Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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Ensor was out on the patio when it happened, and when you meet him you’ll see why someone might take a potshot at him — but I went out to take a look at it.”
“A dagger? Not just a knife?”
“No. Fancy-looking thing, but sharp enough to do real damage. Mrs. Ensor says it looked medieval to her.” DC Falla turned toward Moretti. The bronze tinge in her dark hair as it caught the light reminded him of the black cat who had been the family pet, Merlo. He hadn’t thought about him in years. “Mrs. Ensor’s like a film star herself, Guv. American. Funny, I had the feeling I’d seen her somewhere.”
“You may well have done. If I remember rightly, Ensor married Sydney Tremaine.” His partner shrugged her shoulders. “Principal dancer with, I think, the American Ballet Theatre. I saw her once, guesting at Covent Garden. You probably saw her in a film. She had a brief screen career and then retired. To marry Gilbert Ensor.”
“Good luck,” said Liz Falla, fervently. “I remember now. It was a film about a Russian dancer — Anna something or other. I didn’t like it that much.”
“Anna Pavlova. I didn’t like it much myself. But you’re right, she’s a looker.”
“I told the Ensors we’d drop by this evening. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea. I get the feeling he just likes being a pain in the backside — as if it’s good for his image, or something. My uncle Vern would say it’s the artistic temperament, so you’ll likely understand him better, you being a piano player.”
“We’ll see.”
In what spare time he had, Ed Moretti played jazz piano with a local group, the Fénions, in a nightclub called the Grand Saracen. Named for a legendary Guernsey pirate, it operated out of the cellar of one of the eighteenth-century houses that faced the old harbour — a vault that had been used to store the wine, spirits, and tea that flooded in and out of the island from all over the world. Not everyone approved of a senior member of the small plainclothes island police force moonlighting in what used to be a smuggler’s den.
“We might as well go there right now. Where are they staying?”
“The Héritage, Guv. St. Martin’s.”
“Did you meet the American producer?”
“No. He’s been away on business in Rome, apparently. Something to do with renting equipment, someone called the location manager told me. He’s Italian, by the way. Albarosa. Toni Albarosa.”
“I’m sorry I had to take time off just as you were — assigned, DC Falla, and I didn’t get everything done, anyway. I need more than a day to deal with Italian red tape and bureaucracy, and God knows when I’ll be able to get back.”
“Is there any way I could help, Guv?”
“I don’t think so, DC Falla, but thanks for offering.” Moretti restrained a smile.
“It’s just that,” — DC Falla’s small, strong hands whipped the wheel in evasive action around a couple of late-summer hikers meandering near the middle of the road — “remember that inspector from the Florence carabinieri who came over here for the symposium about money laundering?”
“Nice bloke, I remember. What was his name?”
“Benedetti. Giorgio Benedetti. We — that is, Guv, we had a bit of a fling, as you might say, before he left. He calls me from time to time.”
“Good Lord, DC Falla —” Moretti turned sideways in his seat and looked at his companion. Her profile showed no signs of emotion whatsoever, let alone embarrassment, “— should you be telling me this?”
“I don’t see why not. I was off-duty at the time — well, not when we met, but I went on holiday and he — stayed on for a week. I could ask him to cut some of that red tape for you.”
“Would he do that?”
“For me, yes. Mind you, I’d just as soon this didn’t get around Hospital Lane.”
“Understood. I’ll bear that in mind.”
They had come to a halt outside the Héritage Hotel, one of the island’s top luxury establishments. Behind its elegant Regency facade it offered ensuite facilities with all of its twelve individually decorated bedrooms, and the Ensors were occupying two suites on the ground floor, joined by a connecting door. One of the chief attractions for Gilbert Ensor was its dining room’s international reputation.
“Greetings, Ed.”
They were met at the door by the owner and manager of the Héritage, Don Bertrand, who was an old school friend of Moretti’s. Both of them had attended Elizabeth College, the Guernsey private school for boys, and Moretti’s father had worked for Don Bertrand’s father, when he turned his family home into a hotel after the war. When Moretti senior returned to the island he had first worked in the greenhouses, and then he had moved into the dining room of the Héritage. It was with regret that Bertrand senior had seen Moretti senior leave, to run his own restaurant in St. Peter Port.
“Hi, Don. You can guess why we’re here.”
“Of course. Hello, Constable Falla. Did you have so much fun last time you couldn’t keep away?” Don Bertrand’s bright blue eyes twinkled in his deeply bronzed face — the tan of a sailor, rather than of a sun worshipper.
“Something like that, sir.”
“Hope you can get some sense out of him. He’s three sheets to the wind as usual. Terrific for the bar receipts as long as he doesn’t disturb the other guests.”
“Does that happen?” asked Moretti. “Could this incident be the action of an irritated guest?”
“Could be — who knows. Mind you, things are quieting down now, and I’ve been able to keep the suite next to his vacant for the last week.” Don Bertrand was leading them along the corridor that led from the main foyer to the part of the hotel that overlooked the cliff and the sea.
“You checked, didn’t you, DC Falla, as to whether anyone had heard or seen anything?” Moretti asked.
“Well —” Liz Falla looked sheepish. “I talked to the staff, Guv, but I didn’t see any point in upsetting other guests, when no one had actually been hurt.”
“For which I was bloody grateful,” was Bertrand’s reply. “As you know, Ed, we are a Five Crown hotel, which means we have a porter at the desk at all times, all night. However, we cannot patrol the land beyond the hotel, and I have suggested to Mr. Ensor that he keeps off the patio. It was not — well-received. Here we are.”
They were outside a door with a peephole and a plaque on it that read Garden Suite. At the end of the corridor was another, similar door.
“Is that the empty suite?” Moretti asked.
“No, that’s the door to the suite which the Ensors have also taken — or, rather, the film company have. All arrangements were made by them. We have one of the actors here as well, and two members of the film company — a man and a woman — but they are upstairs. The actor is a German. Nice guy, the German. Well, all of them are.”
Moretti remembered that Don Bertrand senior had been imprisoned somewhere in France or Germany for most of the war.
“I’ll leave you to it. Good luck! See he doesn’t break up the furniture.”
Bertrand departed down the hall. On the other side of the heavy door, voices were raised. Liz Falla looked at her boss and rolled her eyes. Moretti knocked. Then knocked again, loudly.
The door was opened by a tousle-haired man of about forty in striped pajamas, holding a heavy cut-crystal glass containing a clear gold liquid. He was teetering on his bare feet. Clutching the doorpost he called out in an appalling fake American accent, “Honey, it’s the hired help!”
Over his shoulder, Moretti saw Sydney Tremaine, a cloud of red hair loose about her shoulders,