Read Online The Girl Who Remembered the Snow by Charles Mathes - Free Book Online

though she was only able to take one sip before Jean was marshaling her down the hall toward Charlemagne’s office. “Look, if he needs to do paperwork, I can come back later.”
    â€œDon’t be silly, dear,” said Jean, knocking once on the door and pushing it open. “You’ve been through so much. Look who’s here, Mr. Moussy! It’s Emma, Emma Passant.”
    The office they had entered was a high-ceiling space with wood-paneled walls and a worn Oriental rug. An old-fashioned sofa, upholstered in velvet hung with tassels, sat against one wall beneath an oil painting of a huge vase of flowers. A window overlooking San Francisco’s financial district graced another wall, flanked by shelves full of books and knickknacks. Directly opposite the entrance door was a gigantic inlaid brass-mounted desk, its vast tooled-leather surface bare except for a silver letter opener, an appointment book, and a pink porcelain teacup full of tea. On the wall behind the desk was another large oil painting, this one
of a woman playing a cello. Seated at the desk was Charlemagne Moussy.
    Jacques Passant’s attorney and oldest friend was a small man of enormous dignity and meticulous personal habits. He stood precisely five feet four, wore an impeccably tailored navy-blue suit with an almost imperceptible pinstripe, a dove-gray shirt, and a crimson bow tie. His lapel, as always, featured a fresh white carnation. As always, three peaks of white silk handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket of his suit.
    Charlemagne’s hair was still jet-black, though he had to be in his seventies. Emma wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the little lawyer dyed it, but then she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he didn’t. Despite his age, there was something outrageously vital about Charlemagne, from the tips of his tiny pink ears to the pointed toes of his Italian leather shoes.
    â€œEmma, ma chère,” said Charlemagne, rising to his feet. “What a delightful surprise for me. How very nice it is to have the pleasure of your visit.”
    Emma hadn’t seen Charlemagne since that first terrible day at the police station, though she had spoken with him several times over the week that followed. Now she rushed to his open arms and let them embrace her, nearly spilling her coffee in the process.
    â€œOh, Charlemagne,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
    â€œI’ll leave you two alone,” said Jean with a satisfied smile.
    â€œThank you, Miss Bean.”
    The secretary left, closing the door behind her.
    Charlemagne led Emma over to the couch, a double-caned canapé with a few needlepoint throw pillows and a single cushion about as thick as a waffle. In an instant all that had been happening poured out—how she and Henri-Pierre Caraignac had met; how Detective Poteet had called with the shocking news of his murder, committed with the same gun that had killed Jacques Passant; how the model boat had disappeared from her grandfather’s
dresser, and why Emma was convinced that someone had been in the house.
    Charlemagne listened attentively, reacting with a comforting mixture of amusement and solemn approval at the story of how Pépé’s ashes had been deposited in San Francisco Bay, asking an occasional question to clarify just what it was that Emma had seen at the house. When she was finished, he clapped his hands on his thighs and nodded his head decisively.
    â€œAh, oui,” he declared. “I see why it is that you were afraid. We must not take the chances with our peace of mind. You were right to leave the house, of course. You must not return until the locks, they are changed.”
    â€œI’m not going back at all,” said Emma, taking a final sip of her coffee. It was lukewarm now, but strong enough for Emma’s taste, meaning that it probably could be used to remove paint.
    â€œBut it is your home.”
    â€œNot