Daggers and Men's Smiles. Jill Downie
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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 —