The Corpse with the Silver Tongue

by Cathy Ace

  I felt a chill run through me. Good grief—when he put it like that, I was clearly high on the list of suspects if Alistair had been murdered. A stranger at the table the night a man that I hated had died? I saw his point.

  I was determined to not skulk out of Moreau’s office. I held my head high as I swung my purse onto my shoulder and turned for the door, toward which Bertrand was rapidly marching.

  As he held the door open for me to pass through, a thought suddenly occurred to me, and I turned back to see the captain making notes.

  “M. l’Capitaine,” I called across the wasteland of incongruous, fitted carpet between us, my voice echoing in the large room. His head popped up. “I have just remembered that Alistair did consume something that none of the rest of us shared with him.”

  “Oui?” he was clearly interested.

  “While we were having drinks on the balcony he smoked a cigar.” I felt pleased with myself.

  “Was it his own cigar?” asked the captain.

  What an odd thing to ask! I thought, but I then gave the idea some consideration, and supposed it was a reasonable enough question, though not something that had occurred to me. “I don’t know,” I replied truthfully. “I saw a wooden box that could have been a humidor on one of the little tables inside the apartment, and I know that Alistair enjoyed his cigars, so I suppose, at the time, I assumed it was from his own supply. But I don’t know that to be a fact. I certainly didn’t give it to him, but I guess any one of the others at the party might have brought it for him. No one else was smoking cigars.”

  “Thank you,” was the captain’s curt reply, and he resumed his note taking. I was well and truly dismissed.

  As we walked back to the main entrance, I thanked Pierre Bertrand for his efforts with the translation. He smiled and bowed politely, assuring me it was nothing at all. I also ventured to enquire about my fellow guests, and how they were faring after the medical emergencies of the previous evening. He looked uncertain and shuffled from foot to foot as he answered.

  “I do not think I can do any harm by telling you that only Mme. Townsend is still at the hospital. She was sedated last night and is still being observed. But everyone else has been released, like you.”

  “Thanks for that,” I replied gently. I could see he was concerned about how much information he was allowed to give me, and I didn’t want to press him. You see, I was already beginning to think of this as a “real case,” whatever the captain might have said, so talking to those who knew Alistair here in Nice, living his new life, was high on my list of things to do. That’s what I do . . . I learn about victims to help work out why they might have become a victim in the first place.

  I didn’t really need any inside information from Bertrand—I knew I could track down Beni Brunetti through the museum, and I knew that all the other guests lived at the Palais, so I had to be able to get hold of them somehow. And, giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I was truly concerned that the two older members of our group were, in fact, well enough to be at home, alone: they might have been released by the doctors, but were they feeling well enough to really look after themselves? Oh, okay then, I’ll admit it—that was just my internal justification for wanting to talk to them about Alistair. Rationalization is something of a personal forte.

  Rather than push for more from the young policeman, I decided to leave and rely upon my own investigative skills, some of which I have picked up by osmosis from Bud and his team. I looked at my watch and calculated the time in Vancouver. There were still a few hours before I could reasonably phone even an early riser like Bud, so I decided to fill my time the best way I could and find myself somewhere to eat. When in doubt, resort to food.

  Saturday Lunchtime

  I LEFT THE POLICE STATION as quickly as I could, and headed toward the sea. As I walked through the busy streets I was only vaguely aware of the sun in my eyes and the breeze on my face. I finally forced myself to become more alert to my surroundings as I was jostled by the crowds pressing together under the shaded walkway alongside the Galleries Lafayette. I decided to head to the Cours Saleya for lunch. I still felt robbed of my relaxation there the day before, so thought I’d try again, even though I knew that my enjoyment of moules marinière and rosé wine would now be tinged with—what? Sadness? Not really. Guilt? Certainly not. But . . . something. Call me selfish if you must, but I was beginning to realize that my position was far from enviable. I could end up stuck in Nice at the heart of a murder investigation for weeks!

