Pearl Trilogy: Shimmers Of Pearl Part 21

Amy's mouth turns into the letter O. "Santa Claus drinks c.o.c.ktails?" Whoops, I wish I hadn't said that.

"Non-alcoholic c.o.c.ktails." A vision of Santa Claus on the beach flashes through my mind and it's wrong very wrong. Poor Amy, what have I said? I quickly add. "Actually, no, Santa Claus never goes to the beach; he lives where it's snowy and cold and never leaves because he has to look after his reindeer."

Amy looks relieved. "Are you going to borrow Santa's reindeers for your wedding?"

"Actually, yes he's lending them to me. Isn't that kind of him? And his sleigh."

"You spoke to Santa, himself?"

"Well, no. I don't think many people get to speak to Santa himself. Just his helpers." I suddenly feel terrible. I am outright lying. Is this what grown-ups do? Teach children how to lie then we tell them how they must be honest with us. No wonder we confuse them deceit starts early. I am about to bring a baby into the world and teach him or her, not only how to lie, but do it without flinching.

"What's your cake going to be like, Auntie Pearl?"

I gaze at her sweet, heart-shaped face full of innocence and wonder, and my stomach does a little flip. "Well, the traditional French wedding cake is made of chocolate profiteroles piled up into a big cone, like a tower."

Her eyes become pools of chocolaty desire. "Cool."

"And maybe we can have two wedding cakes, what do you think? One profiterole one, and a beautiful white one? White like my gown and with pink roses to match Elodie's gown...and you know what?"

"What?" slurs Daisy.

"I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier! Amy should be a bridesmaid. She can match Elodie. I'll speak to Zang Toi, I'm sure he can come up with something incredible for Amy."

"So glad you didn't rope me into being the maid of honor," Daisy murmurs, now half conked out, sprawled like a starfish across the bed.

"Well I did ask you but you didn't want to do it."

"I think a grown woman always looks awkward being a maid of honor. In England, we don't do the maid of honor thing, we have little girl bridesmaids."

"That's what made me suddenly think of Amy she'd be adorable all in pink. I'll email Zang, right now, and tell him we have a beautiful little bridesmaid to dress."

Amy starts bouncing up and down on the bed, and for a moment, I'm envious. I remember doing that the feeling of freedom and abandon, flying high underneath my light feet. Oh, to be five once more. "What will my dress be like?" she wants to know.

"I don't know, I'll ask him."

I grab my iPad and send Zang an email which will go directly to his BlackBerry. "He's usually very fast at responding," I tell my eager audience. "So professional."

Then I pick up the hotel phone and call Alexandre again. No reply, just the G.o.ddam voicemail. He would have had plenty of time, by now, to sort stuff out with Laura why isn't he picking up? I leave another message. Five minutes later, a message bleeps in from Zang: How about a Paris Pink, silk taffeta baby doll, bordered with pleated tulle & organza & grosgrain ruffles and grosgrain ribbon sash?

Wreath ( Hair )and tiny basket of baby ivy and pink roses.

I repeat the message to Amy and Daisy. Amy squeals with delight and gets back to her bed jumping. Daisy rocks about, oblivious in her drunken stupor. I call Alexandre again. Nothing. I mumble to myself...

What the h.e.l.l is going on?

Chapter Sixteen.

Alexandre and James stood there glaring at each other. Then they both, simultaneously, looked down at Laura. There she was at the bottom of the staircase, a pool of blood about her head. The stairs were wooden, all except for the bottom step which was made of old granite.

"She must have careened down the stairs like a sled," Alexandre suggested. "Her feet forward and her body slanted backwards, bashing it on the bottom step."

James didn't reply. He bent down for the third time to feel her pulse, but there was no doubt that she was dead. Laura was wearing a crimson, silk satin robe with a s.e.xy negligee underneath. One pretty heeled slipper - the Fredericks of Hollywood kind - was on one foot; the other had obviously skidded across the floor with the fall. She looked all dressed up with a sly touch of rouge on her cheeks and mascara enhancing her almond-shaped, blue eyes, which were wide open in shock, staring up at the ceiling like shiny marbles. She knew Alexandre was coming over; was this her one last effort to seduce him, he wondered?

