Free A Not So Perfect Crime by Teresa Solana

another.
Fortunately, as her ex was well heeled, she got a hefty divorce settlement. She liked her brother-in-law Borja, and Monte was convinced they’d make a perfect item. I thought she was wrong.
    â€œWhy not bring Merche along?” I suggested half-heartedly. “You don’t need to say anything about her being married.”
    If Lola saw him in other female company, she’d probably desist.
    â€œNo way,” he cut me short. “Come on, put your coat on and let’s get moving. I parked the Smart outside, and I don’t know about you, but I need a coffee before I can look Mariona’s martinis in the eye. Bugger this weather ...”
    We went to the bar on the corner to warm up and kill time smoking and drinking coffee. Borja used the time to flick through the society pages of the ABC and I got depressed reading about the disasters afflicting the universe. After a while, we got into the Smart and headed towards our friend’s mansion. We had to drive round a while to find a parking space, but it was barely a couple of minutes past one when we strolled up to the front door of the hugely rich and most distinguished Doña Mariona Castany.

6
    My brother’s aristocratic friend lived alone in one the few modernist mansions still surviving intact on the Bonanova in the upper reaches of Barcelona, with a chatterbox Argentine butler and a shy Philippine maid who never said boo to a goose. It was a vast, tastefully and expensively decorated pile you reached via a splendid garden that extended behind the house into a small wood. An enormous bougainvillea spread over one of the walls of the house that, in summer and autumn, was covered in purple flowers that gave the small palace a fairy-tale aura. A thick vegetal tapestry of dark-leaved ivy, as old as the house, completely isolated the mansion and the garden from the outside world.
    Doña Mariona Castany had inherited the house and the whole family fortune on the death of her father. The one and only heir to a patrimony that the next five generations of Castanys would be hard put to pare down – not for want of trying – she refused to contemplate the sale of her palatial abode, even though estate agents were continually knocking on her door and offering veritable fortunes. In another era, the exclusive parties and concerts she held there were the envy of her female friends and enemies, but, ever since her husband died, Mariona hadn’t staged a single event. She’d say sadly she thought it would be in bad taste.
    She’d been widowed seven years ago. Her three daughters, in their day excellent catches that every fortune-hunter in the city chanced their luck with, were now married and
had given Mariona six grandchildren – two a-piece – and three less wealthy but quite arrogant sons-in-law she only tolerated in small doses. Apart from being incredibly wealthy herself, Mariona was intelligent and didn’t suffer fools gladly.
    When we were approaching the door, we passed a familiar face beating a quick retreat. He didn’t look up but grunted a polite “Good day”.
    â€œI recognize that face,” said Borja as the man walked off.
    â€œOf coursed you do. It’s Enrique Dalmau, the politician. You must have seen him on the telly.” And I added, “He’s an MP, and belongs, by the way, to the same party as our client.”
    â€œI see ...”
    Marcelo, the Argentine butler, greeted us as effusively as ever and accompanied us to a spacious drawing room adorned with art-deco lamps and furniture, every one an original. Mariona was waiting for us reclining on a kind of settee, in a rather theatrical pose. She was more or less the age our mother would have been, a well-preserved sixty-five year-old, and she’d adopted Borja as if he were a nephew. Borja would sometimes call her “Aunt Mariona” half affectionately, half in jest. I didn’t dare, but Borja would not just