‘Lady Ashworth has an extraordinary eye,’ agreed Charlie, wondering why Clementine didn’t mention that Lady Ashworth also decorated Maisy’s family home in Texas. Why the omission? Was it familial discretion … or something more sinister? ‘Tell me about these drinks.’ Charlie needed Clementine to open up. The fewer awkward pauses, the better. Charlie had been at the event, but she wanted to see what Clementine had noticed, and what she hadn’t. Or rather, what she omitted.
‘Well,’ Clementine drawled, ‘the place was filled with roses, as it is now, I su-ppose. Every day. And there were the most interesting people—not just the fancy Paris types but artists,bohemian people. It seemed to be an open-door event—I’m sure Lady Ashworth can’t have known every guest personally. Painters, ballet dancers, opera singers … Maisy adored art and artists.’
Charlie nodded. ‘A typical Lady Ashworth soiree. I was here myself, late from work. It was a lovely evening. I didn’t speak with Maisy, but I certainly noticed her. She struck me as rather confident and self-contained. Beautiful, obviously, but that’s neither here nor there. I regret not introducing myself. I imagine, as outsiders in Paris, we would have a lot to talk about. I write a lot about the arts for the paper, so we have that in common too.’
Charlie was bringing Maisy to life in her head but also keeping her front and centre for the relatives. Building that connection with Clementine and Mason Bell was vital if she was going to find Maisy.
‘Can you think of anyone else you spoke to who might remember meeting Maisy?’
Clementine considered this for a moment as Mason looked on, apparently willing his sister to remember something. Anything.
‘The Windsors were there. The Duchess looked divine, with a black dress just so’—she dabbed at the top of her bust—‘to show off the di-a-mond necklace given to her by the lov-er-ly husband of hers, the Duke. What a devil he is.’ Clementine giggled and turned bright red as her brother shot her a disapproving look.
‘Well, now,’ Clementine continued, ‘we were looking for Lady Ashworth—she was the one who invited us to have a cocktailat the bar. It was hard to see with the roses and lilies, and the people were pouring in the door faster than a race full of bulls at a rodeo. The waiters were no help. We met a charming man. He called himself Louis. He was Swiss, I think. Definitely had an accent. Not a French accent, I mean. Not English. But definitely Continental. Yes, Swiss.’ Clementine furrowed her brow and bit her lip.
‘Louis could be a Swiss or French name,’ replied Charlie as she wrote the name in her notebook. In her experience, witness accounts could be wildly misleading but it was crucial to get all perspectives.
‘Maybe it’s a nickname, y’know. Make it easy for the English speakers. The dumb Americans.’ Clementine rolled her eyes and Charlie felt herself warming to this woman, who clearly had a bit of Southern sass. She nodded her agreement. Her time in France had taught her that visiting Americans were often regarded with scepticism and as being on the lowest social rung, just a fraction higher than the Brits.
‘The thing is … Maisy got talking to this Louis gentleman. She was all aflutter about it when we were back in the suite getting ready for bed. He liked Wagner and history, architecture and the like. This gentleman sounded real cultured and that would have turned our Maisy’s head. She had already bought us the opening night tickets forAriane and Bluebeardnext week, though of course we won’t be going …’ Clementine’s face crumpled.
‘The thing is,’ Clementine continued, having gathered herself, ‘and I told this to the po-lice, that Maisy made arrangements with this man—Swiss Louis—for the next day. He arranged to pick Maisy up from right out the front of the Ritz here and drive down to see some famous old villa.’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t remember the name of the villa—but it was near the one Napoleon apparently bought for Josephine. A likely story.’ Clementine rolled her eyes again. ‘Anyhow, Maisy insisted she was a grown, modern woman and didn’t need a chaperone like me.
‘I was relieved,’ she said, looking sheepish. ‘There were some gloves at Galeries Lafayette that I wanted to go pick up before I stopped by Schiaparelli for a fittin’.’ She looked at Mason, who was shaking his head with disapproval.
‘What? It was a simple day trip. How was I to know …’ She faltered. ‘Besides, Maisy’d been at Barnard, away from her mamma, pappa and me for four years. She was sensible,’ she said softly. ‘Hardworking. You can’t be dim and get into Barnard.’
‘I imagine,’ agreed Charlie, who wanted Clementine very much onside. She tapped the photo. ‘I can tell she has a lot of spark. A plucky young woman like Maisy must have a lot of suitors?’ She made sure to use the present tense.
‘Of course!’ Clementine smiled. ‘But Maisy was smart enough not to have her head turned by a phony. Back in the States, she knew boys would come to New York from Yale and Wharton wanting to date her because she was a Bell. But here in Paris,she was free from all that ker-fuffle. I just wanted her to enjoy it for a minute,’ Clementine said softly as she covered her face with her hands.
Charlie made a subtle note of this in her book.
Lady Ashworth had told Charlie that the family had taken this matter to the police. She needed to know what happened during this initial report. ‘You went to the police?’ she probed.
‘Ho-ney.’ Clementine held up her hand. ‘I’ve tried the po-lice and they said she wasn’tmissing enoughyet! They implied Maisy was a young woman in Paris trying to hide from an overprotective aunt. They see it all the time.’ She pursed her lips, offended.
Charlie looked at Clementine’s coiffed hair, broad brown cheeks and strong body, matched with her even broader American accent, and saw why a busy Parisian police officer may have dismissed this wealthy Texan.
‘So I tried the po-lice. I even telephoned a private investigator I found in the Paris phone book. He wanted five hundred francs to sit where you are and start looking.’ She bit her lip and gave her brother a guilty glance from under her heavily inked eyelids.
Charlie wrote a note in her book. Five hundred francs was a pittance for one of America’s wealthiest families. Wouldn’t they throw everything they had at getting Maisy back? Unless they didn’t want her back … Was Clementine crying crocodile tears?
Mason Bell sighed and said, ‘I telegrammed you not to do anything silly before I got here. Miss James, the bottom line isthat my sister has tried the official channels’—he snorted at the word ‘official’—‘and it seems no one in this rid-i-cu-lous city gives a damn that my niece has been missing for over a week.’
A week was a long time.
‘What else did the police say?’ asked Charlie with concern.
Clementine furrowed her brow and started to sob a little. ‘They said they can’t help. I received a tel-e-gram the night Maisy left to say she was having a splendid time and she thought she’d stay at the villa and listen to some more music in the morning.’
Charlie leaned forward. ‘Do you have that telegram?’
Clementine shook her head. ‘No, I gave it to the po-lice. But they just said it proved that Maisy was having a lov-er-ly holiday. Being a grown woman and all, Maisy was allowed to do as she pleased. With a man she only just met, no less.’
A thought occurred to Charlie. ‘Are you sure she’d just met that Swiss Louis at the Ritz the night of the fundraiser? Could Louis be someone she knows from back home?’ Charlie thought about the mistruths and ‘accidental meetings’ she’d set up in her early courting years to circumvent the watchful eyes of her parents. Could Maisy have done the same with her aunt?
Clementine swallowed. ‘The po-liceimpliedthat I was some old-fashioned, overprotective aunt that Maisy pro-bab-ly wanted to relieve herself of.’