The Lamorna Wink (42 page)

“And another Cairo Flame for Franco, here!” Melrose clapped him again on the shoulder.

T
o her credit, Diane Demorney was not, for once, looking out for number one. She had no designs on Franco Giopinno. Had she at first been a little smitten, that went out the window with San Pellegrino. He was certainly handsome, but not really awfully amusing. Indeed he seemed a bit dry, a bit too literal, and (Diane was certain) a bit too poor.

It was plain as the nose on his well-chiseled face that the man was a fortune hunter, a type of which Diane could hardly disapprove, having been one herself for so long and having been amply rewarded for her troubles by her three wealthy ex-husbands.

Yes, she knew the signs because she knew herself: cool reserve, an excessive desire to please, masked by a certain hauteur (for one couldn't be seen as a pushover, could one?), but more than anything else—tenacity. And God only knew, Giopinno was tenacious. No man could put up with the ambivalence of Vivian Rivington (who definitely needed to be
taken in hand
) unless he knew he would be rewarded handsomely.

It was the following morning and the two—Diane Demorney and Franco Giopinno—sat in the little café annexed to the library. Marshall Trueblood's idea of introducing “Latte at the Library” had been a howling success and had saved the librarian's goose. Otherwise, the place might just have been closed down for lack of custom, whereas now it was quite abuzz with the stuff.

Two tables away sat Plant and Trueblood; Diane had insisted (out of the count's hearing, of course), “Leave, or sit by yourselves! Too many of us would look like harassment!” They sat at the corner table, pretending to read a couple of library books.

Diane had made small arrangements herself. One of these had just walked in: Theo Wrenn Browne, the owner of the local bookstore (who'd been behind trying to get rid of the library). When Diane had first settled in Long Piddleton, she'd found Theo Wrenn Browne rather amusing, with his conniving, acerbic temper and relentless attacks on other Piddletonians. But he had fast become rather a bore, for there was no acerbic wit to match the acerbic temperament.

Now, Theo stood in the doorway of the café, looking around in that self-important way of his, as if he couldn't make out where Diane and Giopinno were sitting (although there were only six tables). Theo was waiting for
her
to see
him.
It helped his flailing ego to have her raise her hand and motion him over. She did, he went.

Theo had been told that the count was looking for a solid business investment and was especially interested in books. “A bookshop such as—oh, what is it—Waterstone's? One of those discount stores.” The count had said this, he had said
precisely
this, with no further augmentation of the subject by way of his wanting to own a bookstore. They had been talking about reading. Diane avoided it and so (she thought) did he. That was because he talked about it so much. To quiet him, she brought up Henry James. She brought up
The Portrait of a Lady.
“You remember”—of course he didn't—“that awful clash of cultures? How the sweet young heiress falls into the clutches of the corrupt Europeans?” Diane truly warmed to this subject. “And that absolutely dreadful husband of hers? They lived in Venice, coincidentally.”

This was the sum and substance of Diane's knowledge of the Henry James novel. And of the entire James oeuvre. It was simply one of the bits of knowledge she gleaned from reading just a little so she'd never have to read a lot.

Oh! But Franco Giopinno had gone more than a little white when she'd brought that up! Indeed, she considered reading more of this author's work; James just might be amusing if he could call up such a look of trepidation on Giopinno's face.

Theo was at the counter getting himself a latte, and Diane called to him to get Count Giopinno another espresso. Looking disgruntled, Theo gave the order. Espresso (she thought) was probably the only thing the count had enjoyed in the last twelve or sixteen hours.

Theo set the little cup before the count; Diane performed the introductions, the count gave his little seated bow and a
grazzi,
and Theo started in immediately talking about his bookshop. Theo was about as soigné as a skunk, Diane thought, which was the reason for choosing him.

“So, Mr. Giopinno, excuse me,
Signore Giopinno,
you're interested in books? I have, you know, the local bookshop called The Wrenn's Nest—bit of a pun there, you know?—anyway, it's done extremely well, had a gross of—oh, one hundred fifty thousand pounds this past year, looking to do even better by the end of this year. . . .”

