‘Perhaps.’ Lady Ashworth shrugged and finished her drink. ‘The young woman is still missing, so I think there is far more to be done than open a file.’ She enunciated her words in her dry Southern accent.
‘Where did Maisy Bell go sightseeing?’ Charlie pulled a photo towards her for a closer look.
‘That’s the question. She attended my fundraiser in the ballroom of the Hotel Ritz on the eighth of August,’ replied Lady Ashworth, smoothing her chignon, ‘and was last seen leaving the hotel the next day.’
‘I was there too, briefly,’ added Charlie. ‘I wore the midnight-blue dress you lent me.’
Violet looked between Charlie and Lady Ashworth, shocked. She threw her hands in the air as though giving thanks to God and said, ‘My work here is done. Charlie James now attends parties without the need to be dragged. Draggedordressed,’ Violet corrected before studying the photo and appearing contrite as she remembered the serious matter at hand. The missing woman.
‘Oh, I saw you,’ Lady Ashworth said. ‘Tucked away by the champagne stand all on your lonesome—honestly, I thought you were about to start pouring drinks. I have no idea why you insist on lurking in the shadows at parties, Charlie. I wanted to introduce you to Maisy Bell but you ducked out before I had the chance. Even though she’s a young graduate, I felt you’d have a lot in common. Clever outsiders seeking creativity and adventure in Paris.’
‘Let’s hope this is a simple misunderstanding and I get to meet Maisy Bell,’ said Charlie, running a finger over the photo. ‘I was late and stood in the cornerdoing my job’—she gave Lady Ashworth a defiant look—‘taking mental notes, then actual notes, of guests for my allocated puff piece in the newspaper. I remember Maisy Bell. She seemed every bit the charming young graduate. She looked bright-eyed and ready for adventure and a summer of fun. Swanky in that American money kind of way. Perfect hair and makeup. As you pointed out, Violet, huge, open smile. Maisy was surrounded by people all night.’
‘Is she an American movie star?’ asked Violet, sounding impressed. ‘This photo is no family happy snap. Look at the lighting.’
‘I have no idea as to her career aspirations; I didn’t get a chance to speak with her. People … men … swarmed like bees.’ Charlie took out her notebook, tucked the photos of Maisy Bell inside and wrote downClementine Bell—aunt.
‘Don’t even think about reporting on this forThe Times,’ said Violet as she eyed the notebook with suspicion. ‘This looks dicey to me. With respect, this isn’t the Wild West, Lady Ashworth. Charlie, this is a police matter.’
Charlie studied her dear friend’s pinched face. Violet was right to be concerned. The last story Charlie had worked on atThe Timesstarted with a homicide at a masquerade ball hosted by this very same Lady Ashworth at her Versailles château, then took Charlie from gala balls to fashion parades in sultry jazz clubsand charity soirees at the Louvre. The story ended with Charlie attacked in a park and fighting for her life in hospital. Charlie had earned her first front-page by-line and investigative story, but it had come at great personal cost.
Charlie examined the photo of Maisy Bell. Just last week those eyes had sparkled, the lips were coated in alluring red lipstick, and her adorable dimples had radiated a joyful Shirley Temple innocence. It was hard to stand out in a sea of couture at the Ritz, but this young American, Maisy Bell, certainly had.
Ifthis vibrant young woman was missing, Charlie needed to know why.
Chapter 2
CAFÉ DE FLORE, PARIS
A waiter in a black waistcoat topped up their flutes with the remaining champagne from the bottle while pigeons danced and flapped on the cobblestones a few feet away. Café de Flore was buzzing this morning as people at the surrounding tables took their coffee and pastries before work. The footpath was a sea of wicker chairs, marble tabletops and women swathed in elegant silk and linen clothes and finished with impeccable red lips while the men looked equally dapper in suits, crisp shirts and cufflinks. Charlie noted they were the only table drinking champagne.
‘I’m told you made quite the entrance at the Ritz soiree? I was phoning through a piece to the desk in London and missed the show.’ Charlie laughed.
‘You mean the cartwheel?’ Lady Ashworth said nonchalantly. ‘Not my best. But I do try to keep it interesting.’
Charlie regarded the older woman with the frame of a ballerina. Some people said Lady Ashworth did a headstand every morning for ten minutes and Charlie was inclined to believe it. But she had more questions about what happened at the Ritz.
‘As fascinated as I am about your gymnastic abilities, Lady Ashworth, why is it you feel I should investigate the missing Maisy Bell?’
‘Allegedly missing,’ corrected Violet.
‘Maisy Bell has not returned to her hotel room for over a week. She is most certainly missing.’
‘Fair. Not many people would give up a room at the Ritz. Some might kill for it though—all that marble!’ quipped Violet.
Charlie sighed and shot Violet abe seriouslook.
Lady Ashworth leaned forward. ‘Clementine’s in pieces. She blames herself for her missing niece. Heaven knows I tried to tell her that short of chaining young Maisy to the bedpost, she really could not stop a grown woman from going about Paris as she chose to. I had to get my physician to prescribe Clementine some Mickey Finn.’
Charlie pursed her lips.
Lady Ashworth chuckled and flapped a hand at Charlie, dismissing her look. ‘Noted. But let’s move on, Charlie James. That nasty episode has no business inthisstory.
‘As I was saying, Clementine was feverish with worry. I sent for her brother Mason to sail with haste and meet her in Paris. Maisy’s father—Clementine’s oldest brother—stayed stateside. Masonwon’t be helpful for you, of course—men of his type generally aren’t, more like shiny ornaments in black or white tie that you can move about cities like pieces on a chequerboard. Nevertheless, Mason is her brother and part of the oil clan, so to speak. In times of stress, we need our loved ones at our side.’
‘Oil clan? You speak as if you know the Bells well?’
‘I know the Bell family.’ Lady Ashworth’s eyes narrowed. ‘I imported some pieces for Maisy’s parents’ place in Dallas. Alotof pieces, if you know what I mean. They say everything is bigger in Texas and the Bells’ estate is no exception. They say you could power the United States of America on the Bells’ personal oil reserves alone. Now, I have no idea if that is true, but let me just say, I’ve been to some impressive houses in my time’—she leaned in and raised her eyebrows—‘but none has come close to the scale of Maisy Bell’s family home.