Page 4 of One Last Regret

Here is where the true grandeur of the Lacroix legacy is revealed. The parlor is arranged like a massive amphitheater with curved sofas and delicately carved coffee tables separated by artfully placed decorative tables topped with plants and sculptures. This opulence, however, pales in comparison to the single most important and elegant piece in the entire house.

The piano.

I have read the history of this instrument. A 1913 model Bluthner Model 1 in polished ebony, this piano once adorned the home of J.D. Rockefeller. Upon the magnate’s death, the piano was sold to a museum in New Orleans, where it remained until a young Marcel Lacroix, perhaps not realizing how sacred the piece was or perhaps not caring, sneaked past the ropes onto the display and began to play. The museum’s director was so awed by the young man’s playing that he agreed to sell the instrument. It was the instrument on which Marcel recorded every piece he ever wrote.

“Oh, yes. Marcel’s piano.” Josephine scoffs. “I keep meaning to sell it, but I never get around to it. I kept it for Marcel, but it’s such an eyesore in the parlor.” She sighs. “I really should list it. Anyway, come along. I’ll show you to your room.”

I am taken aback by Josephine’s dismissal of her husband’s legacy. She shows such love for her grandfather clock, but to scoff at her husband’s instrument?

This is where Sean would warn me once more not to read too much into something. Perhaps I should follow that advice, but I can’t help but let my mind wander to dangerous places.

Perhaps due to fate or perhaps due to coincidence, most of the families I have worked for as a governess have harbored dark and deadly secrets. Sean says that it’s my subconscious need to reveal what’s hidden that leads me to find these places without realizing that I’m looking for them. He could be right.

Whatever the reason, I begin to wonder if there isn’t at least a slight chance that Marcel Lacroix’s death wasn’t accidental.

But that’s foolish and more than a little rude. I have no concrete reason to suspect Jospehine in her husband’s death. Besides, he didn’t die at home, but in concert, and Miss Josephine was said to be so distraught that her son had to physically restrain her from attacking the coroner taking his body.

And it’s not my business anyway. That’s not why I’m here. I intend to solve a mystery, but not the mystery of whether or not Marcel Lacroix was murdered. I am here to learn whether or not my sister ever visited New Orleans. I won’t learn the answer to that worrying over an old piano.

We reach my room, and I am stunned by its opulence. The room is spacious with a king-sized bed, a table with two upholstered chairs and a master bathroom with a hot tub. I am used to being somewhat spoiled in my accommodations, but this is another level entirely.

Seeing my reaction, Josephine says, “This was my daughter’s room. Sylvie. She married and moved to Austria thirteen years ago. I’ve kept the room in case she visits, but she never does, so it’s yours now.”

My head is reeling too much to make sense of things at the moment, so I limit myself to, “Thank you. This is wonderful.”

She smiles and squeezes my hand before saying, “Well, I’ll let you get settled. I do hope you’ll join us for dinner, though. You’ll get to meet Etienne and the twins. Oh, I just know they’ll love you!”

She leaves me then. I sit on the edge of the bed and wonder if I’ve allowed my whims to carry me too far once more. I came here to find Annie, but whether it’s the ominous chime of the clock, the disdain Josephine shows for Marcel’s piano, or the shocking revelation that her own daughter refuses to visit, I can’t help but feel that I’ve been pulled into yet another mystery.

CHAPTER TWO

I head downstairs for dinner with a somewhat better command of my thoughts. It’s hypocritical of me to travel to New Orleans on the strength of a vision connected to a concert flyer only to dismiss Josephine’s behavior around Marcel’s piano as unimportant, but I can rationalize my decision to come here based on the fact that my repressed memories have come to the forefront before in meaningful ways. Perhaps the same thing is occurring now. I can’t rationalize interpreting Jospehine’s offhanded comment in front of a stranger as meaning that she murdered her husband.

So I reach the dining room focused only on meeting Josephine’s son and two grandchildren, the latter of which I’ll be caring for in my capacity as governess. As I near the dining room, I hear what sounds like an argument between Josephine and an adult man I assume is Etienne.

“Of what importance is legacy when we face ruin?” Etienne asks.

Josephine scoffs. “Oh please, you always exaggerate. We are nowhere near ruin.”

“The club hasn’t made money in years, Mother. Not since—”

“Hush. I think I hear her.”

A moment later, the door opens, and Josephine smiles at me. “Mary! Come on in. You’re just in time. Philippa is just about to serve the hors d’oeuvres. Children? Stand, be polite.”

I step inside to see a tall, dark-haired man with aquiline features standing in between two twelve-year-old children. One of the children, the girl, is tall and dark-haired like her father with the same aquiline nose. The other, the boy is shorter with blonde hair and round features with an adorable, upturnednose and strikingly bright blue eyes. It is clear that they aren’t identical twins. I assume the boy takes after his mother.

The father smiles at me and extends his hand. “How do you do, Miss Mary? I’m Etienne Lacroix, Josephine’s son.”

“She knows all that, Etienne. Introduce her to the children.”

Etienne starts to roll his eyes but stops. “Of course, Mother.” He gestures to his daughter. “My daughter, Amelia.”

She steps forward, extending her hand and boldly saying, “How do you do, Miss Mary?”

I smile and bow slightly as I take her hand. “I am well, thank you, Amelia. And how are you?”

“I’m good.” She quickly corrects herself. “Well.”

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