A Not So Perfect Crime by Teresa Solana Page B

Eve.”
    I blushed, because I’d not taken her anything. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I should and Borja had never suggested I should. As usual, he came to my rescue. “It’s from both of us. We saw it and thought it was made for you. I do hope you like it.”
    â€œYou are such a darling,” she said. “You too, my dear Eduard. My thanks to you both. Now, off you go, I have guests coming for lunch!”
    Marcelo brought our coats and accompanied us to the door.
    â€œI think that of late dear Madam hasn’t been very well,” he confided anxiously. “That cough worries me. She should see her doctor, but you know what’s she’s like ...”
    That’s how Marcelo was. He would perform like a butler on celluloid and always overacted the part in relation to Mariona Castany. I think he’d missed his vocation as an actor; in fact I could swear I’ve seen him in a television ad.

    â€œI think she looks fantastic, Marcelo,” Borja replied. “Besides she’s in superb form. Is there a problem we are unaware of?” My brother seemed alarmed.
    â€œShe shouldn’t smoke so much. She sees off two packets a day ... Perhaps you could persuade her to smoke less and sleep more. Madam has great respect for you ...”
    â€œI’ll mention it to her the next time we meet. Take good care of her in the meantime, won’t you, Marcelo?”
    Marcelo had been in Mariona Castany’s service for fifteen years ever since he left Argentina and I think he was really devoted to her. He must have been well into his fifties and retained an enviable shock of black hair. He lived in and did the honours as chauffeur, master of ceremonies and gardener. He must have been on a good salary (much more substantial than mine naturally), and since a goodly number of staff saw to the house during the day, his work wasn’t particularly onerous. Physically, he looked a man who liked his sport and pampered himself. I’ve always thought he was gay, of the dandy variety, and absolutely the kind of butler that suited a lady like Doña Mariona Castany.
    On the way out we walked past a well-known architect who was Mariona’s age. Rumours had abounded for years that they were lovers, from long before she was widowed. He too was wealthy and led a respectable, married life. As far as we knew, like our friend, he’d never been involved in any scandals.
    Once we were in the car, we couldn’t resist the temptation to open our presents. Mine was a bold, if elegant, Hermès tie, and Borja’s, gold cufflinks, also Hermès.
    â€œVery stylish,” I admitted. “At long last I’ve got a change of tie! But I’ll only wear it in the office in case Montse starts getting jealous.”
    â€œOur Mariona is a real lady,” said Borja delightedly, eyeing his cufflinks. “You know, the rich aren’t known for their generosity.”
    â€œNo, they’re usually misers. That’s why they’re so rich.”
    â€œAnd Mariona is one of the filthy rich!”
    â€œYou know, I never thought to bring her a Christmas present. I mean I wasn’t expecting a gift from her. It’s assumed you’re the nephew ... It was lucky you had the forethought!”
    â€œIn fact I didn’t,” he smiled. “Such a dreadful oversight on my part. I gave her the present I’d bought for Montse. I don’t know if she’ll like it. I hope so.”
    â€œMay we ask what it was?”
    I was curious to know what kind of present could equally well do for my Montse and the wealthy Mariona Castany.
    â€œIt was a necklace from the Atlas mountains, from Morocco,” he replied. “I know how much Montse likes ethnic baubles. I expect Mariona will consider it an exotic touch. But I must go back to the shop this afternoon!”
    â€œCourtesy of the MP’s advance.”
    â€œRight, better than pennies from