by Jill Downie
Liz got out of the car and walked up the narrow tiled pathway between potted palms and hydrangeas to the main entrance. An elegantly dressed man, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed, stood on the other side of the glass doors, and watched her open them, making no move to help her.
“And what can I do for you?” he asked, the Latin lilt doing little to sweeten the tone, eyebrows descending as he scanned her dark suit, dropping to take in her shoes, with a quick flick back up to her wrist to take in her watch, Liz’s only jewellery. Nothing sexual about it, but a rapid and skilled assessment of her potential as a paying customer.
“You can fetch your boss,” said Detective Sergeant Falla, taking her ID out of her pocket and holding it up close to his face. “Tell Gord Collenette that DS Falla wants to have a word. Oh, and make it snappy, will you? This is police business.”
The maître d’hôtel blanched visibly, turned on his heel, and disappeared behind swing doors. Guilty conscience about something, thought Liz Falla.
To Liz’s right, through the narrow opening that had once been the Landsend lobster’s kingdom, she could see the restaurant was doing good business with the suit crowd. Most of the diners were male, with a sprinkling of women who looked as if they were part of the same world as the men. Glass and cutlery clinked, an occasional laugh rose above the discreet murmur of voices, and Liz thanked heaven she was not the young woman sitting opposite the diner who bore a striking resemblance to the life-size lobster. The financial business had been the direction in which she had been heading before taking a detour into police work.
“Liz Falla! What can I do for you?”
Gord Collenette was a big man and his generous proportions overflowed the narrow space between the desk and the doors. His dark hair and eyes reflected his Norman roots and, although outgoing by nature and relaxed of personality, he had a reputation as a sharp businessman.
“Hi, Gord. I want to have a word about a possible customer last night.”
“Hang on, I’ll get the reservations list. It was busy — silver wedding anniversary party.”
“You won’t need it — if she was here, you’d remember. Lady Fellowes.”
“She was here, and you’re right, I don’t need any list to remember. As my Sally said, ‘All heads turned when that outfit walked in.’ According to my daughter, Gail, who was on the desk, when she was told we were booked solid she said she’d be quite happy to sit at the bar. Which she did, drinking Manhattans.”
“Do you know what time she arrived?”
“Late-ish, after ten. Looked at her watch a lot. Everyone thought she was nervous and already tipsy, to use my wife’s word.”
“Who is everyone?”
“Me, for a start. Sally the waitress, Gail, Steve the barman — he’s married to Gail.”
“Do you know when she left?”
“Around midnight, I think, but I’ll ask Steve. He’s off-duty at the moment, but he’d have a better idea.”
“Was this the first time she’d been in?”
“No, but it was unusual. She used to come with her husband, Sir Ronald Fellowes. War hero, I was told. But she’s been in rarely since he died.”
Gord Collenette gave one of those apologetic half-laughs that, in Liz Falla’s experience, some males made when they were about to make an uncharacteristically intuitive or sentimental observation.
“He was a nice man, crazy about her, you could see it in the way he looked at her. I’m not one for fanciful stuff, but Sally once said it was like he still saw her the way she was, when she was a star.”
“Interesting,” said Liz Falla, amused to hear herself use Moretti’s default response in similar situations. “When it comes to fanciful stuff, you must hear a lot of it in your business. Did you ever hear any gossip, anything at all out-of-the-way about the Fellowes?”
Gord Collenette thought a moment. “Well, I was told by a couple of people that Sir Ronald lost a heap of money at one time. ‘Been taken’ was the expression used, I recall.”
“Really? Did anyone ever say who did the taking?”
“No. It was more like island gossip. You never know how these things get started.”
Gord Collenette seemed suddenly evasive. With his particular clientele it did not pay to give credence to rumour and gossip, even if — and especially if — it might be true. Discretion and secrecy were as much a part of his life as that of the brokers and bankers who used the Landsend, sometimes almost as an extension of their offices. His dark eyes turned away from the policewoman.
“Is there anything else? I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.”
