The Last Resort by Carmen Posadas Read Free Book Online

you?”
    Fernanda, a bit grudgingly, quickened her pace. “Whatever you say,” she replied. “But there’s something else, something I heard about through the maid connection, and I am sure you will find it very interesting. It has to do with a certain bracelet. All right, all right. I will only say one thing about it so that I can leave you with a bit of intrigue to ponder during your trip to Morocco. Would you believe that foolish little Isabella actually thought that nobody would ever find out that she had been right there when everything happened, and she actually turned up at the funeral, blasé as can be? And, of course, since the church was filled with photographers—only complete nobodies have funerals without paparazzi—my poor friend Mercedes is now being hounded day and night by the magazines, all of them begging her to tell the sad story. And let me tell you something else: I am a perfect saint for telling the most innocent version of the story, because there are two or three other hypotheses out there that are plenty more interesting. In one hypothesis, the wicked witch is Isabella, naturally, but in another, would you believe, the bad girl is the widow! Because, now, you tell me,” Fernanda added, with the sauciest little smile. “Didn’t you find it extremely odd that the wife just suddenly appeared like that in the middle of the night, out of nowhere? A bit strange, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Darling, that only proves that she trusted her friend about as much as she would a poisonous viper.”
    “So much hearsay. So many conflicting accounts. I don’t know what to say,” Fernanda said, shrugging her shoulders. “I suppose that is the price of being rich and fascinating. At least,
I
will never suffer from such problems. Poor Mercedes Algorta . . .”
    “Who the devil is Mercedes Algorta?”
    “The widow, Rafamolinet. My God, to hear you talk, it’s as if you haven’t heard a word I said. Oh—is this my bus? Are you sure it goes to Park Lane?”
    They said good-bye with a hasty kiss on the cheek. The last few words they exchanged involved family members, hugs to all, and the like.
    “If I come back to London, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
    “Yes, yes, please do.” And they looked at each other, smiles frozen on their faces. That was precisely when Fernanda leaned forward toward her uncle, as if to tell him something. Stuck between all those people, hanging from a pole, she looked like a little schoolgirl in her blue raincoat.
    “You know something, Rafamolinet? Curiosity is the virtue of the wise,” she said at the very last moment. And perhaps she would have added a thing or two, but the din of the city had already closed in on Molinet. It was almost five o’clock.
    Kellogg’s Corn Flakes
    Even before Molinet crossed the sliver of sidewalk separating the bus stop from the entrance to the Sloane Square station, Fernanda’s story was already long gone from his mind, replaced by more domestic concerns. It was dark, and the rain reminded him of the socks he had left hanging on the clothesline outside his bathroom window, and suddenly he noticed how ruthlessly the cold weather penetrated his feet, so poorly protected by the Italian moccasins—made of Moroccan leather, incidentally—that he saved for special occasions.
    He ascertained that his pants’ hem as well as his shoes were looking very shoddy indeed. Without realizing it, he must have stepped in a puddle somewhere, though he couldn’t recall when. A long gray line snaked around the circumference of each shoe, threatening to turn white if not dried off immediately. Molinet tried rubbing his shoes against the hem of his pants. They looked a bit better now, he thought, and continued walking. Of course, he would have no choice but to treat them with a coat of his expensive shoe polish the minute he arrived home if they were to be in tiptop shape for his journey to Morocco the next day. Perhaps they had not been the best choice