The Zurich Conspiracy

Hartwell know about them? And why had she chosen a relatively unknown photographer? The cold brought tears to Josefa’s eyes. She picked up the pace a step or two and decided to catch the streetcar at Paradeplatz. Pamela liked to flirt, that’s what people at Loyn said, discreetly of course. She had just turned twenty-three and was fifteen years younger than Colin—an Australian beach bunny with beguiling green eyes. Every photographer’s dream.
    Josefa needed some consolation. A hot chocolate with whipped cream in Confiserie Sprüngli was just what the doctor ordered. Weeks later it would dawn on her that it must have happened during that half hour in the Sprüngli. While she was unwittingly dipping her spoon into the whipped cream and wallowing in self-pity, Francis Bourdin took his life. And while she was taking the streetcar home, Francis’s wife must have discovered the suicide note and gone looking for her husband. At last she found him in the garage where he had pumped exhaust fumes into his Maserati. The police stated afterward that there were “no grounds for suspicion” that Bourdin was involved in Schulmann’s violent death; however, the investigation would be “intensified.”
    Josefa dared not think how confused the state of affairs was at Loyn. Schulmann had been easy to replace, but what would they do without Bourdin, the “magician,” as he was known in the industry? Josefa wanted to phone Claire, but decided against it, realizing how busy Claire no doubt was. Maybe it would be better to talk to Marlene Dombrinski, since she planned to speak to her about Pamela Hartwell’s earring anyway. She sent her an e-mail asking her to call her but instantly received the automated reply that Marlene would not be back until January eighth.
    Three days later Josefa wasn’t so sure if it was a good idea to remind her former team member about the earring. On December twenty-second, her birthday, she went to the mailbox to get her mail. Not that she was expecting any congratulations; nobody gave a thought to anybody’s birthday three days before Christmas. And it was the same this time too: no cards, no packages, no gifts. The little girl in her could have wept. Josefa didn’t even know who she was going to spend Christmas with. She had organized a dozen Christmas banquets, but she hadn’t been invited to one herself. She had no desire to see her father and his wife, and Helene had flown off to be with her boyfriend in Canada for a few days. Paul Klingler’s “Christmas party” wasn’t until the middle of January because his company was too busy before the holidays. So Josefa buried herself in work—at least she had plenty of that—and in a plan to rent at least four videos over the holidays.
    The doorbell rang at four in the afternoon. She looked through the peephole expecting to see Sali’s bright face and saw a tangle of green instead. Flowers! When she opened the door, the delivery man from the flower shop presented her with a giant bouquet and a small package with a card. Josefa gave him a healthy tip and eagerly read the note.
    I have wanted to thank you for so long for the great times we had together. I miss you and hope that life will treat you with all the best.
Lots of love,
Joan
    Josefa had to take a seat. Joan Caroll, of all people, remembered my birthday! When Josefa quit Loyn, she’d notified Joan’s agent that she was leaving. But Joan had never called back. And now this.
    Josefa opened the little package with trembling hands. It was almost as small as Sebastian Sauter’s gift. She opened the lid, and what she saw just about took her breath away: two earrings on white satin. Rubies in the shape of flower petals set in gold. Each had a transparent stone in the center. A diamond-like teardrop was dangling from it.
    Pamela Hartwell’s earrings.

Christmas. The telephone interrupted her in the middle of Fargo .
    It was Markus, calling from London. “We’re playing a club here. A real good gig, it’ll keep me alive at least to the end of February.”
    Christmas in a jazz cellar. Not much celebrating there either.
    “I wanted to wish you all the best for your birthday,” he continued. “How old are you now anyway?”
    “Six years older than you,” Josefa shot back.
    “Touché. Hey, I’ve got a hot bit of news for you. Apparently Hans-Rudolf Walther was seen here a few months ago in a gay bar. A friend named Pierre was visiting from Switzerland and he told me.”
    “Oh,