Free The Girl Who Remembered the Snow by Charles Mathes Page B

had actually referred to the Kaito Spirit as Emma’s legacy, though his words had made no sense:
    â€œ … that she may take her place at the helm and turn the wheel on the legacy that I have kept hidden from her.”
    What legacy was Pépé talking about? The million dollars? What did that have to do with some boat that he had sailed on thirty years ago? And how was she supposed to take her place at its helm?
    â€œA friend of mine was murdered here the other night,” Emma said in a quiet voice, remembering why she had come to the Alhambra.
    The desk clerk looked up, his eyebrows collapsing in astonishment. He certainly seemed to see Emma now.
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œI said, a man was murdered here.”
    The most intolerable thing about her grandfather’s death had been its senselessness. Henri-Pierre’s death, however, had changed everything. Two apparent strangers shot with the same gun couldn’t be coincidence, no matter what the police said. There was a single reason why both men had died, a connection between them; there had to be.
    Emma couldn’t believe Detective Poteet wasn’t taking Henri-Pierre’s
death more seriously. Before getting off the phone with her he had even had the gall to suggest that their best hope was to wait for a tip from somebody to whom Henri-Pierre’s murderer might have bragged. Just another random act of violence, he had said. But Emma knew Poteet was wrong. The Alhambra was the logical place to begin proving it.
    â€œHis name was Caraignac,” Emma said aloud. “I understand he was shot on Saturday night.”
    â€œI’m certain that you’re mistaken, Miss Passant. This is the Alhambra.”
    â€œNo mistake, I promise you.”
    There had been no clues to Pépé’s murder, but Henri-Pierre’s was different. On the ferry the Frenchman had said he was overdue to be back in New York, so he must have stayed at the Alhambra awhile. He would have talked to people, perhaps had meetings in the lobby or the restaurants. This was where Emma had last seen Henri-Pierre, where he had died. Somewhere his path must have crossed Jacques Passant’s. That intersection was the key to everything. Emma intended to find it.
    She swallowed hard, steeling herself. She wanted to get the hardest part over first.
    â€œI’d like to see the room where it happened, if I may.”
    â€œPerhaps you should speak with Mr. Anthony,” said the distressed clerk, his eyebrows elevating again. “Please wait here a moment.”
    The young clerk hurried away to an office at the back, giving Emma a moment to catch her breath.
    She couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. She knew it was probably pointless wanting to see the room where Henri-Pierre had been killed, but as a magician Emma had learned never to assume anything. Illusions worked because of the audience’s assumptions. People thought that Sergio disappeared into thin air because they assumed the base of the trick cage was too small to conceal him. They thought that Emma produced the playing
cards they were thinking of by magic, because they assumed she couldn’t have fifty-two different cards concealed in fifty-two different places on her person.
    But they were wrong. She could. And she had.
    The key here, Emma knew, was to make no assumptions. She had to see everything Henri-Pierre had seen, touch everything he had touched, and maybe, ultimately, she would understand why things had happened as they had.
    After a moment the clerk returned with a well-groomed older man with iron-gray hair and half-glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He stopped behind the desk directly in front of Emma and studied her as an owl might study a mechanical mouse.
    â€œI’m Raymond Anthony, the manager,” he finally said in a smooth baritone. “May I help you?”
    â€œYes. I’d like to see the room where Mr. Caraignac was killed Saturday