  Okay, so there are worse places to be, and I was pretty sure that they’d be able to organize someone to teach on my behalf at the university—but think of the cost! Good grief—it was all well and good the department covering my hotel for a few nights, but what if I had to stay longer? Who would pay then? I was pretty sure that my travel insurance wouldn’t cover “out of pocket expenses incurred as a result of being suspected of murder.”

  That was a bridge to cross when I came to it. Rather than worry about things over which I had no control, I told myself to get my act together and get myself some lunch. I wandered past the bustling restaurants alongside the flower market and found myself an unoccupied table at one of the last eateries. Yesterday I’d sat at the one with the yellow awnings and chairs and today I thought I’d pick the one with the red awnings. The menus at both seemed to be pretty similar, and both offered what my palate yearned for—mussels. Having missed breakfast, and not having eaten much at all the night before, I was ravenously hungry. It’s not a state with which I’m overly familiar, as I like to make sure there’s always something around that I can snack on.

  I settled down and accepted a menu from a young girl in a white T-shirt, black pants and a long white apron. Yes, I knew what I wanted, but I do so enjoy reading menus. I find I can eat my way through them in my mind, my mouth watering at the idea of all the lovely flavors and textures being offered. I was just enjoying the thought of loup de mer with pommes frites when there was a polite cough to my right.

  “Professor Morgan, Cait, it is I, Beni Brunetti. May I speak with you?”

  I looked around to see Beni standing there with his hand extended toward the chair opposite me, and a hopeful smile on his face. His teeth were magnificent. As were his eyes, and his hair and . . . well, you get the picture. Call me shallow if you want, but I couldn’t see what harm it would do to allow an incredibly handsome, intelligent, and well-educated Italian to join me, so I smiled back and motioned for Beni to sit.

  “How do you feel today? Well?” he asked, his rich tones resonant but quiet.

  “I’m feeling fine, thank you, Beni. I seem to have rediscovered my appetite!” I laughed and patted my tummy. “Not that I ever really lose it,” I added quickly. I always think it’s better to get in cracks about my weight early—that way people get the idea that I’m comfortable with it. At least, that’s what I hope.

  “Ah, Cait—you must not worry about things like this. Body image is a cultural phenomenon, and it is also cyclical. Because we live in times of plenty, it is fashionable to be very thin. In times of great need it is fashionable to be plump. What matters is health and enjoyment. Eat, drink, be merry. The Romans had it right. They were, however, much healthier eaters than many think.”

  I was a bit taken aback by this opening. Considering that we had met under what had become such deadly circumstances, I had half expected Beni to only want to talk about the events of the previous evening. He seemed to be quite content to just sit and chat about food—my favorite topic.

  “Will you eat?” he asked, picking up the menu himself.

  “Oh yes,” I answered quickly, “moules for me, I think.”

  “They are good here,” he replied, nodding, “but I shall take the pasta with clams. The chef here is Italian and makes very good pasta. He knows the sauce I like.”

  As he sat there, completely comfortable in his body and his surroundings, I wondered what it must be like to be able to live like that. Don’t get me wrong, I love
my life, I can sometimes feel quite presentable when I’m all dressed up, and I can get along with most types of people in most types of situations. But he . . . well, he seemed to not just fit into his surroundings, but to epitomize them. The young waitress returned to our table with a notepad and a tray.

  “Moules marinière for the lady, and I will take linguini con vongole . . . tell Toni it is for Beni. He knows the sauce I prefer. We will drink Cotes de Provence rosé. Right away for the drinks, please.”

  Beni spoke in a low, commanding voice. I was a bit annoyed that he’d ordered for me, but I calmed my natural desire to object by telling myself that he’d ordered for me what I’d have ordered for myself, so what was the point of even mentioning how rude I thought it was that he would just step in and take over? Sometimes I have quite long conversations with myself about such things, but it’s not every time that I manage to hit the “edit” button before I open my mouth. Maybe it was the way that his eyes were smiling at me that stopped me from speaking out. Maybe it was just because I was so hungry that I didn’t have the energy to object.

