The French Connection

Shelley always thought that for someone originally from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, Lionel certainly had transformed himself into a citizen of the world. In any case, fortified by a grande cafe latte and a new sense of resolve, Shelley watched Lionel tweak the knot in his ascot. The thought of losing one of their principal customers appeared to bring out his obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

“So-o, have you finalized your arrangements to France?” he asked. “It’s imperative that the company send a representative imme-e-diately. Just remember, the Remingtons will be out in the co-old if we do not secure the Montfort chateau.”

She positioned the tip of an index finger on the table in the same way she had seen Carly Fiorina, the CEO of Hewlett-Packard, do in a newspaper photograph and leaned slowly forward. The position really killed her knuckle, but she didn’t want to mar the effect. “I appreciate your concern, Lionel, and despite the rush, I can safely say I have things under control. First off, I was here until two in the morning making sure the office paperwork is ahead of schedule, and that means the arrangements for the rest of the properties won’t fall through the cracks.

“I’ve also contacted everyone—clients, homeowners, workmen—that for the next week or so I can only be reached by e-mail. I’ve left a similar message on the company phone line,” she went on. “In addition, I’ve downloaded all the relevant phone and fax numbers as well as e-mail addresses to my personal laptop, which I will take with me. I’ve also made arrangements to lease a cell phone with international dialing capabilities, but I plan to give that number only to a few people—you being one of them, of course—for emergency purposes.”

Lionel nodded. “Yes, I’m glad you limited the number of people with the phone number. The ca-ah-alling fees on those phones are monstrous.”

What a cheapskate. Actually, Shelley had been anticipating his reaction and she had purposely highlighted her fiscal prudence regarding the phone so that she could go in for the real kill.

She stood up straighter, accentuating her 34Bs. She had chosen a tight, powder-blue cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. Ladylike but va-va-voom.

The corner of Lionel’s mouth jerked in a spasm. Her mild walk on the wild side seemed to have an immediate impact. Shelley waited for him to swallow.

“I also contacted the travel agent yesterday and I should have the arrangements finalized today.” She paused. “Unfortunately, given the short notice, it seems that tourist class to Paris with a transfer to Marseilles/Marignane Airport is sold out. Business class looks to be the only viable option.” True, there was a Moldavian charter flight, but it was flying out of Baltimore via Brussels and it lasted something like eleven hours. Totally unacceptable for a woman about to embark on a life-altering adventure.

Lionel blanched at the information before finally nodding. “If that’s the case, then by all means do whatever is necessary.”

But just when Shelley was ready to bask in her triumph, Lionel hit her with information that made her think eleven hours via Brussels might not be such a bad idea after all.

“I’m counting on you, Shelley. Dream Villas has never needed you as much as now. Because, you see—” he halted as if struggling to get the right words out “—it’s more than the Remingtons we’ll have to worry about if we don’t close the deal. It’s the government….” His voice trailed off.

Shelley blinked. “The government? What’s the government got to do with it?”

Lionel suddenly looked every one of his many mysterious years. “The Internal Revenue Service has threatened to close down Dream Villas unless I make substantial restitution for what they consider to be unpaid back taxes.”

“I don’t understand. I religiously submit the business’s revenue and expense forms to Bernie, our accountant.” A nice man, even if he did send the world’s worst Christmas cards—these atrocious paintings of Nativity scenes by, yes, his own brush, one step up from paintings on black velvet.

“But apparently you incorrectly submitted the information about all the workmen we’ve hired over the years.”

“Hold on there. I submitted those figures just as you instructed me to do—indicating that the workers were hired on a per-job basis and not as employees of the company.” Shelley took a deep breath, trying to keep panic at bay. She tasted stale air and remnants of Lionel’s Eau de Sauvage aftershave.

“Apparently the IRS no longer considers that a valid arrangement. Not only am I supposed to pay the taxes owed but there is a sizable penalty, as well.” Lionel looked at the tips of his tassel loafers. “You realize, of course, that your name appears on the correspondence to the accountant as well as on the checks.” He looked dolefully into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“Considering the humongous size of the checks I’ve cut over the years—checks Bernie specifically had me make out to ‘Cash’ so that he could divide them among the appropriate agencies—you’d think he’d be able to keep up on changes in the law.” The tightness that gripped Shelley’s throat had nothing to do with the stratospheric pollen count. “Are you trying to tell me that I could be liable, as well?”

“I purposely didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to worry you.” He reluctantly shook his head. “I was sure I could handle the situation myself.”

As if. The man didn’t even know how to use the fax machine, and she seriously doubted if sleeping with the IRS investigator—Lionel’s usual business ploy—would prove effective. “And somehow the Remingtons’ rental is tied in with all this mess?” she asked.

“It’s absolutely essential. The government has agreed not to assume control of the business if I can make a significant payment by next Tuesday. As the situation stands now, however, the chateau is unavailable for rent starting July first, which means we will have to return the Remingtons’ money. And without that, our cash on hand is just too low—meaning they could start to seize business and personal assets imme-e-diately.” He sniffed loudly.

“What about the money we’ll get from the Nosenbergers? They’re renting the place for two weeks at the beginning of June, and their contract is still valid before the leasing agreement runs out.”

Lionel shook his head. “It’s better than nothing but not nearly enough. June is shoulder-season rates, and their stay is wa-ay too short.”

Shelley swallowed pensively. “Next Tuesday, huh?” She rapped her fingers on the table. “Even with flying out tonight, that only gives me six days.” Less than a week to bail out the business, keep her job and pay off her student loans. And stop her belongings from becoming government property. Not that her valuables would bring much: a coral necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother, a small etching that she’d bought upon joining the ranks of the employed, a spotty collection of mostly used art-history books and her Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls.