And on and on, with Giopinno looking—well, bemused, at best. He did, however, have silky manners and would never in the world have presented a bored countenance.

Diane, tuning Theo out, glanced at Melrose and Marshall, who had given up all pretense of reading and were leaning as far as they could toward her table, trying to hear. She made a lightning-quick run with her finger across her neck. Immediately they went back to their books. Marshall, she noticed, was reading his upside-down. God.

“. . . that the area could easily support one of your chain bookshops—not that I'm suggesting we get a Dillon's, God, no; an independently run big bookstore, that's the ticket!”

While Theo droned on, Diane waited for Agatha to appear. Diane had told Agatha that the count was interested in investing in real estate; she had suggested using Vivian's house as an example.

“
Why? Vivian's living in it.
”

“
Oh, but of course she'll want to sell it when she moves to Venice.
”

Agatha now stood in the cafe's doorway, and that woman was with her, that estate agent from Cornwall. All the better. Diane waved and smiled.

Theo Wrenn Browne excused himself and took his empty cup up for a refill. He detested Agatha except on the occasions she was useful to his cause. His biggest cause was getting rid of Miss Ada Crisp so he could expand his quaint little bookshop.

The two women hurried over to the table as if real estate deals were falling from the ceiling and were introduced to Franco Giopinno. Graciously, he rose and made a brief hand-kissing movement and sat down again, looking extremely unhappy.

“Well, now, Franco,” said Agatha, never the one to stand on ceremony or good manners. “You've got a marvelous property turnover here, and it's wise to consider an investment. Vivian's house, for instance, is better got rid of than kept. It's high-end, not practical with all that thatch, which clearly needs re-thatching; in a little place like this—well, there's not much call for such properties, and if one needs the money—”

A look at the count's face made it clear one did.

“—the wise thing to do is sell up and put the money in other properties.”

“God!” exclaimed Theo Wrenn Browne, who'd returned with his fresh cup of cappuccino. “Property's a hell of an investment these days. You don't want property, count, you want—”

“I beg your pardon—Mr. Browne, is it? You own that sweet little bookshop?”

Theo fumed. “Sweet” and “little” was not the picture he was trying to get across. “I'm expanding, got to, what with all the custom—”

“To where?” asked Agatha, shaking with manufactured laughter. “You lost out on Ada Crisp's place next door. Shouldn't have started that lawsuit, it only made you look bad.”

Considering it was Agatha's lawsuit, Diane reflected on the shortness of the memories and the division of the loyalties of some of these people.

Esther Laburnum picked up with what she'd been about to say to Theo. “You're quite wrong to think real estate a poor investment; it never is. You just have to know what you're doing.”

As with anything, thought Diane. Blowing a curl of smoke into the air, she saw the awful Withersby woman leaning up against the counter and talking the ear off little Alice Broadstairs. Mrs. Withersby charred here occasionally. She fit the cohort
and
property category to a T. Now if she could only fit the woman in.

Mrs. Withersby, doughty advocate of positioning herself wherever drink and smokes were being consumed, fit herself in. There was, after all, a new person sitting at that table who might be good for a glass or two.

As she approached, Agatha was saying, “What Vivian could do, once she sells up, is buy one or two of the almshouses where those Withersby people live.”

“Someone callin' fer me?”

Yes,
thought Diane.
God is.
She closed her eyes briefly and gave thanks to Saint Coincidence. She hadn't set foot in a church in decades. The closest she'd got was that wine-tasting in the vestry of St. Rules. Now she wondered if judgment about the faith had been too hasty. “Mrs. Withersby!” She'd never said more than two words to the woman in her life. Now she was offering her cigarette case. “I'd like you to meet Count Franco Giopinno.”

Having helped herself to four of Diane's cigarettes, she looked the count up and down. “Don't know as you'd fancy me as a neighbor.”

