A Not So Perfect Crime by Teresa Solana

keep out of her way. She has a vicious tongue on her ...” She paused, as if pondering what to say next. “I can only say that when she has something in her sights she won’t stop till she gets it. But you know what people are like. Everyone panders to her. Well, almost everyone ...” she smiled.
    â€œI see your cousin is not exactly your cup of tea,” I countered politely. “And as I don’t have the privilege of being your putative nephew, I’ll not probe any further.”
    Mariona Castany directed a second withering look at me that translated into “You idiot, how dare you interrupt me.” She’d aimed the first at my feet when she realized I was wearing dark shoes and light, though not white-coloured, socks. An unforgivable faux pas .
    â€œI don’t know what else I can tell you ... She comes from a good family background obviously ... Her husband as well, I mean, in their case, neither married for money ... Of course they’re not the wealthiest couple in Barcelona, by a long chalk,” she added contemptuously.
    â€œShe’s also clearly interested in politics,” interjected Borja.
    â€œBah! She hasn’t the slightest idea about politics,” Mariona exclaimed, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s the limelight, not politics she’s after. She’s dedicated tooth and nail to ensuring her husband makes it to the Presidency of the Generalitat one day. Poor Lluís! He’s not what you’d call thick, but he’s hardly a genius.”
    â€œWell, that’s never been an obstacle to political success,” I suggested not at all maliciously.

    Both Mariona and Borja turned a deaf ear to my wit.
    â€œI imagine,” continued Mariona, “she already sees herself playing the role of first lady. Appearing in newspapers and magazines, organizing receptions, entertaining celebrities and bowing to the King and the Pope ... She excelled herself trying to wangle an invitation to the Prince’s wedding, because she apparently knows the Infanta Cristina. Failed in the attempt, obviously.”
    â€œDoes she set her sights that high?” I enquired.
    â€œShe’s not short of contacts. Her line of work – interior design – helps her to earn money and hobnob with the high society. She’s no fool.”
    â€œIt’s clear she knows the design business and charges the earth,” said Borja trying to dig more dirt. “They say she’s got first-rate taste and knows a lot about painting.”
    â€œIt would really be too, too much if she didn’t, given the sums she’s charging! With the budgets Lídia works with, anyone can have good taste,” she riposted, pretending to be scandalized and ignoring the subtle comment connecting Lídia Font and the world of fine art.
    â€œI’ve always thought good taste and elegance were at odds with money. That they’re something innate,” I said continuing on the same line that Borja had initiated. “Or so everybody says. Naturally artistic sensibility has to be cultivated, going to museums and art galleries ...”
    â€œStuff and nonsense! Good taste depends on your pocket. It’s a business, like any other. When they say that someone has good taste, it’s either because he’s rich or because he’s trying to ape the rich.” Our hostess still hadn’t bitten on the hook we were casting in her direction.
    It wasn’t the first time the conversation had drifted on to such issues. My brother’s friend liked to expatiate on her vision of the world and pontificate from her pedestal as the wealthiest of Catalan women. It is very simple according to her: the world is divided between rich and poor. The rich have enough money to follow their every whim, be it a Van Gogh, a house on the Riviera or a seat in Parliament. The rest of us are the poor. Mariona doesn’t distinguish between those who live in a