My first thought when I lay eyes upon the famed Bertram Casimir is how—ordinary he looks. Handsome, to be sure, with glittering green eyes and a manicured beard, dark hair and a solid build. But for all the hype in the media, I’d expected him to be shrouded in beams of holy light.
He looks at me and then at Elodie with the smooth demeanor of someone who is used to the press, and simultaneously the wariness of someone who keeps his cards close to the vest.
I extend a hand. “Margaux Green,” I say, giving a fake last name. “New Haven Register. Thank you so much for speaking with us; I’m so sorry for the mix-up.”
His hand is cool and soft. His smile is guarded but charming.
Where is your girlfriend, Bertram?I think, as he and Elodie exchange pleasantries and he invites us inside.Did you use these hands to kill her?
There wasn’t much on the internet about his girlfriend, a thirty-year-old Londoner named Annie Clarke. I could find only one photo of her, taken at a distance by a paparazzo as she and Bertram crossed the street in downtown Westport. They were holding hands. She was wearing large sunglasses and a beige trench coat. When I looked at the image, I tried to read her body language. Was she happy? Scared? Had they argued before leaving the house, or had he professed his undying love to her as he served her breakfast in bed in their penthouse apartment? But there was nothing to interpret, like all things in his life, another mystery.
Besides, I haven’t written Annie off as dead, like Erin fears she is. It could have been a private breakup. He could have paid her off so that she didn’t run to the press with the intimate details of his very private life.
And itisa very private life. Bertram’s apartment is as sterile as a furniture showroom. The furniture is unrumpled, a gas fire burning neatly in the hearth. There’s not a single book or errant coffee mug, not a photo on the walls to give any indication of who he is.
Elodie loves the place and tells him as much. But he doesn’t acknowledge the compliment. Instead, he guides us to the white faux-leather couch and offers us a drink.
“What are you having?” I ask him.
“Espresso,” he says. “Best source of caffeine. I don’t buy into energy drinks.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Elodie says, speaking for both of us. “We’ll have the same.”
He moves for the kitchen, and I catch a glimpse of itthrough the doorway. Equally sterile, with small, sleek appliances designed to fit compactly on the open shelving.
I pull out my notebook.
“Where do you think his computer would be?” I whisper.
Elodie nods to the hallway. “One of those rooms. Maybe a home office? Bedroom? I’ll need some time to check. Can you distract him?”
Bertram returns to us with a silver tray containing three neatly presented one-ounce cups of espresso. A lemon rind sits on each of the saucers. Of course, I’d bet he has some pretentious story about how he learned to appreciate espresso in Italy. I’d bet he’s filled with boring stories about where he’s been and what he’s seen, all of which conveniently leave out any shred of his own personality.
As he’s setting the tray before us, I stand, and just as I’m raving about how frothy the crema looks, as though I’ve never seen coffee before, I bump the tray and send the little ceramic cups flying into the air. One splashes him in the chest, instantly staining his gray polo.
“Margaux!” Elodie hisses. She stands immediately and begins scooping up the mugs, which miraculously haven’t shattered. They’re probably made of some new innovative eco-friendly material that’s pitched as containing zero plastic and being highly sustainable. These tech gurus are always on that trend.
“I’m so sorry!” I clasp a hand over my mouth. “Please, let me clean it. I used to work for a dry cleaner. I can get the stain out before it sets.”
“It’s okay,” Bertram starts to say. “Really, I—”
“If you don’t get that stain out, you’re fired, Margaux,”Elodie says, her voice practically a growl. She speaks quietly but still makes sure Bertram can hear her. “You’re already on thin ice.” Then, she flashes Bertram that winning smile. “I am so sorry about this. Nepotism hires, am I right?” She holds up the mugs. “I’ll get this cleaned up in here. Margaux will help with your shirt.”
Bertram doesn’t protest as I drag him toward the hallway and into the bathroom. Maybe it’s because he pities me. I close the door behind us and sag my weight against it, doing my best to summon up some tears. I took an acting class in high school, and the drama teacher taught us that the best way to conjure up some tears on cue is to let your eyes dry out by not blinking. When I cover my face with my hands, it’s a good opportunity to sob. By the time I lower them again, Bertram is standing before me, looking startled.
“She’s going to fire me,” I say. “She already hates me.”
“Hey,” Bertram says, with surprising sincerity. He reaches for the hand towel and dabs at my cheeks, though they’re barely damp. The crying on cue was never my strength. This pathetic act in general isn’t my favorite tactic—I used it once before, on one of my early jobs with Waylen, and he absolutely hated it.“You’re too confident,”he’d said.“I don’t buy it.”I didn’t cry in front of him again until Collette was born.
The towel Bertram brings me is heavenly soft, and white as a summer cloud. “She won’t fire you,” he assures me. “I’ll tell her you’re doing a great job.”
I sniff miserably. “Yeah, so far everything is going really well.”
He smiles and gives me a small laugh. “All right, then, I’ll let you work for it. You can start with getting the stain out of this shirt.” He tugs at the fabric, offering the coffee-splattered bit to me.
“It’ll be easier if you can take it off,” I say, wincing apologetically.
He shrugs out of the shirt with smooth confidence, revealing a gray sleeveless shirt and a subtle ripple of muscles. He isn’t at all embarrassed, though he seems to catch on that he’s taken me aback. I shake it off, gather his shirt in my hands, and make my way to the sink.
