Moretti and Falla Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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if there was any unusual behaviour from any of the guard dogs on the night of the murder. Also, get someone to check our records, and see if there has been any sort of complaint or report of trouble from the Vannoni family in the past few months, however trivial it may seem.”
The salads and coffee arrived, served by a cheerful red-aproned waitress with an Australian accent.
“What are you expecting to find, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, after the server had left.
“That’s just it. I don’t know, and I want you to stay open to anything, even the apparently inconsequential.” The coffee is excellent, almost as good as my own, thought Moretti. “Now, about those two women. Apart from your feeling the marchesa can’t stand her husband, was there anything else that struck you?”
His partner inspected a large prawn impaled on the tines of her fork as though it pleased her mightily.
“Yes, but it’s difficult to put into words — ones that make much sense, that is. There’s something going on, but I have the feeling that neither of those ladies are entirely sure themselves what it is — see,” said Liz Falla, examining the crustacean as though it had the answer to the mystery, “I got the weirdest feeling from them — that they both know something, but they’re neither of them sure if the something they know is the something that caused the murder and the other stuff, and they’re darned if they’re going to say anything in case they let slip something that may have nothing to do with the murder but they don’t want to be public knowledge.”
Moretti watched her silently for a moment as she demolished her plateful of prawns.
“Believe it or not, DC Falla, I understood every word you said.”
Her laughter startled a nearby sparrow, waiting hopefully on the back of an empty chair.
“Thanks, Guv. And thanks for asking my opinion. I never said, but I’m really grateful for the chance to work with you. I’ve felt at a bit of a loss up to now, but your asking me my impressions really helped.”
“Good.” I’m feeling less at a loss myself, thought Moretti — about the partnership at least, if not the case.
A drop of rain splattered on to the umbrella above the table.
“One other thing, Guv.” DC Falla speared a last piece of radicchio. “I get to call you ‘Guv,’ but you have this mouthful to say every time. DC Falla, or Detective Constable Falla —”
“I can’t say your first name,” said Moretti. Had a small joke and a moment of laughter led to distressing personal requests, unprofessional familiarity? She was giving him that look of hers again.
“And I wouldn’t dream of it, Guv. That’s all we need, gossip among the lads.”
“What then, DC Falla?”
“How about just ‘Falla,’ Guv.”
“Very well, if that’s what you’d like.”
“I would. And I’ll tell you something else I’d like —” His partner stood up and attracted the attention of the waitress. “If we’ve got the time, I’d like a piece of their Dobos Torte. I’ll burn it off in the pool at the Beau Sejour Centre tonight before I have my rehearsal.”
“Rehearsal?” Moretti didn’t know why he should feel surprised. After all, he knew nothing about Detective Constable Liz Falla. “Are you a member of the Island Players like your uncle?”
“God, no!” Falla seemed to find this funny. “I’m a member of a group. We call ourselves ‘Jenemie.’ A Guernsey word, but don’t ask me what it means. We just liked the sound of it.”
“Group? You mean you’re a musician, Falla?”
“Not like you, Guv. I play some guitar — acoustic — but mostly I’m a singer.”
“I didn’t know.”
There was the old-fashioned look again. “Why would you, Guv? I don’t go around Hospital Lane singing my little folkie heart out.”
“So you’re a folk singer.”
“More like — do you know Enya’s music? A New Age folkie singer. Sort of like that. My real heroine’s a Canadian called Loreena McKennit.”
“Interesting,” said Moretti. It was his favourite fallback word. This time he meant it, although whenever anyone said “New Age” he usually ran fast in the opposite direction. “I think I will go to Torteval after all, have a word with Dan Mahy. Oh, and Falla, next time you’re in touch with Benedetti, perhaps you could ask him to see what he can find out about this person. No rush.” Taking out his notepad, Moretti wrote down the name “Sophia Maria Catellani,” added a couple of details, tore out the page, and handed it to Liz Falla.
“Okay, Guv.” His partner looked at the paper, but she asked no questions. He liked that.
“Rain’s starting,” said Moretti, standing up and putting the notebook back in his pocket. “They said it would by afternoon. You enjoy your cake, and I’ll see you at the manor.”
No need to tell Liz Falla he was making a stop on the way to see if his overnight guest had left his bed.
Rastrellamento. It’s all in there somewhere, Moretti thought. I’ve got to talk to Gilbert Ensor again. Rain was now pattering steadily against the windshield of the Triumph.
I thought about you.
Miles Davis’s version of the Johnny Mercer standard played in his head. In his mind’s eye Moretti saw the auburn hair of Sydney Tremaine burning against his pillow, her backless gold mules slipping off her feet.
She was gone, as he had expected. On the note he had left she had written, “Thank you. I took the shirt.”
He felt a pang of something that felt disconcertingly like regret, got back in the Triumph and set out to Torteval.
Chapter Seven
People have long memories.
But was it a long memory that Dan Mahy had? Or none at all? Was everything he said the product of delusion?
Torteval, on the south coast of the island, was a parish divided by another parish, St. Pierre du Bois. Dan Mahy lived in the western portion in one of the cottages once used by the families of the Hanois lighthouse-keepers, that had been his parents’ home. The cottages had fallen into disrepair during the German occupation, as every piece of timber had gradually been removed from the homes and used for fuel, and after the war there had been plans to rebuild them and make them fit for use again. This had not yet happened, and probably never would, but Dan Mahy had refused to leave.
Moretti’s route took him past the airport. As he drove past the Happy Landings Hotel a small private plane was coming in to land, and he made a mental note to himself to get someone to check the comings and goings of private planes over the past two or three days. He thought about his next move when he returned to the manor to meet Liz Falla. Should he see the marchesa and her son again, push a little harder. Dig a little deeper into the past?
No, he thought, leave them alone. Don’t tip your hand, not yet. He had little enough to go on, and at this stage he’d prefer the family to have no idea he suspected some past secret quite as much as some present indiscretion for the murder.
But if Toni Albarosa was not the intended victim, then who was? For it seemed much more likely that the murderer, knife in hand, was en route to a preplanned target rather than merely lurking about the manor on the off chance of finding someone to stick a dagger in. The most likely candidates were the marchesa or her son — if his theory about the murder were correct, that is.
And the most likely perpetrator? Well, if you took the usual elements of investigation into account — motive and opportunity — the list would include most family members, and some of the crew. Moretti felt reasonably safe at this stage ruling out the cast: they were chosen by the producer