  “It is a warm day for May,” observed Beni as he turned his face to the sun and replaced his sunglasses. I reached into my big, messy handbag to look for my Guccis. I’d bought them about twenty years earlier, on a weekend trip to Brighton, in England, with Angus—that ex of mine whose death had caused me so much grief, and I don’t mean grief because he was dead, but because the police had thought I had killed him. Of course, he’d called the Jackie-O specials a “waste of money.” Spending money on anything but booze had always seemed like a waste of money to him. God—what had I been thinking, sticking it out with him for so long? I reckoned that by amortizing the original cost of those sunglasses over the years, they were now the cheapest pair I’d ever owned. It was strange, and a bit scary, to think of all that those glasses and I had been through together.

  “Nice glasses,” Beni remarked as I popped them on. “They work very well with the shape of your face.”

  You may keep on complimenting me that way for as long as you like, I thought. I smiled. I was beginning to warm to a man who knew what I wanted to eat and drink and who wasn’t afraid to tell me that I looked nice. I wondered if these were abilities passed from all Italian fathers to all Italian sons, or whether it was more about Italian mothers teaching their sons just how to go about nabbing women with whom they could produce the next generation.

  “We should talk about what happened last night.”

  Beni’s remark surprised me. Of course, I’d suspected we’d inevitably end up doing just that, but he introduced the topic very abruptly. I was beginning to learn that this was his manner.

  Before I could respond, the waitress returned with a curvaceous bottle of pink wine, two empty glasses, two more full of ice and an ashtray—all of which covered the small table completely.

  “Thank you, no ice,” said Beni, and she took away the ice-filled glasses. He poured the wine and pulled a packet of long, slim cheroots from his inside jacket pocket.

  “You will smoke?” he asked.

  At least you’re not lighting two of them and handing me one, I thought, but I said aloud, “Not those, thanks—I’ll stick to these.” I dragged a somewhat squashed packet of super-slims from my purse. I will give up. One day. In the meantime I stick to the tiny slivers of cigarettes that are just about half the size of real ones. And I don’t smoke them all the way to the end. And I hardly smoke in Vancouver at all—there really isn’t anywhere to do it, except inside your own home, or in your car. In Nice—well, many places are designated “no smoking,” but the outdoor terraces of the bars and restaurants are open to the elements where you’re allowed to burst into flame if you want.

  I lit up and just took it all in for a second or two. There are few things more glorious than sipping cool wine and inhaling smoke while listening to the jolly bustle of the Nicoise markets around you and smelling a hint of garlic in the air—the promise of a wonderful meal to come. For a moment, time seemed to stop . . . and I was blissfully happy. Then I opened my eyes, dragged myself back to the full reality of my situation, not just the fun bits. I thought I should reply to Beni’s earlier statement.

  “Last night was a first for me, Beni. I’ve worked on quite a lot of police cases, and many, many academic ones; I’ve been around bodies a fair bit, and I’ve even attended autopsies, but I’ve never seen anyone actually drop dead in front of me before. What about you?”

  Was I trying to shock him? Was I just plain showing off? Either way, I didn’t get the reaction I’d expected.

  “I have seen three people die,” Beni replied gravely. “My father, in a hospital bed, which was a terrible loss, and which upset me a great deal, even though it was expected . . . A trusted colleague who became trapped under a fallen marble column at a dig we were working on in southern Italy, which made me angry and frustrated, because I couldn’t help him. And, now, Alistair.”

  He paused and seemed to be searching for words. I sat there chastising myself for making him think I was a completely heartless idiot.

  “Alistair’s death made me feel . . . relief,” said Beni, almost with surprise at recognizing his own feelings. He drew deeply on his cheroot and nodded his head slowly as he blew smoke high into the air in a thin, blue stream. “Yes, relief,” he muttered, huskily.

  “That’s interesting,” I said. Aloud, as it turned out, which surprised me, because I’d meant to only think it.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied, slowly. “I thought his death would have made me feel . . . something else.” He looked puzzled.