He surveyed the gruesome scene. It was hard to see where the silk ended and where the blood began; except the blood resembled gloss paint. He'd seen death before, on many occasions, but not like this. Laura's exit had been a glamorous one. Stairs again, thought Alexandre was that Laura's fate, all along? Maybe she had been destined to die, that time. Maybe that was just a dress rehearsal for this.

"You f.u.c.king c.u.n.t," spat James. "You sneaky f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d." He laid his palm across her heart. "You killed my wife!"

Alexandre raised his hands in the air as if making a surrendering gesture. "James, no! What are you saying? That's crazy. I just got here, at the same time you were coming through the front door. I swear. This is just as much a surprise for me as it is for you."

James looked up at Alexandre; a sneer set on his angular face. His blond hair was a little longer than usual, and he looked less like a banker and more like a regular guy that mowed the lawn on Sundays. Except, he knew that James wasn't the lawn-mowing type. He was wearing corduroy pants and a dark green cashmere sweater. Usually, he wore expensive suits. Not today. But he still had that upper cla.s.s air about him: his clipped accent, his Eton education a man who had been used to money and privileges his entire life.

"What I don't understand, is why. Why, Alexandre? Did you try to kill her last time, too? When she had that supposed accident' and she ended up in a b.l.o.o.d.y wheelchair? I mean, it's obvious she fell down the stairs. One push; that's all it must have taken. You f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

A surge of fury gathered in the pit of Alexandre's stomach. He thought of the evidence in the safety deposit box. Laura dead was all he f.u.c.king needed right now. "Okay, James...this is just great. You accusing me of murder? How about I accuse you? Where the f.u.c.k have you been for the last couple of months? Eh? Suddenly appearing like this. Maybe you knew that I was coming over. Laura knew. I called her. Maybe it was really b.l.o.o.d.y convenient for you to b.u.mp her off and then blame me."

"I'm going to call the police," James spluttered, his eyes wet with emotion.

Blood was pounding in Alexandre's ears. He didn't know what to do. The evidence. Laura's note stowed with her lawyer revealing everything if she ever had an accident. What a f.u.c.king mess.

James pushed a few strands of Laura's hair from her face. "Laura wouldn't just fall down her own stairs in her own house now, would she?"

"It is possible, she had those heeled slippers on."

"How the f.u.c.k did you get in, anyway?"

"Through the back, from the garden," Alexandre replied. "I still have your garage keys."

"That's right - your Aston Martin." James shook his head. "I forgot."

Oh Christ. Now Alexandre would have to admit that no, his Aston Martin wasn't there anymore. He had no excuse, whatsoever for coming through the back. He looked really guilty now. Oh f.u.c.k. He'd have to tell the truth; James would soon find out. "Actually, I moved my car a while ago. I knocked on the front door but there was no answer, and Laura didn't pick up the phone. She was expecting me. So I came through the back."

"Nice excuse, Alex. Tell that to Scotland b.l.o.o.d.y Yard." James took out his cell and dialed 999. Alexandre watched him steadily. His heart was pounding like an out of beat drum but trying to stop James would be suicide. f.u.c.k. This was it now. He saw his life flash before him. He'd heard that happened to people when they drowned; and now both the beautiful and hideous, like snapshots, flew through his mind. His father jabbing him in the b.u.t.t with a broken bottle. His sister's screams. Riding on the back of a bicycle with his dad, he was smiling and happy they were going on a picnic in the sun. An IED exploding and blowing off his best friend's head, only missing Alexandre because he'd gone to take a leak around the corner. Pearl's face when he last kissed her when they were dancing. Pearl having an o.r.g.a.s.m, her body juddering in ecstasy...

James's voice sounded distant, even though he was right next to him. James was giving them his address. "Yes, that's right, some type of accident but she's definitely dead. I'm here with her ex-boyfriend. Yes, I'm her husband."

Oh G.o.d, that sounded just peachy the ex. The ex who just happened to be the object of Laura's crazy desires. James disconnected the call. Alexandre knelt down beside Laura. Why did he feel so little compa.s.sion? She was dead, after all. Flesh and blood. He'd loved her once. Tears p.r.i.c.kled his eyes but they weren't for Laura, they were for Pearl. And him. What the f.u.c.k was going to happen now? He wanted to get out of there and run, but that would make him look as guilty as sin.

He got up from his haunches and leaned against the wall to steady himself. "Where have you been, James? I've been calling and leaving messages."

