The French Connection

Shelley always thought that for someone originally from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, Lionel certainly had transformed himself into a citizen of the world. In any case, fortified by a grande cafe latte and a new sense of resolve, Shelley watched Lionel tweak the knot in his ascot. The thought of losing one of their principal customers appeared to bring out his obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

“So-o, have you finalized your arrangements to France?” he asked. “It’s imperative that the company send a representative imme-e-diately. Just remember, the Remingtons will be out in the co-old if we do not secure the Montfort chateau.”

She positioned the tip of an index finger on the table in the same way she had seen Carly Fiorina, the CEO of Hewlett-Packard, do in a newspaper photograph and leaned slowly forward. The position really killed her knuckle, but she didn’t want to mar the effect. “I appreciate your concern, Lionel, and despite the rush, I can safely say I have things under control. First off, I was here until two in the morning making sure the office paperwork is ahead of schedule, and that means the arrangements for the rest of the properties won’t fall through the cracks.

“I’ve also contacted everyone—clients, homeowners, workmen—that for the next week or so I can only be reached by e-mail. I’ve left a similar message on the company phone line,” she went on. “In addition, I’ve downloaded all the relevant phone and fax numbers as well as e-mail addresses to my personal laptop, which I will take with me. I’ve also made arrangements to lease a cell phone with international dialing capabilities, but I plan to give that number only to a few people—you being one of them, of course—for emergency purposes.”

Lionel nodded. “Yes, I’m glad you limited the number of people with the phone number. The ca-ah-alling fees on those phones are monstrous.”

What a cheapskate. Actually, Shelley had been anticipating his reaction and she had purposely highlighted her fiscal prudence regarding the phone so that she could go in for the real kill.

She stood up straighter, accentuating her 34Bs. She had chosen a tight, powder-blue cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. Ladylike but va-va-voom.

The corner of Lionel’s mouth jerked in a spasm. Her mild walk on the wild side seemed to have an immediate impact. Shelley waited for him to swallow.

“I also contacted the travel agent yesterday and I should have the arrangements finalized today.” She paused. “Unfortunately, given the short notice, it seems that tourist class to Paris with a transfer to Marseilles/Marignane Airport is sold out. Business class looks to be the only viable option.” True, there was a Moldavian charter flight, but it was flying out of Baltimore via Brussels and it lasted something like eleven hours. Totally unacceptable for a woman about to embark on a life-altering adventure.

Lionel blanched at the information before finally nodding. “If that’s the case, then by all means do whatever is necessary.”

But just when Shelley was ready to bask in her triumph, Lionel hit her with information that made her think eleven hours via Brussels might not be such a bad idea after all.

“I’m counting on you, Shelley. Dream Villas has never needed you as much as now. Because, you see—” he halted as if struggling to get the right words out “—it’s more than the Remingtons we’ll have to worry about if we don’t close the deal. It’s the government….” His voice trailed off.

Shelley blinked. “The government? What’s the government got to do with it?”

Lionel suddenly looked every one of his many mysterious years. “The Internal Revenue Service has threatened to close down Dream Villas unless I make substantial restitution for what they consider to be unpaid back taxes.”

“I don’t understand. I religiously submit the business’s revenue and expense forms to Bernie, our accountant.” A nice man, even if he did send the world’s worst Christmas cards—these atrocious paintings of Nativity scenes by, yes, his own brush, one step up from paintings on black velvet.

“But apparently you incorrectly submitted the information about all the workmen we’ve hired over the years.”

“Hold on there. I submitted those figures just as you instructed me to do—indicating that the workers were hired on a per-job basis and not as employees of the company.” Shelley took a deep breath, trying to keep panic at bay. She tasted stale air and remnants of Lionel’s Eau de Sauvage aftershave.

“Apparently the IRS no longer considers that a valid arrangement. Not only am I supposed to pay the taxes owed but there is a sizable penalty, as well.” Lionel looked at the tips of his tassel loafers. “You realize, of course, that your name appears on the correspondence to the accountant as well as on the checks.” He looked dolefully into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“Considering the humongous size of the checks I’ve cut over the years—checks Bernie specifically had me make out to ‘Cash’ so that he could divide them among the appropriate agencies—you’d think he’d be able to keep up on changes in the law.” The tightness that gripped Shelley’s throat had nothing to do with the stratospheric pollen count. “Are you trying to tell me that I could be liable, as well?”

