Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3)

by Pamela Burford

  “Who was that?” I asked after he ended the call.

  “Chloe. She says she has something for me.”

  “Sounds mysterious.” I flipped up the hood of my rain jacket and reached for the door handle.

  “Wait.” He had the huge, black golf umbrella I’d found in the coat closet after Irene had died and left me the house. It had a curved wooden handle and enough fabric to make a six-man tent. A man’s umbrella. “I’ll come around.”

  Be still, my heart. Obediently I waited while Victor circled the car in what had turned into a biblical deluge and opened my door. He held the enormous canopy over us while we made the half-block dash to the pub.

  Here, too, he held the door. I could get used to this. I welcomed the pub’s cheery ambience, the aromas of fresh beer and spicy fries, the bluegrass music played at a volume that allowed patrons to converse without shouting, the warm golden light from original antique wall sconces that had started life as gas fixtures long before anyone in the whole dang place had been born. I hung my dripping jacket on the row of hooks by the door.

  Victor glanced around approvingly as he deposited the umbrella in the stand by the door. It gave the little automatic umbrellas that were already there inferiority complexes. It’s chilly outside, they whined. Shrinkage. You know.

  Despite it being a Friday evening, the pub was less than a third full. Anyone who had a micron of sense had taken one look out the window and hauled out the Scrabble board. The rest of us found ourselves at Murray’s.

  I could feel Victor begin to relax as we slid onto barstools, and was glad I’d insisted on dragging him out of the house that night. The funeral had been yesterday. He’d spent all day today on the phone taking care of a variety of personal and business matters.

  I’d gone out for a few hours in the middle of the day to start inventorying and photographing all those antique medical devices at my client’s home. When I’d returned with groceries, Victor was where I’d left him, sitting at the breakfast table, filling a legal pad with notes. His phone was on speaker and the conversation was in French.

  Unlike my houseguest, I spoke no language other than the one of my birth, despite having gotten decent grades in Spanish for six years. For what it’s worth, I do remember all the important vacation words, the most critical being baño and cerveza. Drink enough Mexican cerveza and you’d darn well better know how to say, Dónde está el baño?

  I did catch a few words as Victor wrapped up his conversation with someone named Michel. Bien and merci and oui were easy enough to pick out. Then Michel asked something and Victor said, “Crystal Harbor.” Michel responded with the French version of Say what? Victor smiled at me as he slowly repeated the name of the town, followed by the translation: “Cristal Port.” Then he added, “Long Island.” Ah. A place Michel had heard of. He proceeded to share his encyclopedic knowledge about Long Island—I heard “Billy Joel” and “Gatsby” and “Amityville Horreur”—while Victor made yappy hand gestures for my benefit.

  After saying adieu to Michel, he’d helped me throw together a spaghetti dinner. He might not be the world-class chef his brother had been, but he knew his way around a meatball, endearing himself even further to Sexy Beast. Once we’d eaten, I’d been determined to get us out of the house. Victor had spent the entire day working and no doubt intended to spend his evening the same way. While it might be true that work was preferable to wallowing in grief, there was a third option that beat them both out.

  Martin was behind the bar when we took our seats, flirting with a trio of pretty young women while he worked the blender for their girlie drinks. Hiring the padre had been a canny move on the part of Maxine Baumgartner, the pub’s owner. The place now attracted far more female customers, whose presence in turn attracted even more male customers.

  When I’d met Martin, he’d been bartending in Southampton, an hour’s drive from his mother’s home in working-class Rocky Bay. Yeah, that’s right, he’d lived with his mom back then—temporarily, he’d insisted, and dang if he hadn’t been telling the truth. When he’d started working at Murray’s two months ago, Maxine had rented him the apartment upstairs, which reduced his commute to a lazy stroll down a flight of stairs.

  He glanced over and spotted us as he poured the last slushy, neon-colored concoction for the young ladies. He joined us, shook Victor’s hand, and quietly mentioned that Dom was there.