“That’ll do for the moment — oh, did you happen to notice if Lady Fellowes was carrying a handbag, or a bag of any kind?”
Gord Collenette grinned. “Not my thing, Liz, noticing handbags. But she paid cash for her Manhattans, I remember. I’ll ask Sally and Gail.”
“Great, thanks. We may have to talk to some of the other staff, some of the silver wedding party, but that’s it for now.”
“So, Liz —” the restaurateur’s eyes turned back in her direction “— what’s Lady Fellowes been up to? She’s doolally, but she looks a bit frail to me to be up to anything.”
“Can’t tell you, Gord, if she’s been up to anything. But as you can see, there’s an investigation going on at the moment, and we are talking to anyone who was seen around this area yesterday evening.”
“On the CCTV cameras, I imagine. This is about whatever is going on over at that luxury yacht?”
“Right.”
As she turned to leave, Gord Collenette held the door open for her.
“Oh, by the way — that doorman of yours. What do you know about him?”
Gord Collenette looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. That’s quite an attitude he’s got.”
“Isn’t it, though?” said Collenette proudly. “His name is Vittorio DeBiase and he came with excellent references. Don’t ask me why, but élite diners expect to be treated like he’s stomping on them.”
Outside the Landsend a brisk wind was blowing the potted palm trees and flapping the awning over the entrance.
“Liz! Hey, Liz Falla, fancy bumping into you!”
Liz Falla closed her eyes. Maybe if she called on her necromantic ancestors, Denny Bras-de-Fer would be whisked off in a cloud of fire and brimstone. She opened her eyes.
No such luck. There he stood, long blond hair blowing in the wind, long body, long legs, languorous smile. Bedroom eyes. Where was her Becquet witch blood when she needed it?
“Hey, Denny. I don’t fancy bumping into you.”
She had once. Fancied bumping into him, that is. In one insanely stupid moment of weakness she had allowed those bedroom eyes to persuade her into bed with him, and, after a night of remarkable physical abandonment with a complete lack of commonsense and intelligent objectivity, she had opened her eyes the next morning and known she had done something very, very silly.
Denny Bras-de-Fer was a fraud. Not a criminal — not quite — but even his name was recently acquired. It was now about two years since Englishman Dennis Bradford and his fiddle landed in Jersey to play for the tourists wherever he could get a job. With his good looks, his charm, and a touch of larceny, he did very nicely for a few months, writing the occasional article for the Jersey Evening Post and appearing on Channel Television, until his somewhat slanderous account of the love life of a local celebrity hit the air waves and, rechristened Denny Bras-de-Fer, he took flight with Aurigny Airways to Guernsey. He played in bars, restaurants, took up his writing career once more with the Guernsey Press, and slept with anyone he thought might be useful to him. If they would let him, and there were few who said no.
Liz Falla was one of them.
“Hey, no fair. You dumped me. When are you going to invite me to play with Jenemie?”
Here was the problem. You could throw Denny out of your bed, but it was difficult to throw him out of your life.
“Nev
er, Denny. I already told you.”
This was the other problem with Denny Bras-de-Fer. He was brilliant in bed, not bad with the pen, but not very good with the fiddle.
“Worth a try. So, Liz, what’s going on with the luxury yacht? Some American been murdered? What are the divers looking for? A gun is what I hear. Right?”
“Come off it, Denny. None of your business.”
“But it’s your business, isn’t it? For old times’ sake, give me a scoop, darlin’.”
“Get lost, Denny. I’m on duty.”
Denny Bras-de-Fer hunched his shoulders and gave one of his carefully crafted wry smiles that crinkled up his eyes. “Sorry you feel that way, Liz. See you around.”
With a wave of his hand he sauntered off down the pier, leaving Liz with the uneasy feeling she had, somehow, told him too much.
As she got back into the car, her mobile rang. It was Moretti.
“I’m on my way back to the station. Leave the customs people for later, Falla. I want to look at the CCTV tape, and I want you along when we go to Lady Fellowes’s place.”
