French Polished Murder (15 page)

“But you realize that doesn’t make him a bad man. He was serving a need.”

He frowned. “Babe, drug dealers serve a need. It’s still illegal and probably immoral.”

“Yeah, yeah, but . . .” I shook my head. “But it doesn’t mean he was a cad, or that he was doing something underhanded with a woman who loved him. I mean . . . In those days . . .”

“It was harder to get somewhere, and sometimes people resorted to illegal stuff?” He shrugged. “Possibly. Possibly still. It is always very hard for a policeman not to judge a criminal, but I try. I try to understand what I might have done in their position. It doesn’t make much difference in how I apply the law, but I feel the rest is none of my business.”

I nodded. “So I think we need to know who Jacinth Jones was and where he came from. Because he might have gone back there.”

Cas looked up at me. “Probably.”

“Or he might not,” I said.

We finally left to go to lunch. By pure coincidence,
we did so at the same time that Ben pulled into the police lot and Nick came out. Ben got out of his car and joined Nick who was standing by a magnificent bicolor vehicle with a convertible top. It was beautifully finished in creamy white and glossy red, and as the two of them got in it, and Nick put the convertible top down—a ridiculous thing to do in weather that was good for January, meaning it verged on the low forties—I could see the leather of the inside seats was just as creamy and white.

I resisted a ridiculous impulse to shout out that Ben should wear earmuffs—he was older than I and certainly able to look after himself—as we waved at them and they drove out of the lot.

“ Nick’s car is very nice,” I said to Cas.

“Isn’t it? It’s the one he’s using now. The most recent project,” he said, and grinned at me. “Usually he finishes one and uses it for a while, then sells it and uses the new one. It’s a hobby as much as a means of transportation. I keep telling him if the price of gas goes up much higher, he’ll have to buy a hybrid.” His grin turned wicked. “He shudders.”

“I imagine,” I said. And because it had been nagging at me I said, “How come his last name is Nikopoulous?” I asked.

“Uh. It was his father’s name. What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s your cousin. Shouldn’t he be a Wolfe?”

“Nah. We’re cousins on the maternal side. My mother and his mother are twin sisters. My mother was adventurous and married outside the Greek community. His was more traditional. But they stayed close, so Nick and I were brought up somewhere between cousins and brothers.” He shrugged. “And I get to help him with his ridiculous hobby. Hey, maybe I should get a car of my own to fix up. Do you like those cars, Dyce?”

“That one was very pretty,” I said.

“Nineteen sixty-one Corvette Roadster. We found it in a barn, out in the country. Chickens had been nesting in it.”

He drove for less than five minutes and pulled up in front of a one-story, glassed-front building, just outside the main commercial strip. It looked, from the outside, like a supermarket. The hand-painted sign above the door proclaimed,
Deli-Cioso
.

Inside, it turned out to be an Italian deli, with a large grocery-selling component. There were shelves with imported foodstuffs and a large counter with two scales on it, and a line of people clearly buying cold cuts and such. But in the corner were five tables, and clearly Cas was known there, because the lady behind the counter waved at him and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute, honey.”

And in a minute, she was, giving us just enough time to read the menus on the table. We each—not of common accord—ordered a Milanese sandwich and, on my being told the Caesar salad was huge (or in Cas’s words, could feed large Italian families) a Caesar salad to share.

“The food is wonderful,” I told Cas, as I dug into the salad, which tasted like homemade Caesar is supposed to and like restaurant salads so rarely do.

“Isn’t it?” he said. “I discovered this place two months ago. Save room for dessert. They make the best cannoli.” He looked around, while chewing his salad. “The best thing about it, though, is that these tables are away from the counter and that very few people come here for lunch. I think it’s a new thing they’re doing, serving lunch, so people haven’t got used to it yet. I bring files to work on while I eat. I get things done and it beats eating at my desk.”

“And you brought me here to have privacy to talk?” I asked with a smile.

He winked. “I see that nothing escapes you, Ms. Dare. Perhaps they really should have named you Sherlockia.”

“Don’t make me throw something at you,” I said. “The only things on hand are food and I like my food.”

“No, but seriously,” he said. “I did bring you to talk, because I think you’re not taking some things into account.”

“What? Oh, I know. They’re both dead, yadda yadda, and all that. Letting sleeping dogs lie, which somehow always leads to mad dogs and Englishmen, making me wonder if Englishmen were known for lying down with mad dogs, or . . .” I noticed the corners of his mouth twitching and stopped.

“Those are good points, Dyce,” he said, then frowned. “Except for your very strange notions of Englishmen.” The corners of his mouth twitched further. “The expression you’re referring to has nothing to do with letting sleeping dogs lie, except perhaps to imply that Englishmen don’t. The full expression is ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen go about in the noonday sun
.
’”

“I suppose it’s very colonial, from when the English were in all these tropical and subtropical climates where people sensibly took siestas and they didn’t. None of which,” he said, with a sigh, “has anything to do with what I was about to tell you. It’s not some vague, undefined disturbing the bones of the dead that worries me.”

He ate a mouthful of salad and then resumed. “It’s the fact that Jacinth Jones’s disappearance was never solved, and the fact that he was almost for sure involved with organized crime.”

“What, because he came from Chicago?”

Cas shook his head. “No. Oh, that might have something to do with it. For all I know, he was one of the mob’s advance guys, sent down to start a center of operations here, but that . . . well, I’d worry about it when we got there, if that were all the issue. But Dyce, you already know that someone got hold of my captain and told him to tamp down any investigations into this. Pardon me if I feel it’s less than safe for you to pursue it.”