“So now you understand why you must not fail in your dealings with the Montforts, for your sake and for Dream Villas’,” Lionel implored dramatically.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She was beyond giving him support. As far as she was concerned, he was the one who had gotten them into this mess. She was of half a mind to follow in her father’s footsteps and run away to the circus.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way that she could imagine herself in tights and spangles. Oh, well, she had wanted to spread her wings and take new risks—all by herself.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if the risks were being thrust upon her instead.

Maybe wearing tight blue cashmere hadn’t been such a good choice after all.

THE FATE OF DREAM VILLAS and her own personal solvency resting heavily on her shoulders, Shelley slammed the door to her tiny Renault rental car and stared at the massive entryway of the Montfort chateau. For the first time in her life, Shelley had come across a situation where neither chocolate nor red wine provided a measure of comfort. Just as long as she could hold off the panic, she figured she had a chance—maybe.

She let her eyes drift above the heavy wooden doors to a carved stone tympanum. The ravages of time and intermittent Provençal rains had nearly obliterated the bas-relief, and she had to squint to make out what was left of it. At first glance, it looked like a lumpy pancake on a circular platter, but Shelley soon realized it actually depicted a squat-shaped animal surrounded by a raised medallion. A porcupine in full profile, to be exact.

“Just great,” Shelley muttered. “A family that prides itself on its prickliness.” Still, she had a job to do—and fast—even if it meant facing aristocrats who fashioned themselves after a spiny woodland creature. “I suppose it could have been worse. They could have chosen a skunk.”

She reached for the heavy iron ring that hung at eye level and knocked. And waited.

And waited some more.

Tapping the tip of her black slide shoes on the pebbly gravel, she looked around. Enormous terra-cotta urns overflowing with red geraniums, blue lobelia and something yellow and vaguely daisylike edged the circular drive. To the side, an allée of stately cypresses led to a fountain, which splashed amidst mounds of lady’s mantle. A low stone wall defined the garden’s perimeter, and beyond, almond trees covered with loose bunches of white flowers marched in neat rows across the rolling hills. It was A Year in Provence come to life, only without the workmen in desperate need of a shave and long-lasting deodorant.

Shelley glanced at her watch. It was several minutes past the appointment time that she’d arranged over the phone. She raised her hand to knock again when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. An elderly woman walking briskly from around the back of the house came into view.

“Mademoiselle McCleery, by chance, is that you?” The woman’s English had a sibilant French accent with a distinct oddity. The r of McCleery trilled off her tongue, reminding Shelley of an extra—a most unlikely one—from Braveheart.

“Yes, I’m Shelley McCleery.” Shelley walked over and held out her hand and then realized she was holding flowers. “You’re very kind to receive me. These are for you and your family.” She handed over a bouquet of red and purple anemones de Caen.

“How thoughtful, and how delightful to have something colorful in the house. Unfortunately, we have been deluged with white lilies. One would think it was still Good Friday.” She paused. “But perhaps that is appropriate after all—Madame la Comtesse always did fancy herself God’s gift to creation.” Her voice contained an hauteur matched only by the artful upsweep of her silver-gray hair. Massive, yellowing opera-length pearls like something out of a portrait by Rembrandt rested atop her black silk shantung dress.

“I am Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. I am sorry I was not here to meet you immediately, but you see, it is only the clients who inhabit the chateau when they are here. We—that is, the family—live in the cottage behind the chateau. It saves on heating and staff costs.”

“Yes, of course.” Shelley nodded, trying her best to follow the accented and somewhat convoluted syntax. One thing was certain; she recognized the name Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. The former count, who’d predeceased his late wife by a good fifteen years, had two female cousins who also lived on the estate, and it was one of them who invariably attended to business.

Marie-Jeanne guided Shelley around the main house to the cottage, which was nestled between twin apricot trees. Its multipaned glass doors were open to the warmth of the midday sun and white curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was picture-postcard perfect—and also, by the looks of it, easily large enough to accommodate a family of six. The Montforts may have come down in the world, but one family’s descent was another’s dream come true.

“Isabelle, Mademoiselle McCleery is here.” The Cuban heels of Marie-Jeanne’s black pumps tapped on the cool tile floors as they entered the kitchen, where another elderly woman was waiting. She was practically a double for Marie-Jeanne except that she was dressed in a black wool suit instead of a dress. Her sole piece of jewelry was a moonstone ring as large as the average quail egg, which years of etiquette and an excessively large knuckle kept poised on her tapered finger.

“This is my sister, Isabelle de Montfort, Mademoiselle McCleery,” Marie-Jeanne made the introductions.

“Please call me Shelley, Lady de Montfort,” Shelley insisted. “And let me say I was so sorry about your recent loss. My employer, Mr. Toynbee, especially wanted me to convey his sympathies regarding the comtesse.”

“Why am I not surprised at Monsieur Toynbee’s sympathies?” Isabelle pursed her lips.

Marie-Jeanne passed the flowers to her sister. “Isabelle and I continue to take solace in that fact that la comtesse was merely a relative by marriage.” She reached for a Sèvres vase and removed a cache of wooden spoons and a folded sheet of paper with typed names. Shelley recognized the list of repairmen that she regularly updated for each property owner.

Isabelle smelled the flowers. “Are they not lovely?” She placed them in the vase, filled it with water and set the arrangement in a place of honor on the table. “Though to give the late comtesse credit, you must admit, ma soeur, that she did have rather shapely calves.”

Marie-Jeanne wiped her hands on a dish towel that was embroidered with a row of bumblebees—there seemed no end to the prickliness of the Montforts. “It is true, Isabelle, and something clearly not lost on Bertrand.” She looked at Shelley. “Our cousin, the late count, was—how do you say?—a leg man. He once raised livestock, you see.”