Even at night, Lady Coralie Fellowes stood out on the Albert Pier CCTV camera like an orchid in a field of crabgrass. She was wearing a long, flowing dress topped with what looked like a feather boa, and a pair of very high heels.
But what was most striking about the image on the screen was the furtive way she moved, body slinking almost theatrically into the eye of the camera, with lowered head and tiny, tottering steps. Clearly the woman was fragile, a wraith on the screen, but this was more than frailty; this was fear.
“Run it again, Falla. Hell, she’s close to the edge, isn’t she? For a moment, I thought she was going right in — look. What’s she doing?”
“Throwing something away was what I thought. I’ll freeze it and try the zoom.”
“There — right there. Hold it.”
Time and Lady Coralie Fellowes stood still.
“She’s throwing something in the water, Guv — she took it from her bag. It’s a bit hidden by the boat, but let’s see — I think it’s a gun.” Liz Falla’s deep voice rose an octave.
“So do I.”
So, was it going to be that simple? Something personal? Sex, and not money, after all? And yet, Coralie Fellowes had to be well over eighty years old and, from the sound of things, the murder victim liked them young.
“Okay, Falla, get on to the harbour master’s office and arrange for divers. I want the area covered by the camera and around the yacht searched. Tell them they’re looking for a weapon, most likely a gun. I want a word with PC Brouard, and then we’ll head out.”
Moretti found PC Brouard at the desk in the entrance lobby, chatting with the duty sergeant. The discussion seemed to be about football, and was stirring up intense emotions in both men. The young constable turned around, his face the colour of a Manchester United jersey.
“Jerseys, PC Brouard.”
“Jerseys, sir?”
With a cynical curl of the lip, the desk sergeant resumed his paperwork.
“Yes, jerseys. I want you to check up on something for me, and the jersey in this case is almost sure to be American and a sports sweater of some kind — football, basketball, I don’t know. It’s grey, but there could possibly be other colours. It has the word Panthers above the face of a snarling panther, complete with paws and claws. Also, check out a series of children’s books about Warren and Wilma Woodchuck by Sandra Goldstein, illustrated by Julia King.”
PC Brouard had returned to his normal colour. “Woodchucks?” he queried incredulously, scribbling in his notebook.
“Right, woodchucks. Anything you find, bring it directly to me.” Moretti spelled the names of both woodchucks and both women for the constable and went outside. Liz Falla was already waiting with the car.
“The divers will get started this afternoon, Guv. That should give us time to be there, if they bring anything up.”
“Good. You know where we’re going?”
“I checked. St. Andrew’s Parish, near the Chemin du Roi.”
The parish of St. Andrew is south of St. Peter Port. Even before the island was divided up into parishes it was separated into fiefs, holdovers from the ancient feudal system. Tenants owed allegiance to the local seigneur, but were able to rule themselves reasonably democratically through the feudal courts. Most of the ancient customs were, however, long gone.
Moretti and Falla’s route took them past one of the smaller fiefdoms, the Manor of Ste. Hélène, now in private hands, and St. Andrew’s Church, carefully restored to its twelfth-century self, after eighteenth-century changes had weakened its structure. In an island this size, the past and present were often juxtaposed with jolting speed. Once past the squat spire and constellations of the old church they crossed the Candie Road, close to the site of the vast German Underground Hospital, relic of the Nazi occupation, now a tourist attraction. They then turned into a narrow lane near the borders of the parishes of Forest and St. Martin.
As they jolted along, Moretti thought of his visit to La Veile.
“I went to see Gwen Ferbrache’s tenants this morning. There’s something, I don’t know what, but I don’t think the child is in danger, and I don’t think Gwen is either. PC Brouard is checking some stuff on the Internet for me.”
“Then you can set Miss Ferbrache’s mind at rest — oh, isn’t this a pretty place.”
