Page 64 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Montfleury,” I say, hitting each syllable. Mont. Fleur. Ee. I even brought my own fake French vowels for the occasion.

He nods so fast his neck might fall off. “Right. Of course. Miss Flurry.”

That’s somehow worse. Like a McFlurry. From McDonald’s. I want to laugh so bad my ribs ache holding it in. I settle for pretend French disdain for “stupid Americans” and make sure it shows on my face. Poor Clive.

His smile flickers. “I will personally escort you to your room, Miss Flurry.”

“La chambre forte,” she says. “I do not fly for hours to sit in a room.”

“La chambre forte,” I supply. “It means the vault.” I subtly shift my eyes to the case handcuffed to my wrist. As far as Clive is concerned, I’m carrying a locked formulary case containing Maison Montfleury’s founder’s original handwritten formula pages, a vial claimed to be real ambergris, a grand cru rose absolute in a stopper bottle so old the glass has gone faintly purple. And a discontinued tuberose extrait, with an aged typed card claiming it to be irreplaceable and priceless. Tanya spent hours on every one of those props, even distressing the leather case with a heat gun and a bag of gravel to make it look vintage.

Tanya, you beautiful maniac, I think. I owe you a fruit basket the size of a Buick.

Clive blinks, recovers fast. “Right, of course, of course. The vault, of course. Right this way.”

We follow him as he power walks down the marble hallway ahead of us, through double doors the public is not allowed through. Ginger sets a pace that suggests the rest of us are furniture she’s graciously allowing in her presence. Suri trails a half step behind her, a tiny, silent bodyguard. (Silent because she really couldn’t do a convincing French accent.)

The corridor gets progressively less marble and more concrete, and we pass a wall of black-and-white photographs of the hotel’s opening gala in 1979, down a service elevator, and finally arrive at a door with a brass plate that reads PRIVATE VAULT ACCESS. I catalog the keypad underneath and the biometric palm scan and notice Suri is doing the same.

Clive stops in front of it, bless his heart, with a hand pressed flat to his chest like he’s about to deliver a eulogy.

“Miss Flurry, I have to apologize in advance. Hotel policy limits vault access to two guests per visit, for security purposes. I know that’s terribly inconvenient given the hour, but I’m afraid all three of you can’t…”

“Fine,” Ginger says, before he finishes the sentence. “She waits.” She points a single manicured finger, aimed at me.

It’s fine. We allowed for this contingency. We agreed beforehand that if it came down to me or Suri, it had to be Suri inside that vault.

Suri makes a show of elegantly producing a key from her inside breast pocket, and unlocks the handcuffs. I pass the case over to her, and she nods, indicating the case is securely in her small, capable hands.

Clive opens the vault, and sweeps his arm out in front of him. “After you, ladies.”

Suri and Ginger step through together, and the door swings most of the way shut behind them, leaving a gap of maybe eight inches, enough that I can hear muffled voices and can see slices of movement if I stand exactly where the district manager isn’t currently hovering.

I stand there and catch maybe two full seconds of Suri’s face through the gap, angled toward a specific metal case. She gives me a sideways glance and winks.

A few minutes later the door swings open, and Ginger emerges first, Suri a step behind her. Clive brings up the rear, sweating through his collar, visibly relieved to be alive, and seals the vault behind them.

“I can personally guarantee, Miss Flurry, your priceless possessions will be kept with the greatest of care. We at the Four Seasons pride ourse⁠—”

“We are finished with you,” she interrupts, and flicks her fingers at him in a gesture that somehow manages to be both French and extremely rude.

Then, without missing a beat, to me and Suri she announces, “I am hungry. Find me a restaurant. Somewhere that does not serve bread that has been touched by American hands.”

There it is, I think, and step forward on cue.

Except Halloran, God bless his overachieving little heart, steps forward first.

“I’d be delighted to handle that personally, Miss Flurry. I can have something arranged within the hour.”

No. No, no, absolutely not, because this was supposed to be our exit strategy. The plan was to leave quietly, before anyone downstairs got a good look at the three of us together for longer than necessary.

Ginger turns toward me with panic on her face. I can barely catch her wide eyes behind those sunglasses.

“Actually,” I say, stepping in smooth as anything, “Miss de Montfleury’s had a very long flight. She shouldn’t have to stand around a lobby. I will coordinate with you directly, Mr. Halloran.”

I lift one eyebrow and give Ginger the look. The wide, deliberate, play along, I am begging you eyes. There’s a beat. One single beat where I truly do not know if she’s going to blow the whole thing out of pure diva momentum. Then something shifts behind the sunglasses, and Ginger exhales through her nose like the concept of waiting personally exhausts her.

“Yes,” she says, already turning, bored again. “I will wait in the penthouse. My concierge will secure the table.”