  “Oh,” I said, and “Jeez.” I looked at Victor, who was well aware that Dom was the primary suspect—heck, the only suspect—in his brother’s murder. I slid off the barstool. “Um, maybe we should find another place to unwind.”

  “Where is he?” Victor asked.

  Martin nodded toward a booth in the far corner. Only then did I recognize the back of Dom’s head. Bonnie noticed us first, gazing past her fiancé with a sober expression.

  “There’s a great wine bar the next town over,” I told Victor. “We’ll come here some other—”

  But he was already making his way toward Dom. The background music seemed to get louder as conversation ground to a halt throughout the pub. Everyone there knew who Victor was. The family resemblance left little doubt, not to mention a few funeral shots of him that had made it onto the news last night. And they also knew the investigation had targeted my ex. Most of them politely feigned disinterest, while a few gawked outright. All three of Martin’s cuties were furiously thumbing their phones, no doubt tweeting this latest sighting of #SwingsSexyBro.

  Reluctantly I followed Victor. Dom had risen at his approach, his expression outwardly neutral to anyone who didn’t know him as well as I did. The Dom I saw was wary and watchful and prepared for things to turn ugly. His fiancée kept her seat as she watched Victor close the distance between them. Casually she unbuttoned her slate-colored jacket, and with a start, I realized why. Cops carry guns, even when off duty if they choose to. Bonnie struck me as the type who would choose to.

  Victor stopped in front of Dom and extended his hand. He didn’t smile. “We haven’t met. I’m Victor Dewatre.”

  After a moment Dom stiffly shook it. “Dominic Faso. This is my fiancée, Detective Bonnie Hernandez.” Yeah, he said Detective. Can you blame him?

  “I would have preferred for Jane to introduce us,” Victor said, shaking her hand, “but this is making her nervous.”

  An abrasive female voice rang out. “When did this place turn into a damn church?” It was Maxine, bellowing from behind the bar. The pub’s owner was in her late fifties, with a blond ponytail and a grating smoker’s voice. “Does the sign outside say Saint Murray’s? No? Well then, stop praying for something exciting to happen over there—” Max jerked her head toward our little group “—or I’ll have to shut the place down and join a convent.”

  She stared hard at her patrons, eliciting a few self-conscious titters, followed by a gradual resumption of conversation. I caught her eye and mouthed a thank-you.

  “Would you, uh, like to join us?” Dom asked, while Bonnie gave him the Death Stare.

  “For a moment only,” Victor said. “It’s not my intention to intrude.” He sat next to Bonnie, forcing her to scoot over to make room. Dom did the same for me. He was halfway through a beer, while his fiancée sipped red wine. Nothing but crumbs and an errant tentacle remained of what had once been a pile of crispy fried calamari.

  Well. Wasn’t this cozy. What was Victor trying to prove?

  As if I weren’t sufficiently uptight, Bonnie’s left hand rested lightly on the tabletop, with that four-karat diamond frantically waving at me and nyah-nyahing and generally making a nuisance of itself. Oh yeah, so mature.

  Victor addressed Bonnie, pitching his voice low enough to discourage eavesdroppers. “Detective, I understand you had to remove yourself from my brother’s case due to the—” he gestured toward Dom “—conflict.”

  “That’s right.” Bonnie was in her early thirties, with short, stylishly cut dark hair and a mild lingering accent from her native Dominican Republic.

 
“This Detective Cullen,” he said, “I have little faith in him. I know you’re not free to comment, but from what I can tell, he is a buffoon.”

  Bonnie and Dom exchanged a look. It was clear they shared his assessment.

  “Is it me,” I asked her, “or is it weird that Cullen has chosen to zero in on the fiancé of a fellow detective? I mean, I can see Dom being, you know, a person of interest and all, but Cullen has obviously made up his mind. Is he even looking seriously at anyone else?”

  “Like Mr. Dewatre said, I’m not free to comment on any aspect of the investigation.”

  I leaned forward, my voice low and steady and deadly serious. “Do you get that we’re all on the same side here, Bonnie?”

  Her eyes cut to the Frenchman sitting next to her. “Are we?”