  Of course, all the time that he was puffing and looking handsomely confused, I was wondering why he’d feel relieved about Alistair’s death. It was intriguing, to say the least. A good-looking man with an air of mystery about him—how dangerous is that? I told myself to be objective, to try to find out more, rather than allow myself to be carried off into the realms of a romance novel.

  I sipped at my wine, and simply watched Beni for a moment. Then I ventured, “Had you known Alistair for long?” I had to try to find out more, but gently.

  “A couple of years, I think,” replied Beni, still seemingly distracted.

  “How did you meet?”

  “It was a fundraiser for the museum. I cannot remember which one—we have many, you understand. There is a great deal of work to be done and not enough money from the government. I think it was a Primavera Evening. Yes. Two years ago, last spring. Alistair had been suggested as someone who might supply, or donate, food—the escargots from his farm. My assistant contacted him, he agreed, and, of course, he was invited to the evening. I met him and Tamsin at the event. After that, I was invited to their home many times, and Tamsin visited the museum often. Alistair came once or twice. They both liked it that I was able to get them VIP tickets for the jazz festival at the Cimiez Arena. I think that the music was not to Tamsin’s taste: she attended because it is chic to do so, and she liked to be seen to be in all the fashionable places. Alistair seemed to be interested in the artists, but was happy to be seen at the concerts with Tamsin at his side.”

  That fitted with my assessment of both Tamsin and Alistair: a wannabe airhead with a rich, older husband, who was, himself, happy to show her off as the trophy wife she was. A cliché that exists because it’s true in so many cases.

  “Are both you and your wife friends of the Townsends?” I asked as innocently as I could. You can’t blame me for wanting to know, can you?

  Beni gently rolled the end of his cheroot against the inside of the ashtray, depositing a perfect column of ash, and smiled broadly, giving me a sideways glance that was almost conspiratorial.

  “My wife is gone. She and I no longer live together. She lives in Milan. I live here. It is better this way. We will not divorce. It sits well with us both.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied feebly. I swear my stomach tightened at his response. I told myself it was because I was hungry, not because . . . oh, well, you kno
w!

  “Do not be sorry for me. It is life.” He raised his glass to me and sipped.

  His comments seemed very philosophical and wise. Not so very different from Bud, in many ways—but head and shoulders above him in the looks department, of course, Bud not ever having been “beaten with a handsome stick,” as he himself put it.

  I smiled as I thought about Bud, and wondered what he’d say about Beni. More to the point, I wondered what Jan’s comments about him would be. “Oh Cait—I got married to Bud, I didn’t go blind!” was something she’d said to me once when we’d been out having coffee and she’d spotted a good-looking guy in the crowd. She’d like Beni: she liked the tall, dark, and handsome types . . . which was odd, considering that Bud was quite short, very blond and more rugged than handsome.

  My thoughts about Jan and Bud were interrupted by the arrival of our food, and the rearranging of the table that was required to allow our plates to be fitted onto the tiny space. Mussels and clams take up a lot of room because you need somewhere to discard the shells. The waitress managed, eventually, to place all the dishes, and she left us to the pungent aroma of garlic, wine sauces, and shellfish—and the embarrassingly loud rumbling of my tummy!

  “Bon appétit,” I said, deferring to my French surroundings. I picked up my glass and drank a mouthful, before peering into the huge bowl of moules in search of a shiny blue shell that looked about the right size to act as my “picker.” Immediately my sunglasses steamed over, forcing me to take them off to wipe them with my napkin. I put them back on again. Then I dropped my napkin on the floor, so had to retrieve it before stuffing it into the neckline of my top, right underneath my chin. I know my own shortcomings when it comes to missing my mouth with food, and nothing ever has a chance to get as far as my lap, so covering my bosom with a protective layer is the best thing for me to do. Then I found a good-sized shell, popped the first fleshy mussel into my mouth and savored the deliciousness of white wine, pepper, celery, carrot, onion, garlic, butter and broth that coated the plump little mollusc in a totally blissful, utterly comforting taste sensation. Boy oh boy, I love good food! I know that I closed my eyes as I ate, and I opened them to see Beni smiling at me.