“Based on the railway schedule, Inspector, I think you’re lying,” Jonathan smugly tells Uncle Bob.
Freja is insisting, dramatically, that Posy Galore stole her antique sapphire brooch.
I turn to Heidi. “Something isn’t adding up,” I whisper. “Why did Madame Veronique Lavande (Tanya, in full opera-diva glory) say she was in the conservatory when the storm broke, when I overheardher tell Reggie Bottombrook (Uncle Bob) earlier that she hated the conservatory because it reminded her of her first husband’s funeral?”
Her brow furrows. “Hmm…the plot thickens!”
Then I see something.
I cross the room, glance at the floral still life above the mantel, and without thinking, pull it back. A tiny, folded note flutters to the floor.
Everyone goes silent.
Heidi claps. “Ember, tell me it’s what I think it is?”
“I think I found the murder weapon…metaphorically.”
Luc claps. “Incroyable! I’ve been waiting for someone to do that.”
It’s a list of names, numbers, and a strange little sketch of a violet in the upper corner. I scan it once and laugh.
“Oh, this is rich.” I wave the paper in the air like Poirot himself.
Luc taps a knife against a glass for silence. “Well…looks like you have something to tell all of us.” He winks at me.
“It wasn’t the debts. It wasn’t the affair. It wasn’t even poor Charles’ terrible investment in that Moroccan ostrich farm.”
Everyone leans in.
“It was the opera schedule!” I declare triumphantly. “Madame Lavande was booked to perform in Milan the same weekend of the murder.But”—I point dramatically at Tanya, who tries not to look guilty and fails—”there’s a telegram from her agent in the dossier I found earlier. She canceled the performance at the last minute…claiming she had laryngitis.”
There’s a collective, very theatrical, gasp.
Heidi catches on. After all, we have been interviewing everyone together. She paces like a detective in a final scene. “Except! Why would someone with laryngitis be heard arguing in the conservatory, per the maid’s testimony?”
She stops, looks at me. “Ah…why would she do that, partner?”
I grin.
She barks a laugh. “The fifth glass of wine scrambled my brains.”
I whip around dramatically. “Becauseshe was never sick. She washere. Hiding. Watching. And when the victim found out about the canceled performance and threatened to expose her as a fraud—” I snap my fingers—“Voilà! Murder most operatic.”
Tanya shrugs. “Feels as if it’s not a good enough reason to kill, butwhatever.”
Luc bows. “Miss Delacroix, you are wasted as a botanist.”
“Thank you.” I curtsy with a flourish. “Heidi and I will take our winnings now.”
Heidi bows beside me. “My intimidation technique workedflawlessly.”
“How did she intimidate her?” Freja wants to know.
“She told Aunt Tanya I was emotionally unstable and had access to antique knives.” I pick up a butter knife and drag my tongue along the dull edge, eyes wide—full serial killer energy.
“And that,” Heidi says in a bad imitation of Poirot, “is called leverage,Madam.”
Tanya sighs, fanning herself dramatically. “I am undone.”
