Alex Harris 00 - Poisoned

to do a bit more checking, but if my research is....”
    “Oh! The rest of the macaroons. They’ve probably burned to a crisp by now.” Mrs. Brissart jumped from one of the deep chairs and sprinted down the hall.
    Bradley grabbed another cookie and turned to me. “I’ve got some other stuff I’ll probably need your help with, but I’d like to go over it myself first. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll take a handful of these,” Bradley grabbed several macaroons, “and go outside. It’s really nice today. You know maybe I’ll just take my stuff and go up in my tree house.”
    “Your tree house?” I asked, stopping my typing and reaching for another cookie.
    Bradley blushed. “Yeah, it’s outside.”
    Chantal looked up from her sorting of a stack of papers. “I’ve seen it. I didn’t know anyone used it.”
    Bradley pushed a stray strand of hair out of his face—an endearing trait that probably melted many hearts. “I loved going up there as a kid. I know it sounds weird, but I still like it. It’s peaceful. I used to hide up there when the family gathered. They were nuts back then, too. I’ll just take this blanket. If you need anything or can’t read my writing, just shout. I know I should use my laptop, but writing it out by hand just suits me better.” Bradley took an old crocheted afghan off the back of a chair and left the room.
    “Alex, if it’s okay, I’m going to leave for the day,” Chantal said, as she gathered up her things and touched up her lipstick. “I’ve got to stock the kitchen with food before I go or else my husband will starve while I’m gone. I’ll be in tomorrow morning for a few hours and we can go over any last minute questions you have.”
    When Chantal left, I turned back to the computer and the Brissart family history. I read:
    In 1815, Lucien Cournet, then thirty years of age, was a French businessman doing rather nicely in Paris. Together with his cousin, Joseph Jaeger, they ran a business as suppliers to the French Napoleonic administration, mainly metal for the army weapons factories. Joseph, located in Strasbourg and thus near the iron-ore source, ran the supply side while Lucien, located in Paris and near the Napoleonic decision center, took care of the sales side. Raymond Thiry, slightly older, was an upper-level purchasing agent of the Napoleonic administration. Lucien and Raymond vaguely knew each other but only on a professional basis.
    After 1815 and the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, the period that would come to be known as the “Restauration”, started in France. In actuality, it was a cleaning-up period; a nice way of saying prominent figures, who had in one way or another done well under Napoleon, were gently—or less gently as the case might be—put aside and replaced by those more friendly to the new rulers. This produced a profound effect on the careers of both Lucien and Raymond, so much so that independently and without knowledge of each other’s plans, they both decided to try their luck under more friendly conditions and immigrated to America .
    I stopped typing and reached for my cup of tea only to find it empty. I picked up the papers in one hand and my cup in the other, and went to the kitchen.
    “Can I help you, Alex?” Mrs. Platz asked.
    “No, thanks. I can do it. I just need some hot water.” I filled the kettle at the spotless stainless steel sink and put it on the front burner. I absentmindedly picked up a decorated macaroon, this one sneering at me with its chocolate chip teeth.
    “Mrs. Platz, do you know anything of the family history?”
    “You must be doing something for Bradley,” the old woman said while she rinsed my cup out and dried it.
    “Yes, I am. I’m typing up his notes. It sounds fascinating. Maybe I should do something like this with my own family.”
    “Be careful. You never know what you’ll find out.”
    “That sounds rather ominous, Mrs. Platz,” I said, staring at the woman who was as old as Mrs. Brissart and only an inch or two taller. “Maybe I’ll find my family goes back to some king or queen. Do you know anything about Mrs. Brissart’s family history?”
    “A bit. There’re enough old portraits around this place and the summerhouse. So I know what they all look like—old. And dusty.”
    “Mrs. Platz,” I laughed. “You’re priceless.”
    “Well, you wouldn’t be laughing if you had to dust all of them. I do know old Lucien and that partner of his, never can remember the