Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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There was something about her husband’s unaccustomed gravity that made Sydney realize Gil was not off on one of his ego trips. “Mario seems — well, scared. Maybe he’s back on the hard stuff again, I don’t know. I had a hell of a time getting him on his own, then I cornered him in his trailer. He went all spiritual on me, told me he was being guided into the decisions he was making — went on about higher forces and trusting to other voices. It was like talking to a bloody yogi. When I tried my usual yelling and browbeating approach, he broke down, and next thing I know Monty’s sidekick, Piero Bonini, comes rushing in and orders me off the set. But I’m not leaving it there, and I think I’ve finally made that clear. Something is going on.”
“You’re paranoid, honey. What could be going on? What happened — out here — is making you imagine things.”
A cool wind was blowing in off the cliffs, and Sydney trembled in her flimsy wrap.
“Come inside, Gil. You shouldn’t be sitting out here.”
“Don’t patronize me, Syd. I’m right, I know I am. Besides, I gotta reason to hang about a bit longer, and I ain’t talkin’ script changes now.”
He was leering at her, but she knew the lechery in his eyes was not for her.
“Christ, I’m dying for a cigarette and a drink. Be a good little wifey, will you, and pour me a Scotch?”
He followed her inside, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes, humming to himself. All, or nothing at all. A spectacularly inappropriate choice, she thought, pouring a large Scotch into a large glass.
“I’m going back to bed,” she said.
“I’ll be going out again.”
“I’d figured that out,” Sydney said. “Research.”
“Clever kitten. Don’t you want to know who’s my research assistant?”
“No.”
“Pity. We could make it a threesome. Her idea — what a vixen! Vroom vroom! She likes you, sweetie-pie.”
Sydney poured herself another glass of water, threw it in his face, and went back to the bedroom.
It was dawn when she woke and he still was not back. Sydney went across to the bedroom door and locked it. Then she went back to bed and cried herself back to sleep, swearing as she did so that she would never, ever humiliate herself that way again. She woke up again at eight o’clock, phoned room service, and ordered breakfast.
“Coffee, grapefruit, whole wheat toast. For one.”
At nine o’clock, she began to worry.
Gil had stayed out on the tiles longer than this, many times, but ever since she had once — out of spite — reported him missing in Los Angeles and the press had got hold of it, he had taken to calling her and telling her his whereabouts. Gil had never been averse to a little gloating, anyway, and besides, he was not one for hanging around the morning after. Maybe, under the circumstances, she should be letting someone know.
Sydney got showered and dressed, then took a man’s blue shirt out of the bedroom dresser. From the top pocket she pulled out a scrap of paper and dialed the number on it.
“Moretti.”
The live voice startled her. “I thought I’d get an answering machine.”
“Is that Ms. Tremaine?” It was said with incredulity.
“Yes. I took your number off your phone when I was —”
“I’m writing up my report before going to the station. That’s how you got me. What is it?”
“It’s Gil. He’s been out all night. I didn’t want it spread around the police station and the island, so I thought I’d —”
“Is this unusual, Ms. Tremaine?” She heard the tentative note in his voice.
“Ever since I reported him missing once and we had every tabloid in the States on our doorstep, he’s let me know he’s okay. It’s unusual.”
“I’ll be right over. Don’t open your door to anyone until I get there — it’ll take me about fifteen minutes.”
She heard him hang up the phone. Twenty minutes later he was with her, and Sydney was astonished at the wave of relief and pleasure she felt on seeing him.
“Sorry. It took me a little longer than I thought. My partner has gone out to the manor to see if anyone there knows anything, or has seen your husband.”
Moretti came into the suite and closed the door. “Let’s sit down, Ms. Tremaine, and go over what happened before your husband left you last night.”
Carefully he took Sydney through the events of the evening. When she got to Gil’s final remarks to her, she faltered, close to tears. Moretti leaned forward and took her by the hands. It was a gesture that surprised him quite as much as her.
“Now, Ms. Tremaine, I’ve got to get this straight. First, your husband reports you missing, and I find you at the Grand Saracen with Giulia Vannoni. Then you report him missing, and if it weren’t for the fact this is a murder inquiry, I might wonder if this isn’t a game you both play. Is it? You played games, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Gil liked games. He needed them, he said, for his books. Research, he called them. When I said he needed them to cure his whisky droop, it was the only time he hit me.”
She removed a hand from Moretti’s and put it up to her face, remembering.
“Was it generally known that he — liked games?” Moretti asked.
“Oh, yes. That was part of it for Gil. Being the centre of attention, the rest of the world as voyeur.”
“Who do you think he’s with? Have you any idea?”
“That’s just it — I think he may have taken his revenge by — oh God, I can’t believe she’d do it, but then, what do I know about her?”
“Are you saying,” said Moretti, “that your husband told you he was going to see Giulia Vannoni?”
“Not in so many words.” With difficulty, Sydney repeated her last conversation with Gilbert Ensor. Then she wept against his shoulder, and Moretti put his arms around her, and tried not to think about Chief Officer Hanley.
It was cool out, and Sydney was glad she had brought a jacket. Beside her in the Triumph, Moretti was silent, his eyes on the road.
“You’re a great pianist,” said Sydney, “with a style of your own. Have you ever thought of turning professional?”
“Often. But I’ve always woken up in time. How about yourself? Have you ever thought of going back to the stage — to dance, or to act?”
“Sometimes. I too have always woken up in time. Reality bites.”
Moretti nodded, but kept silent.
“This is nice,” Sydney said after a while. “Yours, I guess, not an official car.”
“Yes. My partner picked up the police car.”
“She’s pretty. Kind of Audrey Hepburnish.”
“Is she?” He sounded surprised.
“You hadn’t noticed? I guess I can’t call you Ed, can I?”
“You already have. Well — Eduardo. You also told me you’d have to be a nun if you wanted to learn to read.”
“Jeez, did I? Just at the moment, that doesn’t seem such a bad idea.”
“Learning to read?”
Her laughter dissolved as the Martello tower came into view.
“Oh God, Ed —”
“We