  “Since Victor wants to find out who killed his brother,” I said, “and since you and I both know Dom didn’t do it, then yes, I’d say we’re all on the same side.” Even if Victor didn’t know it yet. In time he would.

  I could almost hear the internal debate being waged behind Bonnie’s green eyes. Finally, with a look of mild disgust, she said, “What I can tell you is that Cullen’s always had a problem with me, because I’ve always had a problem with him. I’ve made no secret of the fact that the guy has no business wearing a gold shield.”

  “There’s a good-old-boy thing going on here,” Dom said. “He’s pals with Chief Larsen. The department’s stuck with him.”

  “I hate to think that my brother’s killer might remain free due to police incompetence,” Victor said. “I’ll do whatever is required to keep that from happening.”

  “Mr. Dewatre—” Bonnie said.

  “Call me Victor,” he said. “Please.”

  “Victor, I sympathize with your frustration, but I must warn you not to take the law into—”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “I know you must say this, but tell me. What would you do? If it were your brother. What would you do?”

  She took a deep breath and sagged a little as she released it. “I’d try to see what I could find out. Legally,” she added. “Without stepping on the detective’s toes. And keeping him in the loop.”

  Dom addressed Victor. “It sounds to me like you’re not convinced Cullen’s on the right track.”

  “If you’re asking whether I think you’re guilty,” Victor said, looking straight at him, “my honest answer is, I don’t know. As for Cullen, I think if he somehow stumbled onto the right track, he would likely stumble right off it.”

  No one spoke for several moments while I envisioned a particularly hazardous minefield stretching between us, just waiting for someone to jump in and blow this civilized conversation to bits. No one, for example, brought up why Cullen had homed in on Dom as a suspect. Answer: because he’d beaten the snot out of Victor’s brother, the murder victim. And why had Dom done that? Because he’d thought Swing was sexing up his teenage daughter. For all I knew, he believed it still. These were issues none of us appeared eager to explore at this juncture.

  “Well, here’s something to get you started,” Dom told him. “The killer wears size thirteen shoes.”

  “But isn’t that—” I cut myself off.

  “My size?” he said. “Yes, unfortunately. Cullen made off with all my sneakers for testing. They’re the right size, but none of them match. Wrong treads or whatever. Of course, he’s claiming I threw away the shoes I wore that day.” To Victor he explained, “Whoever committed the murder apparently left footprints.”

  “It’s true,” Victor said. “I saw.”

  I looked at him sharply. “What do you mean you saw? When could you have seen?”

  “Cullen finally released the crime scene,” he said. “He brought the restaurant keys over this afternoon when you were out. It was a good walk. I needed the exercise.” Dewatre was about two miles from my house.

  “Oh, Victor, that must have been…” I shook my head. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I would have gone with you.”

  “You’ve been through enough,” he said. “You found him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

  “I knew you would be upset. I wasn’t going to mention it, but now we’re talking about the shoes and…” He shrugged.

  “You stubborn… Frenchman!” I accused.

  He rewarded that with a little smile, quickly squelched. He gave a sad shake of his head. “Pierre loved that kitchen. Now… now I feel like bulldozing the place.”

  It had been four days. I thought about the blood. I thought about the meat and other cooking ingredients that had been left out on the counter, certain the cops would not have bothered disposing of it. Four warm days with the place all closed up.

  “I’ll bring someone in to clean it up,” I said.

  He frowned. “Who would do a job like that?”

  “There are professionals who do this for a living, believe it or not. Crime scenes, suicides… you know. They come in with hazmat suits and special equipment. There’s a very good company. I know the owner. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  Lie. I’d call Denny Pinheiro from the privacy of my bedroom as soon as I got home. In his business, prospective customers were assured of getting someone on the phone twenty-four seven. Plus I was a valued client, thanks to my unusual line of work, so I had Denny’s personal cell on speed dial. I had little doubt he’d meet me at Dewatre the next morning. Victor, however, did not need to know that. I planned to quietly swipe the keys Cullen had just given him and run out in the a.m. to do “a little shopping.”

