Daggers and Men's Smiles (8 page)

“Not immediately, but when we find who is responsible, the reason for Mr. Albarosa's presence on the terrace at that hour may come out in court.”

There was a knock on the door and the makeup artist put his head into the room. “Miss Salviati's due on the set in half an hour and — oh my God!”

With a wail and a shriek he ran across and held the actress's face between his hands.

“Vittoria sweetie, what have they
done
to you, what have they
said
to you!” He turned and looked accusingly at Moretti and Liz Falla, the brutal sulliers of his handiwork. “Look at this mess — she's got mascara and lipstick on her
chin
, for God's sakes. I'm going to have to start all over again.”

At the foot of the trailer steps Liz Falla stopped and looked at Moretti.

“That Albarosa had a great act going, eh, Guv? Believe you me, that one works much better than that sleaze Ensor's slimy gropings.”

“I believe you,” said Moretti. “I want to talk to Monty Lord next, but first we'll head back into St. Peter Port, and I'll drop you off at the station. If Chief Officer Hanley asks where I am, you can tell him I'm making further enquiries.”

“Right, Guv.”

“Okay, DC Falla, give me your first impressions,” Moretti said, as the police car pulled in to the side of a narrow lane to allow one of the town buses through. Through the open window Liz Falla called out cheerily to the driver as he passed.

“Well, first of all, I agree with the costume lady — find out why daggers and we're on our way. But I'm not sure I agree about the past. The French say ‘
coup de foudre
,' like Vittoria Salviati said, but they also say ‘
cherchez la femme
,' don't they? I think it's all about sex myself.”

“You may be right.” Moretti smiled. His partner's straightforward and unvarnished approach was a salutary reminder of his own tendency to intellectualize and embroider. “And Ms. Chesler may be over-exaggerating the importance of the daggers. When the purple-haired gentleman took a fit at some smudged makeup I reminded myself that we're dealing with people who act and think theatrically. The use of decorated daggers could be merely picturesque, for effect. And nothing more.”

“The artistic temperament. Or histrionics, like my uncle Vern. So we go back to motive and opportunity?”

“For the time being. But we'll certainly take a look at the daggers back at the crime lab. If possible, I'd like us to interview Monty Lord and the other actors whose costumes were damaged when we get back to the manor in the afternoon. By the way, I thought you were about to say something when I asked Betty Chesler about her use of the word ‘omen.' Were you?”

“No, Guv.” There was a pause, and then Liz Falla said, “I just thought she was being fanciful.”

“Okay. I'll pick you up from Hospital Lane when I've seen to some personal business.”

“Right you are, Guv.” Liz Falla cast a quick glance at Moretti. “That actress, then — do you think those were real tears?”

Moretti smiled and shrugged his shoulders “I do, but I don't think that was just grief we saw. She's genuinely scared that the marchesa will find out, and we'll have to talk to the widow before we can decide if Toni Albarosa was as sweet and genuine as everyone says. But my feeling is that your instincts are right. I'll see you in about an hour.”

The restaurant Moretti's father had once owned was above the cellar that housed the jazz group, the Fénions. It was called Emidio's — Moretti senior's first name. It was now run by Rick Le Marchant, the younger brother of Emidio Moretti's former business partner — a solution that had kept the peace in the extended family, if not the immediate family. As was not uncommon on the island, it so happened that this branch of the Le Marchant family was distantly related to Moretti's mother, Vera Domaille.

Whenever Moretti walked in through the front door with its red awning, he was stepping into the past — which was why he so rarely ate at Emidio's, although it boasted some of the best and most authentic Italian cooking on the island. The restaurant smelled particularly enticing today. From the direction of the kitchen wafted the yeasty, fruity fragrance of freshly baked
panettone
, and through the side of the glass-covered counter shimmered the dark chocolate gleam of
dolce torinese
, the chilled chocolate loaf his mother had loved so much.

But while he ate his veal scallopine
al Marsala
or
scampi alla griglia
, Moretti preferred his digestive system not to be awash with memories of his mother laughing at his father over the low counter that divided the kitchen from the restaurant. That bright memory was gone too soon with her early death, and from then on it was the shadow of Emidio Moretti that wandered between the red tablecloths and took the orders of local and tourist until he sold the business.

Coup de foudre
. Like a thunderbolt, his father once told him.
Como un fulmine, Eduardo
. Not just from the pain in the empty stomach, the ache in the bones from the physical labour, and the ribs cracked from the butt of the guard's gun. Like a thunderbolt when I saw her face — her great blue eyes and the pity in them. I smiled, and the next day there she was again — only this time she darted out and put a piece of bread in my hand. The day after that it was a piece of cheese — sometimes it was bacon or sausage, if they had any, and they had so little — we were all starving. We were lucky — we were never caught, but she took a terrible risk.
Como un fulmine, Eduardo
.

“Ed! What brings you here? Thought you stuck to the lower level of this establishment.”

Rick Le Marchant was a small man — small in height but of expansive circumference, with a voice and a laugh as rich and mellifluous as his
stracotto
or
zabaione
. He was about fifteen years older than Moretti, so had never been a close, personal friend, but he had been at every family get together and had been around as far back as Moretti could remember. He had originally been the business manager of Emidio's, moving into the more creative, culinary role when his older brother retired. He had not substantially altered the decor of the restaurant, but a greater profusion of plants and vines now climbed in and around the stuccoed walls, thanks to his wife's green thumb.