“I purposely didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to worry you.” He reluctantly shook his head. “I was sure I could handle the situation myself.”

As if. The man didn’t even know how to use the fax machine, and she seriously doubted if sleeping with the IRS investigator—Lionel’s usual business ploy—would prove effective. “And somehow the Remingtons’ rental is tied in with all this mess?” she asked.

“It’s absolutely essential. The government has agreed not to assume control of the business if I can make a significant payment by next Tuesday. As the situation stands now, however, the chateau is unavailable for rent starting July first, which means we will have to return the Remingtons’ money. And without that, our cash on hand is just too low—meaning they could start to seize business and personal assets imme-e-diately.” He sniffed loudly.

“What about the money we’ll get from the Nosenbergers? They’re renting the place for two weeks at the beginning of June, and their contract is still valid before the leasing agreement runs out.”

Lionel shook his head. “It’s better than nothing but not nearly enough. June is shoulder-season rates, and their stay is wa-ay too short.”

Shelley swallowed pensively. “Next Tuesday, huh?” She rapped her fingers on the table. “Even with flying out tonight, that only gives me six days.” Less than a week to bail out the business, keep her job and pay off her student loans. And stop her belongings from becoming government property. Not that her valuables would bring much: a coral necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother, a small etching that she’d bought upon joining the ranks of the employed, a spotty collection of mostly used art-history books and her Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls.

“So now you understand why you must not fail in your dealings with the Montforts, for your sake and for Dream Villas’,” Lionel implored dramatically.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She was beyond giving him support. As far as she was concerned, he was the one who had gotten them into this mess. She was of half a mind to follow in her father’s footsteps and run away to the circus.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way that she could imagine herself in tights and spangles. Oh, well, she had wanted to spread her wings and take new risks—all by herself.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if the risks were being thrust upon her instead.

Maybe wearing tight blue cashmere hadn’t been such a good choice after all.

THE FATE OF DREAM VILLAS and her own personal solvency resting heavily on her shoulders, Shelley slammed the door to her tiny Renault rental car and stared at the massive entryway of the Montfort chateau. For the first time in her life, Shelley had come across a situation where neither chocolate nor red wine provided a measure of comfort. Just as long as she could hold off the panic, she figured she had a chance—maybe.

She let her eyes drift above the heavy wooden doors to a carved stone tympanum. The ravages of time and intermittent Provençal rains had nearly obliterated the bas-relief, and she had to squint to make out what was left of it. At first glance, it looked like a lumpy pancake on a circular platter, but Shelley soon realized it actually depicted a squat-shaped animal surrounded by a raised medallion. A porcupine in full profile, to be exact.

“Just great,” Shelley muttered. “A family that prides itself on its prickliness.” Still, she had a job to do—and fast—even if it meant facing aristocrats who fashioned themselves after a spiny woodland creature. “I suppose it could have been worse. They could have chosen a skunk.”

She reached for the heavy iron ring that hung at eye level and knocked. And waited.

And waited some more.

Tapping the tip of her black slide shoes on the pebbly gravel, she looked around. Enormous terra-cotta urns overflowing with red geraniums, blue lobelia and something yellow and vaguely daisylike edged the circular drive. To the side, an allée of stately cypresses led to a fountain, which splashed amidst mounds of lady’s mantle. A low stone wall defined the garden’s perimeter, and beyond, almond trees covered with loose bunches of white flowers marched in neat rows across the rolling hills. It was A Year in Provence come to life, only without the workmen in desperate need of a shave and long-lasting deodorant.

Shelley glanced at her watch. It was several minutes past the appointment time that she’d arranged over the phone. She raised her hand to knock again when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. An elderly woman walking briskly from around the back of the house came into view.

“Mademoiselle McCleery, by chance, is that you?” The woman’s English had a sibilant French accent with a distinct oddity. The r of McCleery trilled off her tongue, reminding Shelley of an extra—a most unlikely one—from Braveheart.