Giopinno, his color having gone from white to whiter, rose and, bowing to the three women said, “If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I have an urgent call to make—my mother.” He mumbled something about his mother's illness as he put on his coat; then he slipped away like smoke.

Diane excused herself and went to sit with Plant and Trueblood.

“Where's he going? Is he
gone
?”

“I'd certainly imagine so. He went to call his
mother,
for God's sake, mumbling something about her being ill. That, I suspect, is prelude to his having to leave suddenly.” She sighed and said, “Well, that's sorted, then.”

She felt something akin to sadness, such as children feel when their favorite game is over and they have to go in to tea.

B
rian Macalvie rose when Morris Bletchley—without his wheelchair—came into the blue room, which Macalvie had been sharing with an old lady dressed in dark blue, as if she meant her dress to match the silk upholstery of the chair she sat in. She had spoken to him only once, and that to ask him to turn her chair so that it faced the window. He had done so, and since then she had sat and stared out. Occasionally, her lips moved and she smiled.

“Commander Macalvie,” said Bletchley. They shook hands.

Macalvie said, “I wanted you to know what's happened. We've got the person who shot Sara Colthorp and Tom Letts
and
Chris Wells in custody.”

“Constable Evans told me. I'm not much given to surprises, Mr. Macalvie, but that damned well did it. Brenda Friel.” He shook his head and motioned to a Queen Anne wing chair covered in heavy blue velvet. “Sit down, please.”

Seated across from Bletchley, Macalvie told him, not all but enough, about the three shootings.

Moe Bletchley said, “But the Friel woman apparently has no qualms about killing. Why not just kill Chris to begin with? Why go to the trouble of making it look as if she'd run off?”

“For one thing, when Chris Wells came back here, Brenda thought we'd finally take her in for the murder of Sada Colthorp. And for another—she didn't want to have to. Chris Wells was her best friend. I know it sounds implausible that the woman could still think in those terms, but that's how I see it.

“Still, Brenda couldn't be sure Chris was a real danger to her. Chris knew Ramona died of an AIDS-RELATED problem. But Chris didn't know who the father was because Brenda herself didn't know until Tom Letts mentioned Putney. Brenda knew Ramona had been working in London but didn't know she'd been working for
you.
Brenda thought Chris would work it out if Tom Letts were murdered.

“But what I think is that Chris wouldn't have done anything. I think she was too good a friend to take her suspicions to the police. I think she was like that.”

Moe sat unhappily, looking down at the carpet at his feet. “Poor Johnny. The poor lad.”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Macalvie said, “There's another thing, Mr. Bletchley, that I think you need to know.”

Tentatively, Moe raised his eyes to look into Macalvie's. “You're going to tell me something about Noah and Esmé. You found something else.” He said this as if new knowledge about the deaths of his grandchildren would fall on his head like an ax. He stiffened. “Go ahead.”

Macalvie, who had never thought of himself as a comforting person, searched for words. “That's always been a mystery. It's stuck with me. I never closed the case. I'm afraid that we'll never be sure; still, I went over the file again and wondered if the medical examiner's report was absolutely clear to you.”

Moe Bletchley look at Macalvie, his eyebrows raised in question.

“It's the drowning. There were deep abrasions to Noah's skull. What must have happened was Noah slipped and was knocked unconscious and Esmé, tried to pull him back and got pulled in herself. What I'm saying is that Noah wouldn't have known anything and Esmé would have drowned very fast. And drowning definitely isn't—if you have to die—the worst way to go.”
What a lie, what a bloody lie,
thought Macalvie, moving his eyes away from Bletchley's, for he was sure the old man could read the lie in them.

Moe was perceptive, but he was being told something he wanted to believe, and no matter how sharp his mind, perception went out the window. “What you're telling me is that they didn't suffer much, that it was quick.”

“Yes, sir. I don't know if that helps at all; I just think the worst of remembering is imagining the terror a little kid would go through.”