"I know."

"Then why the f.u.c.k didn't you get back to me?"

James sat down on the bottom step which was still smeared with Laura's blood. He didn't seem to notice. The image was surreal. James sitting by his dead wife, looking vaguely sad, yet with an almost imperceptible gleam of relief flickering in his eyes. Alexandre couldn't read him. Had James killed Laura?

"I was in The Priory," James answered solemnly.

The Priory the British equivalent to the Betty Ford Clinic. Rehab for celebrities who take too many drugs, stuff their faces with too many cakes. Deals were made there it was a pretty hip' place to end up. Some people exaggerated their problems just so they could say they'd been to The Priory. Sounded cool to some.

"I didn't know you had a problem."

James looked down at the corpse and buried his face in his hands. "Nor did I. Well, I did, but I was in total denial."

"What was your drug of choice?"

James swallowed nervously. "How d'you know it was drugs?"

"I figured. You've never been an excessive drinker."

"Smack."

"Heroin? Really? You could have fooled me. How did you get to work every day? How did you make all that money?"

James didn't flinch when he answered, "Well, most of my money went up my arm."

That made sense. He'd only ever seen James wear long sleeved shirts, hand-made in Jermyn Street. He wasn't a T- shirt kind of guy.

James went on, eager to share. Alexandre noticed that people fresh out of treatment were always keen to tell their story. "I was a very controlled junkie. I had the budget for the high grade s.h.i.t, you know. But things started spiraling out of control I lost some money on the stock exchange; the tax men were after me. I needed to clean up my act so I went AWOL. My suitcase is still in the hall. I, literally, just got back five minutes ago. And I found you here. And Laura dead."

"So, had you spoken to Laura?" A loaded question. What Alexandre really wanted to know was, how much do you know?

"Of course. She told me she wanted to get back with you and that you were still in love with her."

Oh f.u.c.k! "And you believed her?"

"Well, yes. Why would she lie about that? It's one of the things that drove me into treatment. She was disgusted by me, and rightly so. I was a f.u.c.k-up, a disaster. A junkie. How could I have expected her to live with a man like me? There you were, all sorted out. Making a mint. Good looking. Together. And there was I like a f.u.c.king loser, jacking up every day."

Alexandre laid a hand gently on James's shoulder. After all, they'd been friends before. Sort of. "What she said wasn't true. I'm in love with Pearl, my fiancee. I have never wanted Laura back. Ever. You have to believe me, James."

James flinched his shoulder and Alexandre took his hand away. "I don't know what to f.u.c.king believe. Here we are, the pair of us, sitting next to a dead woman. My wife. The woman I was in love with. The woman I got clean for. I have a feeling you killed her but, obviously I can't prove it."

"James, you don't seem to be that distraught about Laura lying there dead. I could just as easily suppose you killed her."

He looked up at Alexandre, his brows furrowed. "And why the h.e.l.l would I do that?"

"Jealousy. Rage. Revenge. Or simply to stop her taking you to the cleaners. I don't know you could have a million reasons." Alexandre thought of the evidence. Was it possible that it was right here, in the house? He was desperate to check it out before the police arrived. He knew how most women's minds worked; they always kept things of value hidden in their bedrooms. "I'm going upstairs to the bathroom."

"There's a bathroom down here, use that."

"I'd prefer to use the one upstairs."

"Why? So you can do a quick robbery while you're at it? Steal Laura's jewelry?"

"Don't be absurd, James."

"Do what you like, the police will be here any second and you can tell them your bulls.h.i.t excuses about why you broke into our house." He sat like a stone, not budging from the bottom step.

Alexandre skirted around him and mounted the stairs. At the top, he made a right and followed the corridor all the way to the end. The master bedroom door was open. He entered, and scanned his eyes about the room. He'd been to this house on several occasions over the years, and knew his way around. He could hear sirens from two or three vehicles, outside. He looked out of the window, down onto the street. Two police cars and an ambulance had arrived. There was a frantic knock at the front door and he heard James opening it and talking in m.u.f.fled tones to the police. The living room was filling up rapidly with more voices and commotion. Alexandre didn't have much time. He looked under the bed nothing. Laura used to like keeping important things in her closet letters and personal stuff. He opened the closet door, rummaged through hanging dresses, pants and shirts and he glimpsed something shiny at the back was it the t.i.tanium hip? No, just was a silver sequin jacket.