“Yes, I’m Shelley McCleery.” Shelley walked over and held out her hand and then realized she was holding flowers. “You’re very kind to receive me. These are for you and your family.” She handed over a bouquet of red and purple anemones de Caen.

“How thoughtful, and how delightful to have something colorful in the house. Unfortunately, we have been deluged with white lilies. One would think it was still Good Friday.” She paused. “But perhaps that is appropriate after all—Madame la Comtesse always did fancy herself God’s gift to creation.” Her voice contained an hauteur matched only by the artful upsweep of her silver-gray hair. Massive, yellowing opera-length pearls like something out of a portrait by Rembrandt rested atop her black silk shantung dress.

“I am Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. I am sorry I was not here to meet you immediately, but you see, it is only the clients who inhabit the chateau when they are here. We—that is, the family—live in the cottage behind the chateau. It saves on heating and staff costs.”

“Yes, of course.” Shelley nodded, trying her best to follow the accented and somewhat convoluted syntax. One thing was certain; she recognized the name Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. The former count, who’d predeceased his late wife by a good fifteen years, had two female cousins who also lived on the estate, and it was one of them who invariably attended to business.

Marie-Jeanne guided Shelley around the main house to the cottage, which was nestled between twin apricot trees. Its multipaned glass doors were open to the warmth of the midday sun and white curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was picture-postcard perfect—and also, by the looks of it, easily large enough to accommodate a family of six. The Montforts may have come down in the world, but one family’s descent was another’s dream come true.

“Isabelle, Mademoiselle McCleery is here.” The Cuban heels of Marie-Jeanne’s black pumps tapped on the cool tile floors as they entered the kitchen, where another elderly woman was waiting. She was practically a double for Marie-Jeanne except that she was dressed in a black wool suit instead of a dress. Her sole piece of jewelry was a moonstone ring as large as the average quail egg, which years of etiquette and an excessively large knuckle kept poised on her tapered finger.

“This is my sister, Isabelle de Montfort, Mademoiselle McCleery,” Marie-Jeanne made the introductions.

“Please call me Shelley, Lady de Montfort,” Shelley insisted. “And let me say I was so sorry about your recent loss. My employer, Mr. Toynbee, especially wanted me to convey his sympathies regarding the comtesse.”

“Why am I not surprised at Monsieur Toynbee’s sympathies?” Isabelle pursed her lips.

Marie-Jeanne passed the flowers to her sister. “Isabelle and I continue to take solace in that fact that la comtesse was merely a relative by marriage.” She reached for a Sèvres vase and removed a cache of wooden spoons and a folded sheet of paper with typed names. Shelley recognized the list of repairmen that she regularly updated for each property owner.

Isabelle smelled the flowers. “Are they not lovely?” She placed them in the vase, filled it with water and set the arrangement in a place of honor on the table. “Though to give the late comtesse credit, you must admit, ma soeur, that she did have rather shapely calves.”

Marie-Jeanne wiped her hands on a dish towel that was embroidered with a row of bumblebees—there seemed no end to the prickliness of the Montforts. “It is true, Isabelle, and something clearly not lost on Bertrand.” She looked at Shelley. “Our cousin, the late count, was—how do you say?—a leg man. He once raised livestock, you see.”

Shelley nodded. “I see.” She didn’t at all. “Your English, both of your English, rather, is—” she searched for the appropriate word “—remarkable.”

The two women beamed.

“Mademoiselle Bruce would have been so delighted to hear that.” Marie-Jeanne patted her pearls.

“She was our governess when we were young,” Isabelle corrected. “She had a great fondness for shortbread.”

You could take the girl out of Scotland, Shelley realized, but you couldn’t take the Scottish burr out of her students.

The kitchen timer sounded and Isabelle opened the door to a giant oven and removed a large tart. “The, the, eh—” Isabelle turned to Marie-Jeanne. “Comment dit on ‘des mûres’ en anglais?”

Her sister thought a moment. “Raspberries, perhaps? I am not sure.” She rolled the r and pronounced the p.