“But . . .” I said. In my mind there was an image of men getting out of a big black sedan carrying violin cases. “Surely you don’t mean the mob? I mean, Al Capone and all that.” I waved my hand. “Aren’t those all things like from the thirties?”

He frowned at me. “Various mobs are still heavily involved in illegal businesses probably practically every drug, gambling, and prostitution transaction in the U.S.”

“Are you trying to tell me,” I asked him. “That you think your captain is involved with the mob—the same mob that Jacinth Jones might have been involved in?”

He shook his head. “Not my captain, but the other business the mob is and has always been heavily involved in is politics. They finance political campaigns you know.” He smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s a well-known fact. Most of the mobs operating now—or at any time—have the underhanded branch and the above-reproach legitimate businessman branch. These days I think they keep them more obviously separated than in the twenties and thirties, is all.”

He took another forkful of salad and ate it thoughtfully while our sandwiches, with piles and piles of cold cuts and melted cheese were delivered. “The thing is,” he said, once the server had gone a little way away. “That someone in city government clearly talked to my captain . . .” He shrugged. “Well, government or society, you know, those people who donate heavily to the benevolent organization and attend the dinners. So, it’s someone with power, and if they’re connected . . . well . . . you could be in danger.”

“But why would I be in danger?” I asked. “I mean, what could anyone be afraid of? Surely whoever killed Jacinth, if he was killed, must be as dead as he would be, even if he lived a long and full life?”

Cas nodded. “To be honest.” He took a bite of his sandwich, set it down, and mopped sandwich juice off his chin with the napkin. “To be honest, the fact that someone wants to shut you down is my main reason for assuming that Jacinth may have been murdered, and that whoever did it was connected. Because otherwise who would care now. Unless there’s some mob secret involved that no one wants brought to light.”

I thought about it, while I ate my sandwich. “I hear what you’re saying,” I said. “But somehow, instead of making me want to back down, being warned makes me want to pursue things further. I mean, if Jacinth Jones was killed by people more powerful than he was, and who took advantage of their power and connections to keep it secret . . .” I looked into my boyfriend’s uncomprehending eyes. “Look, it’s like this. In a way Jacinth Jones’s character was defamed.” I saw Cas open his mouth and I went on. “I’m not talking about whether or not he was involved with liquor runners, or what else might have been going on in his saloon. I mean, until that point, rumors and complaints swirling around his establishment notwithstanding, he was assumed to be a responsible businessmen. And then in the middle of the night, he just skips town, leaving bills and creditors and commitments he didn’t honor.

“And don’t forget, we still don’t know what happened to Almeria. If he left of his own free will, perhaps she left with him. If not . . . Well, what happened to her? Was she killed, too? And before you say anything, let me point out that we don’t even know if she was breaking the law, as we assume he was. Adultery it might have been, but that’s not illegal. Or at least, even if it was back then,” I added as I thought about some of the strange laws still on the books, like how you couldn’t park your giraffe in downtown Goldport. “it wasn’t enforced.”

“Calm down,” Cas said. “I’m not impugning the moral purity of the missing Almeria, adulteress or not.” He shook his head. “I can even understand why you would feel obligated to her in a way, since we bought her piano. Not to change the subject,” he said, clearly wanting to change the subject. “How’s that coming along by the way? I’ll have to plan to come over and deal with the innards, once you’re done fixing the shell.”

We had the cannoli, which were indeed excellent, for dessert, went back to the station, and parted in the parking lot. The convertible was already parked, and Ben’s car nowhere in sight.

“He probably went home to feed the rats,” I told Cas.

“What will you do when he goes back to work in a couple of days?”

“No idea,” I said. “I’d better put an ad in the paper, or call the Humane Society or something.”

I worried about it all the way home where I found not only Ben, but E just being returned by the current Mrs. Mahr. Looking at the clock, I realized they were right on time and I was the one who was late.

E was all smiles, as he ran up to the house and yelled, “Peegrass!” The cat gave him his usual, neurotic, slightly cross-eyed “I’m not bothering you, am I?” look.

I walked past them to the kitchen, where Ben was feeding rats. I think we both spoke at the same time. It had occurred to me that Ben probably would want to go out again tonight with Nick, too, since whatever their relationship was, it seemed to be on a fast track.

So as I came into the kitchen, I said, “I should be home at about five thirty, if you have—”

At the same time he started, “If you could be home before six, I have—”

We stopped and smiled at each other, and I said, “Cas is worried about the rats.”

“Oh?” Ben said, looking up from rubbing a ratty tummy. The rats, I noticed, were getting short white fur. They also looked more alert.

“About what we’re going to do with them when they grow up.”

He sighed. “I’ll probably keep one or two,” he said.

“Rats?” I said. “In your place?”

He chuckled. “They’re white, Dyce. Like lab rats. Who knows where they came from? It isn’t so bad, if you think about it. Most of the time they’ll be confined to their little aquarium. If I go on vacation, I can either buy some fancy food dispenser that will allow them to eat what they need every day, or you can come over and feed them once a day. It’s not like they’ll chew my shoes because they’re lonely or something.”

“Uh . . . but the rest? That leaves us with five rats. I would give them to the Humane Society but—”

“You’re afraid they’ll let people take them who would use them for snake fodder?” he asked.

I nodded. He sighed. “That leaves us in the business of adopting them out. I think they’ll be ready in about a week. I’ll put a note on a list or two online if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. We need to do something. You’re going to work what, in two days? I don’t want you to feel you’re abandoning the rats. But I can’t stay in front of the aquarium, protecting them from Peegrass.”