"What the f.u.c.k are you doing?" It was James standing behind him. Alexandre spun around. James edged closer, a scowl set on his sharp face as if he was about to lash out.

"Nothing. Sorry," Alexandre replied. But James leapt at him, launching his slim body at Alexandre like a missile, his right fist flailing in the air aiming for his face. Alexandre ducked and clamped James's wrists tightly behind his back. Fighting was the last thing he wanted to do.

A policewoman quickly entered the bedroom, and a policeman rushed from behind, barging her out of the way and diving at the two men locked together; Alexandre was still immobilizing James who was thrashing about like a fish on a hook.

The policeman and another colleague, also pushing his way through the room, shouted out, "I want you two to come with us down to the police station."

James shouted out, "This b.a.s.t.a.r.d killed my wife! He broke into my house, uninvited. He must have shoved her down the stairs. They were lovers."

Alexandre shook his head and mumbled, "It's not true." What a f.u.c.k-up. He knew, though, that the best course of action was to remain calm and wait for his attorney. He'd call Sophie and get their legal team onto it. He had never needed a criminal lawyer before, but they had a good one on HookedUp's payroll, just in case.

Alexandre was silent. He released James's wrists and put his hands up peacefully. Oh s.h.i.t. He needed his attorney, and fast.

"He basically broke into my house," offered James, nursing the burns on his wrists and glowering at Alexandre.

The policeman, a pale-faced man in his fifties, eyed both men up and down and said, "Look, there is a dead woman below and I don't have time to play Sherlock Holmes. I want you both down at the station, now, to make a statement and give interviews. I'll want to take DNA swabs meanwhile, the forensic team will tell us if there's been any foul play."

"I know my rights!" James yelled. "Either arrest me now, or leave me be. You have no right to force me to come down to the station, let alone take any b.l.o.o.d.y DNA samples! I'll give my statement, right here, in my own house, thank you very much."

Alexandre noticed the policeman's thin lips quiver with rage. James answering back in his pompous Etonian accent, had really got his goat.

The officer, a small and important' man, told him, "Alright, so be it. I'm arresting you both on suspicion of manslaughter." He puffed up his chest and said in a monotone, "You have the right to remain silent, if you give up this right, anything you say can, and will be used as evidence against you in the court of law. You have the right to..."

The man's voice was a swirl of words spinning about in Alexandre's dazed head. He felt as if someone was smothering him with cotton wool. He tented his fingers in front of his face and mumbled, "This is crazy." But he noticed a sneer on the policeman's lily-white face. d.a.m.n. He shouldn't have spoken.

The other officer said, in a broad c.o.c.kney accent, "What are you? b.l.o.o.d.y foreign or something?"

Alexandre was aware that he shouldn't have opened his mouth. His French accent would not go down well. At all. The English hated the French, it was common knowledge. Frogs, they called them. The French, in return, nicknamed the Brits Roast Beef', not because of their national dish, but because of the color their bodies turned in summer as they slumped about Mediterranean beaches sporting agonizing sunburns.

James piped up, "It's him you should be questioning, not me! He broke into my house, I tell you."

Alexandre wanted to defend himself, explain he'd been invited, that the back door was open and he had a key to the garage but he bit his lip. He needed to stay calm, wait for his attorney to be present. He simply shook his head.

"So you don't know this man?" asked the policewoman looking at James.

"Yes, I do know him, I told you that, downstairs. He's my wife's ex-boyfriend."

"Is this true, sir?" the Napoleon complex officer asked Alexandre.

"I'd rather wait to give my statement down at the station with my lawyer present, if you don't mind," Alexandre answered quietly. He knew his rights. He couldn't be kept at a police station for more than twenty-four hours without being charged, although this could be extended to thirty-six hours with the authority of a police superintendent, and for up to ninety-six hours with the authority of a magistrate, which is exactly what could happen if they got wind of the whole IVF nonsense. He could hear them downstairs now, probably the forensics team s.h.i.t, now he thought about it, traipsing upstairs wasn't such a great idea. His footprints would be all over the staircase, proof that he could have pushed Laura. After all, it wasn't his house. James could have his footprints or fingerprints anywhere, and so what? But Alexandre was another story, altogether. That, plus coming in from the back when n.o.body was home, did not look good at all.