Free A Not So Perfect Crime by Teresa Solana Page A

peck her on the cheek (I limited myself to a respectful, firm handshake) but venture a gallant, sensual kiss to her hand too.
    She was tall, thin and dynamic. Her silvery, almost white curly hair reached down to her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkled as she chain-smoked Winstons. Now and then she gave a little cough. Her narrow, pointed nose, accustomed to exquisite fragrances as well as to the two packets of cigarettes she polished off daily, supplied an aristocratic air that snub noses, for whatever reason, never do. She wore the latest fashions which made her look more youthful, although she had the good taste at her time of life not to attempt to wear anything low-cut. Mariona Castany had money and class. That day she’d donned stiletto-heeled black boots to highlight her long legs, tight-fitting leather trousers and a short-sleeved white T-shirt with the word “Chanel” splashed at breast level in letters of mother-of-pearl sequins that glinted like fish scales. Her dark skin contrasted with her pale pink lips and nails. It wasn’t hard to imagine Mariona in her heyday driving men crazy.
    â€œSo Lídia is two-timing her MP ...” she smiled as she served up our dry martinis, adding a few drops of gin and a slice of lemon peel.
    â€œI never said we’re working for her husband,” replied Borja, winking at her after he’d sipped his martini. “I only asked you what you know about Lídia Font.”
    Doña Mariona Castany is the kind of woman who knows the low-down on everyone. She and my brother met by chance at the opening of a Tàpies Foundation exhibition and soon became friends. Mariona’s positive that one of the girls at the exclusive Swiss finishing school where she studied was Borja’s fictitious mother. It turned out that one of the Spanish pupils was from Santander. Mariona couldn’t recall her surname. She was a María Eugenia and, from that day on, Borja’s mother assumed that name.
    â€œWhat a pity your mother died so young ...” she sometimes tells him. “It’s not as if we spent a lot of time together, because my parents soon brought me back to Barcelona, when they saw that living away from home didn’t suit me, but obviously I knew her. She was so shy, such a shrinking ...”

    â€œYes, she was ever so,” Borja always replies, remorsefully but never blushing. “She didn’t enjoy the school either and soon returned to Santander. She would reminisce about you ...”
    Mariona and my brother finally created the fiction that she and the so-called María Eugenia had been good friends. After a few martinis Borja will sometimes regale us with anecdotes about the finishing school Mariona had previously told him and she laughs her head off. I suppose she clings to her relationship with Borja because he reminds her of her childhood.
    â€œThis is Borja Másdeu, son of María Eugenia from Santander,” she explains when doing her introductions. “We studied together in a private college in Switzerland. Poor dear, she died very young at the age of forty. Cancer ...” And adds: “It’s as if Borja were a nephew of mine. Look after him, won’t you?”
    Mariona has opened many doors for Borja and is an endless fount of information, though I’m not sure she doesn’t smell a rat in relation to the tale of Borja’s mother. I get the impression she’s sufficiently intelligent, has the sense of humour and savoir-faire to follow his drift with a straight face and amuse herself into the bargain. We always have recourse to Mariona when we need to get the latest on the gossip circulating among Barcelona’s upper classes that constitute the fulcrum of her intense social life. But far from being a gossipmonger, she’s a past master in the art of chasing the latest news and putting two and two together. She’s discreet, well informed and efficient. At any given moment she