother gossiped for a while about the high-society world in which they moved: the Liceo wasn't what it used to be, they'd caught someone cheating at bridge, the wife of a famous banker had had a heart attack at some dinner when she discovered she was wearing the same party dress as the bit on the side (to use Mariona's expression) of a left-wing politician. I did my best not to yawn and kept looking at my watch. Barça had kicked off a quarter of an hour ago and I was missing the match. Finally, Borja got up from the royal sofa and decided it was time to leave.

“Mariona, we'll leave you in peace. Thanks for the whisky… and titbits of information. By the way, you look just divine in red. Devilish but divine.”

Mariona smiled, flattered. My brother knew how to soft-soap her.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Mariona stopped us in our tracks. “Next Friday we shall be giving a small party in homage to Marina here, in my house. “I've been asked to ” she added, unable to hide how delighted she was to host such an event. “I provide the house and the others will see to the catering. Her publisher will be there and a few writers and friends, the odd critic, journalist, the television people and a few politicians, of course. Clàudia will come too. Naturally you are both invited.”

“We might find out something useful. Have you considered that if it's true Cabestany is innocent, Dolç's murderer might come as well?” asked Borja anxiously. “You'd better take care.”

“Yes, that is the second thought I had. Don't worry, I shall tell Marcelo to keep a sharp eye out.”

Marcelo is her butler, a brawny, courteous man who wasn't around that evening because Sunday was his day off. He's Argentine, is slightly (ever so slightly) limpwristed and a very nice person. He's been working for Mariona for more than fifteen years and she holds him in high esteem. According to our information, he earns a fortune playing the part of a distinguished and deferential English butler.

“Out of curiosity,” I dared to ask just before we left. “You said your second thought had been that the murderer might come to your party. What was your first?”

“A matter of etiquette, of course. I don't know what to wear. The world of writers is so peculiar…”