Shelley looked more closely at the freshly baked pastry. “Blackberries,” she corrected. The last time she had had blackberries was when her family took a week’s camping trip to Vermont to savor the wonders of the Green Mountains and maple syrup. Unfortunately, her parents had not known that May was blackfly month. Her father had abandoned the rest of the family soon after, taking the insect repellent with him.

Isabelle placed the tart on a trivet and smiled. “Yes, blackberries, of course. I thought we would have tea later, if it is not too much trouble?”

“Not at all,” Shelley said. Food tended to relax people, and seeing as it was just tea, she didn’t think there would be an issue over the flatware. In any case, it was the perfect opportunity to start the negotiations. “And will the count be joining us?”

Marie-Jeanne smiled wistfully. “If only.”

Isabelle sighed. “That would be lovely, no?”

That would be lovely, yes, Shelley thought, seeing as he was the sole heir to the estate. “Perhaps you could call and invite him to come?”

Marie-Jeanne shook her head. “I am sure that he is much too busy.”

Isabelle nodded. “His work, it is very important.”

“And secretive.”

“It occupies him all hours of the day and night—forces him to travel constantly from his headquarters in Paris.”

“You make it sound like some kind of undercover operation.” Shelley was intrigued.

Marie-Jeanne coughed and covered her mouth.

Isabelle pursed her lips and looked to her sister.

“La pâte dentifrice,” Marie-Jeanne supplied.

Shelley blinked. “La pâte dentifrice? Toothpaste?” Isabelle nodded vigorously. “Yes, toothpaste. International sales.”

Well, whoop-de-do. The count might be concerned with the highly competitive world of tartar control, but she had the IRS breathing down her neck. Cavities would just have to take a back seat. “Yes, I can understand the pressing nature of his business, but at the risk of being rude, I really do need to speak with him as soon as possible. As I am sure you are well aware, the count plans to terminate the contract with Dream Villas.”

The two women looked at each other, then back at her, nodding nervously.

“Please understand, in no way do I mean to be disrespectful to the memory of the late comtesse, but I was very much hoping to use this opportunity to get the chance to dissuade the count of his decision.” Her muddled syntax was beginning to resemble the sisters’. Shelley hoped that was not a bad omen.

Marie-Jeanne waved off her apology. “It is impossible to be crass when referring to that woman. Françoise was no better than that Mary Astor character in The Maltese Falcon. How she treated poor Humphrey Bogart!” Marie-Jeanne’s distress was evident.

Shelley’s was verging on mild hysteria.

“You must forgive Marie-Jeanne her outburst. She is a true fan of Raymond Chandler,” Isabelle explained.

“Oh.” Shelley nodded, wondering if it would be considered rude if she asked for a double scotch on the rocks.

“My literary weakness aside, please continue,” Marie-Jeanne commanded. “We will dismiss further mention of that woman.”

The fact that no love was lost was becoming clearer and clearer. “Yes, well, let me explain. You see, I have always been a practical kind of person.”

“Something we have also greatly admired about you,” Isabelle noted politely. “The way you organized the electricians to come and put in those modern connections—circuit breakers, I believe they are called—was exceptional, truly magnifique.”

“Thank you, but that is really just part of my job.”

“Never underestimate efficiency,” Marie-Jeanne declared.

“Well, thank you again.” Maybe they could write a letter of recommendation for a new job if she was unsuccessful in convincing their nephew to come around? No, best not to be negative.

Shelley forged on. “Speaking of efficiency, don’t you think it would benefit the family to keep renting out the chateau? That way you could maintain a regular income and have the satisfaction of knowing that the property would remain in the family and that you could still live on the grounds?” She stopped to gauge their reaction. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be too blunt, and of course someone could easily argue that my motives are not completely pure—after all, the suggestion to keep the contract with Dream Villas also benefits me.” If they only knew how much.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Isabelle assured her.

“In truth, we were reluctant to interfere in the decision regarding the estate and burden Edmond with our little problems. But we have been wondering where we will go if the chateau is to be sold,” Marie-Jeanne confided.

“Then for your sakes and mine, I must tell you that I am here in Aix-en-Provence only until the end of the week, Monday at the latest. Therefore, if I am to convince Monsieur le Comte to maintain a business connection, I must do it soon. Today even.” Shelley looked back and forth between the two sisters.

