A Shortcut to Paradise by Teresa Solana

themselves into eastern mysticism, New Age philosophy and designer gear. For some reason I can’t fathom, Lola is hooked on my brother, and he eggs her on.
    â€œDon’t you read the newspapers, or what?” he rapped, looking surprised. “Have you forgotten I was going to accompany Mariona to a literary do at the Ritz?”
    â€œNot really, as we were out of town the whole weekend…” I replied by way of justification. “You know we left on Friday afternoon and didn’t get back until very late last night…”
    â€œI tried to ring you on your mobile, but you were out of range.”
    â€œYes, we were slightly off the beaten track, and I’d left my charger at home. You know, these rural retreats are a great invention,” I said, remembering the terrific impact wrought on Montse.
    â€œYou must be kidding! Give me a good five-star hotel, with room service, sauna, massage, Jacuzzi…”
    â€œThe countryside isn’t like that. You just like your creature comforts.”
    â€œHaven’t you read the newspapers? Or watched TV?” he came back at me.
    â€œNo, to tell you the truth, no papers or TV. The countryside, fresh air, first-class food, a good wine with dinner…”
    â€œWell, we’ve got work to do,” he added as he got up to fetch the parcel he’d left on the table, which he literally threw into my hands.
    I took one glance. It contained around a hundred and fifty typed, double-spaced, unbound folios, held together by one of those brown elastic ribbons used to
truss chickens. It looked like a novel, a door-stopper at that, and I didn’t know what to say. Someone had underlined what must be the title, A Shortcut to Paradise , above what I imagined must be the writer’s name on the front page. I hadn’t read anything by her, but I was very familiar with the name Marina Dolç. She was one of those famous writers who were always appearing on the TV, and I tried to remember what she looked like. If my memory wasn’t playing tricks on me, Marina Dolç was in her fifties, dark-haired, self-confident and attractive. She wasn’t thin or tall, and I recalled her as being elegant, although always too made-up for my taste. I couldn’t dredge up any other details, and I’m not at all convinced that the image in my head that day had any connection with reality.
    â€œSo what are we supposed to do with this ?” I asked, rather taken aback. “I know we’re not on a case at the moment, but is it so drastic that we’ve got to start reading novels?”
    â€œEduard,” replied Borja, about to lose his patience, “Marina Dolç has been murdered.”
    Since my brother and I joined forces, some three years ago, we’ve only once been involved in a murder case. In fact we are consultants, not gumshoes, although the work that comes our way means we often almost are. We don’t have a detective’s licence and so don’t spend time solving violent crime; that’s what the police are for. True, we work for the upper classes, but usually the commissions we get have to do with the underhand buying or selling of properties, dealing with what we might call delicate matters and, from time to time, corroborating or refuting suspected infidelities. If on one occasion (that we might describe as exceptional) we did agree to investigate a murder case, it was only because of those coincidences that often happen to Borja and that meant my brother and I found ourselves in the middle of a great big mess really quite by chance. But at the time Borja solemnly promised me it would be the last time, and I believed him. What was the likelihood we would encounter a corpse again, given the select circles we move in? For the second time in three years, the word “murder” lit up the little red alarm light inside my head.
    â€œBorja, I thought we’d agreed…”
    â€œI know we did, but