  Yeah, I’m a big fat liar, so sue me. Swing’s brother had already viewed the grisly aftermath of his murder. He didn’t need to experience it again.

  An awkward silence ensued, which Bonnie finally broke with, “I wonder what size shoes Romulus Tooley wears.”

  “I’ll ask Ben to find out,” Victor said.

  “Ben Ralston?” I asked. “The private investigator?”

  Victor nodded. “I phoned him today. You mentioned that he’s done work for you. He’s competent, yes?”

  “He’s very competent. What exactly did you ask him to do?”

  “To find out where Tooley was on Monday morning when Pierre was stabbed to death.”

  “I wonder if Cullen even did that much,” I said.

  “Well, we can eliminate fifty percent of the population,” Bonnie said. “The killer was almost certainly male. I don’t know any woman who could wear a men’s size thirteen.”

  “How long until you have to go back home?” Dom asked Victor. “I mean, I assume your employer offered a few days’ bereavement leave, but I’m just wondering how you’ll manage to look into your brother’s murder from… is it Paris?”

  Victor nodded. “My architectural firm is located on the Champs-Élysées, but we do a lot of work for U.S. companies, so we have several branches over here as well. One of them is in Manhattan, down in SoHo. I told my boss I wanted to work out of the SoHo office for, well, I’m not sure how long, with flexible hours, and he has graciously agreed.”

  “That’s quite a concession,” Bonnie said. “They must be eager to keep you happy.”

  Victor shrugged. “I’m good at what I do. Also I’ve brought the firm a couple of valuable clients. It’s not just the investigation keeping me here. I need to sell Pierre’s house and the restaurant, settle his affairs.”

  I said, “Well, you know you’re welcome to stay at my place for the duration. The truth is, I enjoy the company.” I felt Dom stiffen slightly.

  “You’ve been exceedingly generous, Jane,” Victor said, “and I thank you for it, but I couldn’t continue to impose—”

  “We have a deal,” I reminded him. “No hotels, remember? You’re hurting my feelings, Victor. I feel a big, juicy cry coming on.”

  He shook his head, grinning. “You are impossible.”

  “So you’ve been staying at Janey’s all week?” Dom sounded casual. Too casual. Bonnie thought so, too, judging by the flat s
tare she gave him.

  “That’s right,” Victor said. “Jane is my guardian angel. I don’t know what I would have done without her these past few days.”

  “Yeah, she’s… That’s great,” Dom said, “that you have someplace local to stay and all. What about Swing’s house? I’d have thought you’d want to stay there.”

  “At first the police wouldn’t let me near it. And now…” Victor hesitated. “I know I need to go there and begin sorting through his things. To be honest, I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “Well, listen,” Dom said, “if you get tired of the scenery over at Jane’s, you can always bunk at my place. Plenty of room—”

  “Dom,” Bonnie interrupted, “that’s probably not a good idea, considering.”

  He looked blank for a moment. Considering…? Oh! Considering the fact he was still the police department’s sole suspect in the murder of Victor’s brother.

  And okay, yeah, I’ll admit it. I dig the fact that I can still inspire jealousy in my ex after all these years. Hey, I’ll take what I can get.

  Something in Victor’s smile told me the subtext wasn’t lost on him either. “It’s no problem. I appreciate the offer. Congratulations to the two of you, by the way.”

  Dom looked at me, confused.

  I said, “I think he means you and Bonnie.”

  “Your engagement,” Victor said.

  “Oh!” Dom said. “Yes, of course. Thanks.”

  Victor asked when they were planning to tie the knot. Dom responded with a dismissive “No rush,” which naturally made a big hit with his fiancée. If I were Dom, I’d be thinking hard about the fact that his significant other carried a loaded weapon.

  As we made our way back to our barstools, Victor whispered, “You and Dom have been divorced for many years, yes?”

  “Yes, but…” My sigh was the kind normally associated with the word eloquent.

  “You two are not done with each other,” he pronounced.

  “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugged. “I’m French. I know these things.”