Marie-Jeanne fingered her pearls. Isabelle toyed with her ring. And Shelley wondered if the two old women, who seemed more attuned to a bygone era of black-and-white movies and governesses, were capable of strong-arming their high-flying businessman of a nephew, who appeared to be oblivious to his family’s needs. Perhaps this is what too much fluoride did to one’s thinking?

Marie-Jeanne squared her narrow shoulders and stood up even straighter than before, as much a testament to her moral fiber as to her upbringing. “Isabelle, perhaps you would be so kind as to take Shelley on a tour of the chateau while I place a call to Edmond?” Marie-Jeanne elongated the pronunciation of her name—Shell-ee—in a charming and very un-Lionel way. She started to leave but stopped. “If I may be so bold, may I inquire as to your relationship with Monsieur Toynbee?”

Shelley straightened her back—in horror and as a testament to her passing the President’s Fitness Test in middle school three years running. “He’s my employer, nothing more, I can assure you.” And possibly not my employer for much longer—though Shelley didn’t add that part.

Isabelle beamed at her sister. “You see, I said she was remarkable.” She turned to Shelley. “For you, it is the Botticelli and nothing less.”

3

ACTUALLY IT WAS MORE.

First came the chateau’s library, with hundreds of leather-bound volumes—a books-by-the-yard fantasy come true. Only these looked as if someone had used them for more than decoration.

Someone had.

“As a young boy, Edmond, the new count, spent many hours reading the works of Thucydides and Virgil—in the original Greek and Latin, of course,” Isabelle explained with a sweep of the hand.

“Was Mademoiselle Bruce his tutor, as well?” Shelley asked somewhat distractedly. She had just noticed what appeared to be a Gutenberg bible.

“Oh, no, Mademoiselle Bruce had already returned to her native Glasgow. Edmond mastered Greek on his own when he was recuperating from a fall from the oak tree behind the stables. He was pretending to be Rinaldo from Gerusalemme, off to fight the Saracens. You know the poem by Tasso, of course?”

Shelley shook her head. “I know of it, that’s all.” How many people could claim intimate knowledge of the epic Renaissance poem?

“Not to worry. Edmond can introduce it to you.” Isabelle smiled in that knowing way that immediately made Shelley suspicious. “Here, this way is to the Botticelli.” She pointed to the door on the opposite side of the room.

They glided along the marble floors into a large room with flaking, pale-green plaster walls. Fading Belgian tapestries depicting beheadings lined one wall, and atop a massive rococo sideboard sat a pair of matching Ming vases. Shelley bypassed those in favor of the art on the facing wall. There was a small panel painting of St. George, which to her trained eye appeared to be a Duccio. Next to it and practically hidden by heavy velvet curtains hung a delicately carved ivory. She turned to Isabelle. “Is it northern French? Fourteenth century perhaps?”

Isabelle squinted. “I had forgotten about that objet. It is so small, no?”

Small, yes, but definitely to die for. Roughly two inches by six inches, it depicted a pair of lions, male and female, cavorting in a forest under the watchful eye of exotic birds and small rodentlike creatures.

“But it’s so delightful, and a shame that it’s not better displayed.” Shelley loved the ivory—immediately. More than loved it. She lusted after it with greater intensity than she’d ever lusted for anything, Paul included. Which, come to think of it, probably said something about their sex life. True, he’s hung like a Clydesdale, but he has the finesse of one, too, Shelley had once confided to Abigail after too many Cosmopolitans.

“But surely you agree that the ivory cannot compare with our Botticelli?” Isabelle stepped next to what was clearly the family’s pride and joy.

Shelley approached the large framed drawing. It was a preliminary study for the painter’s famous Birth of Venus, in which the naked goddess of love rises from a scallop shell, her blond locks cascading over one shoulder. The thing of it was, the Italian Renaissance master had never been one of Shelley’s favorites—she always thought his women looked like Valley Girls without the benefit of blow-dryers. And now she was even more disappointed than usual upon viewing his work up close.

“I’ve never seen an original drawing of his,” she said, searching for a remark that would not offend her hostess. “And it’s amazing that you’ve managed to retain possession of these treasures after all these years.”