Free The Girl Who Remembered the Snow by Charles Mathes

on—at least in this city of ours—considering present interest rates. Jacques had his social security and still took the odd jobs, you know.”
    â€œBut where did he get it, all that money?”
    â€œJacques did not get all that money, as you say,” pronounced Charlemagne, shaking a perfectly manicured finger. “It grew. Like the tree from the seed.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, it grew?”

    â€œYour grandfather had some capital when first we met so many years ago,” said the lawyer, pursing his thin lips with obvious pride. “A modest amount, from the sale of property he had owned. From this, the industrious Charlemagne Moussy helped him to make the down payment on the house you now wish to sell. The rest, we invested. I have the knack for such things, and the market, she did well. Your grandfather lived simply, letting the portfolio build up so that you could have a better life. The best way to make money is never to spend it, you know.”
    â€œI’m stunned,” said Emma. “I don’t know what to say.”
    â€œJacques loved you very much. Of this I am sure.”
    â€œLook at me,” said Emma, digging into the pocket of her jeans for a piece of Kleenex and wiping her eyes, which were full of tears, yet again. “I’m a total mess. Maybe I can get a job as a fountain.”
    â€œIt is understandable,” said Charlemagne.
    â€œWhat do you think happened, Charlemagne?” said Emma after a moment, collecting herself. “Why was Pépé killed?”
    â€œIt was a mugging. A random street crime.”
    â€œYes, yes, that’s what everybody said at first, but it makes no sense now.
    â€œThe senseless violence, it is the disease of our time.”
    â€œOne isolated death, maybe. But how could it be a coincidence —Henri-Pierre Caraignac being killed with the same gun?”
    The lawyer stood, and walked to his desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his face inscrutable.
    â€œThis I do not know,” he said finally. “I told the police last week everything I can think of, which is nothing. Nobody would have wished to harm dear, sweet Jacques, and I have never heard of this Caraignac person.”
    Emma looked down. She was still clutching the strange bone in her hand, clutching it so hard her knuckles were white. Now she forced herself to relax her grip.

    â€œWhat is this thing, anyway?”
    â€œIt is a carved bone.”
    â€œYes, I can see that.”
    â€œProbably not human, Jacques always assured me. He gave it to me, you know. Many years ago. It was one of those primitive things he liked so well.”
    Emma took a deep breath. That was it! She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before. The carved lines and figures were identical to the carving on the wooden figures in her grandfather’s room.
    â€œIt was Jacques who first taught me that I should have little toys for the nervous clients to play with,” Charlemagne continued, a sad smile passing over his face. “‘Calm a man’s hands and you calm his mind,’ he used to say. He was very wise about such things. I miss him very much.”
    Emma turned the bone over in her hand. The carving was not deep and had been worn smooth. The artifact felt old and strangely comfortable to hold, as if it had been specifically made for anxious hands.
    â€œWhere did my grandfather get it, do you think?”
    â€œThis, I do not know,” said Charlemagne, wiping his eye, apparently still thinking of his friend. “One of my clients, he is a collector of primitive art—and greedy wives, I am sorry to say—told me he believed the bone to be Kaito.”
    â€œKaito?”
    â€œAn Indian tribe, native to one of those islands in the Caribbean.”
    Suddenly Emma remembered.
    The name on the model boat that had disappeared from Pépé’s dresser had been Kaito Spirit. And carved directly underneath had been