Ahead of them, Lady Fellowes’s home was bathed in sunshine. It was a typical two-storey Guernsey farmhouse in ivy-covered granite, a curved stone archway around the front entrance, and an extension built at right angles to the main structure. Ivy, moss, and pennywort covered the crumbling stone wall through which the car passed into a small, cobbled courtyard.
“Lots of upkeep,” observed Liz Falla, bringing the car to a halt, “but lots been done. New windows, new roof. Tiles instead of thatch. But the witches’ seat is still up there, near the chimney. Only it’s not really a witches’ seat, my dad says, it held up the edge of the thatch. I prefer to believe my dad. You know how I feel about the whole witch thing.”
“Right,” Moretti responded.
He knew how Falla felt. She had an aunt who chose to believe the maternal line was descended from one of the premier providers of witches in Guernsey dim and distant past.
“There’s a face in the window.”
There was. A pale circle, a flash of something bright, then it was gone. Next to Moretti, Liz Falla suddenly shuddered and sneezed.
Moretti looked at her, eyebrows raised, but she said nothing.
“Anyway, witches or no witches, if your thumbs prick, let me know, because I plan to leave most of the talking to you.”
The front door opened, and Coralie Fellowes stood there.
“I am so glad to see you. Do come in,” she greeted them, the perfect hostess. She was in full maquillage, kohl-rimmed eyes set in a nicotine-raddled face beneath black, close-cropped hair, cheek curls sprayed into position. Her dress was an extraordinary rainbow of colours, salmon pink, orange, scarlet, and powder blue. Had she been expecting them? Was the Guernsey grapevine that good? Moretti took out his ID.
“Lady Fellowes, I am Detective Inspector Moretti, and this is Detective Sergeant Falla. We —”
Coralie Fellowes held out a thin, scarlet-taloned hand, burdened with rings, drooping wearily from an insubstantial, skeletal wrist.
“There’s always a catch, isn’t there? A price to pay for pleasure, don’t you think?”
Her voice was still seductive, husky with nicotine and age, the accent beguiling. Moretti took the proffered hand in his. Her skin was cold, cold, cold.
“This is an official visit, if that’s what you mean, Lady Fellowes. May we come in?”
“I have already invited you.”
She stood to one side and smiled at Moretti, hardly glancing at his partner.
“Do you live alone, Lady Fellowes?” Liz Falla asked, as she and Moretti squeezed themselves into the narrow entrance hall.
There was no smile for Liz Falla. Coralie Fellowes made no attempt to hide her hostility toward the younger woman, and Moretti saw he might have to change his plan of attack. Clearly, the former star of the Folies Bergère still looked on other women as rivals.
“You invited us in before checking who we were. That’s risky.”
“Far more risky things in life than letting a stranger in your door, wouldn’t you agree?”
This was directed at Moretti with what once must have been a coquettish look from under pencilled eyebrows. Very Clara Bow, he thought, thank God I brought Falla with me.
“Such as, Lady Fellowes?”
“I’ll tell you when you tell me what you’re doing here.”
She waved her hand in their direction and tottered ahead of them toward a room off the narrow hall. A blast of perfume drifted toward them, heavy with musk and rose. She had very long legs.
The room they entered was a symphony of pinks, apricots, and reds, not a cool colour in sight. Paris boudoir with a touch of the soukh. Berber carpets underfoot, a cornucopia of tasselled cushions covered in pink and gold silk. English-style armchairs upholstered in what looked like old Persian rugs, a chaise lounge draped in a huge, crimson, fringed shawl. The smell of Sobranies hung heavy in the air.
“Do sit down. A drink? No? Of course, you are on official business.”
“These are — remarkable.” Moretti gestured around him.
Photographs in silver frames, mahogany frames, gilded frames. Paintings and portraits and miniatures. A small bronze statue. Coralie Chancho in silver lamé, Coralie Chancho in black chiffon, Coralie Chancho in countless strings of pearls, Coralie Chancho in ostrich feathers almost as tall as she was. Coralie Chancho in nothing at all.
“But of course. They are me. You like them?”
“They are beautiful,” said Liz Falla, and was rewarded with a smile in her direction.