When Emidio Moretti came back to the island and courted Vera Domaille, it had been the Le Marchants who had found him his first job with Don Bertrand at the Héritage Hotel, and for the penniless Italian immigrant, they became his island family. Moretti knew his father was not the voluble, emotional Italian of popular perception, who wore his heart on his sleeve and poured out his innermost thoughts to anyone who cared to listen, but if anyone knew anything about Emidio Moretti and his family back in Italy, it would be a Le Marchant.

“Hi there, Rick. I'll have some of your great bruschetta and, if I may, a little of your time.”

“Done. Annette can take care of three tables.” Rick Le Marchant called out to the pretty dark-haired waitress behind the counter, “Two orders of bruschetta and two espressos, Annette.”

The coffee arrived, Annette returned to the kitchen for the bruschetta, and Rick Le Marchant looked speculatively at Moretti.

“Is this business? Any problems downstairs I should know about?”

“God, no. At least, not as far as I know, and I'm sure Deb would tell you.”

Deborah Duchemin was the manager and hostess of the Grand Saracen, where Moretti played jazz piano, and in which he had a part interest. From time to time, the club ran into trouble with members of its clientele who thought it would be a fruitful drug-selling venue, and had to be dissuaded, arrested, or thrown out.

“Yup. She's a tough biddy, that Debby. Now,” — Annette deposited the bruschetta on the table and departed — “what's up?”

“My godmother just died in Italy. I didn't know her that well, but she's left me with a request in her will that's a puzzle. I only remember meeting her on two occasions, although I think my father took me back to see his family quite soon after I was born. And yet she's kept quiet all these years, not spoken to anyone who might have helped her, and waited until after she herself had shuffled off this mortal coil to ask for my help.”

“What does she want you to do?”

“Now
that's
real bruschetta,” said Moretti, finishing a luscious mouthful. “Hold on —” he reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper, “she wants me to find someone called Sophia Maria Catellani.”

“Sophia Maria Catellani.” Rick's cherubic face was uncustomarily solemn.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“Catellani means nothing to me but — I don't know. What I mean is, Sophia Maria seems to ring some sort of bell, and yet — hold on. I'm going to make a phone call.” Rick looked across the table at Moretti. “I would have to share this with my mother. She's in a nursing home on Mount Durand now, but her brain still functions fine. It's her body that has let her down. That okay?”

“Fine by me.”

Moretti watched as Rick went through to his private office. He was aching for a cigarette. Instead he ordered another espresso, and exchanged a few words with Annette, who was dying of curiosity about the film people up at the manor. She was less curious about the murder than she was about whether Moretti had actually seen any of the stars, and disappointed that he had only spoken to Vittoria Salviati.

“What's she like?”

“Beautiful.”

“I know, but what's she like? Was she nice?”

“Yes, she was nice.”

Rick returned, and Annette scurried off to the kitchen with her scrap of insider information. Vittoria Salviati was nice.

“Did I say my mother's brain was functioning fine? Understatement of the year. Firing on all cylinders, enough to continue to be a thorn in my side. I've got something.”

“She knows something?”

“Well, depends on whether you think it's something. It may be coincidence.”

“Not sure I believe in coincidence, not in my business. Go on.”

“She says — after much hemming and hawing about what a negligent son I am, and how good a son-in-law Emidio was to his poor aged mother-in-law — that she seems to remember that if you had been a girl your name was going to be Sophia. Or Sophie. She's not sure which, but of that much she is sure. Sophia or Sophie.”

“Well, well,” said Moretti.

As Liz Falla turned the police BMW into the courtyard of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine and found a parking space between an immaculate period Mercedes and a battered contemporary Honda, an agitated figure rushed out from among a gaggle of helmeted
fascisti
making their way across the courtyard. It was Gilbert Ensor. He was shouting as he approached.

“Thank Christ you're back — where the hell have you been?”

“Having lunch, Mr. Ensor. How can we help you?”

“My wife has disappeared, and the security guards say it isn't their business.” He was sweating profusely, his unseasonable linen jacket clinging to him.

“Disappeared? She has probably gone back to the hotel.”

“Don't you think I'd have the sense to check that? She's not there. We've had an attempt on my life and a murder — my God, you're cool in the circumstances! If anything's happened to her, I shall personally see you're both hung out to dry.”

Since “keeping cool in the circumstances” appeared to be annoying the hell out of a sweating Gilbert Ensor, Moretti stifled the desire to retaliate in kind.

“Have you checked with the limousine drivers? She couldn't have walked, and it's unlikely she'd have taken the bus.”

“I got Bella to do that for me. She says no one has left in a limousine this morning — the only ones that returned to town were empty.”

Into Moretti's mind drifted a vision of a
donna mobile
running lightly down the corridor in the manor, a humiliated young woman going out into the same corridor, the sound of someone passing, humming as she went by the door of the marchesa's sitting room. He decided to jump to conclusions.

“I think,” he said, “she's in good hands. Safer than here, I should think. I suggest you take a limo back to the hotel and wait for her.”

As a bewildered Gilbert Ensor turned to leave, Moretti allowed himself to add, “And stay off the patio, won't you, sir?”

When he was out of earshot, Liz Falla looked at her senior officer. “
Do
you know where she is, Guv?”

“Not really. I'm going to look for Monty Lord. I want you to check whether anyone saw the Ducati leave — and whether it left with a passenger.”

“Brilliant!” said DC Falla. “Oh I hope so, Guv.”