A Not So Perfect Crime by Teresa Solana Page A

cardboard box in the metro and those inhabiting six hundred square feet of real estate south of the Diagonal.
    â€œLook, Eduard,” she added, as if clinching the issue, “the only thing elegance is at odds with is poverty.” And instinctively, but this time not all maliciously, her eyes focussed back on my shoes.
    Borja decided the time had come to take a risk and put his trust yet again in the discretion of this woman who was an institution in certain spheres of city life. He cut to the quick.
    â€œBut does your cousin have a reputation for acting like Mata Hari? I’m asking whether she’s happy with her husband,” he asked lowering his voice.
    â€œDo you see, Borjita? I was right first time! I knew it had to do with bed-hopping!”
    â€œSo she does have her lovers,” suggested Borja.
    â€œWell, the fact is she’s not famed as a man-hunter,” Mariona admitted reluctantly. “A nasty upstart, certainly, but no affairs have been registered so far as I know. And that’s quite odd ... I’d always assumed her to be quite frigid,” and then she whispered: “Poor Lluís always looks as if he gets poor service. In any case, if Lídia does have a lover out there, she’s very discreet. But I’ve not seen her for some time. I can ask after her, out of casual curiosity, you know,” she said condescendingly.

    â€œWould you, Aunt Mariona? Would you please?” Borja begged in that half flattering, half seductive tone that served him so well with women like Mariona Castany.
    â€œI will go to my club on Monday afternoon and ensure Lídia’s name crops up in conversation. Don’t you worry, I’ll find out any gossip doing the rounds about her or her husband. But it’s such a boring place! ...”
    The very wealthy Mariona belonged to an exclusive, expensive club near the Bonanova, but apparently didn’t find it very entertaining and went very rarely. When we heard the chimes of one of the mansion’s grandfather clocks we realized it was past two o’clock. Borja checked the time and went as if to get up.
    â€œWe won’t bother you any more, Mariona. I’ll ring you next week. I expect you’re very busy now Christmas is upon us ...”
    â€œHumph, I’d almost forgotten! Wait a minute!” she exclaimed, imperiously forcing Borja and me to sit back down on the modernist sofa where we’d been sipping our martinis. “I have something for both of you.”
    And as she said this, she rang an invisible bell we couldn’t hear.
    â€œDid madam want something?”
    Marcelo, the butler, appeared within half a minute. He was in uniform and looked immaculate.
    â€œIndeed, Marcelo, would you be so kind as to bring the two parcels in my study, the ones in red wrapping paper?”
    â€œOf course, those on your desk top? I think I saw them this morning, when I was tidying ...”
    â€œJust so. Thank you.” And added: “It’s my Christmas present.”
    A couple of minutes later Marcelo reappeared with his servile smile and two parcels exquisitely wrapped in red, shiny paper. The smaller one was for Borja, and mine was flat and long and surely contained a tie.
    â€œHere you are. Open them at home.”
    â€œMadame, if that was all ... I believe someone has knocked on the front door, and as the maid is in the kitchen preparing lunch ...”
    â€œGo to, Marcelo, see who it is. And while you’re about it, accompany these gentlemen ...”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have gone to such trouble,” said Borja courteously. “But I’ve something for you. I almost forgot too.” And extracted from his pocket a rather more modestly wrapped present. “Happy Christmas, Mariona.”
    â€œHow wonderful!” She smiled like a little girl. “I love surprises! Thank you, my dear. I will put it under the tree with my other presents and open it on Christmas