The Corpse with the Silver Tongue

by Cathy Ace

  Ah, good, we were back to the necklace again.

  “I do know what my necklace is . . . it’s pretty, and gold, and magical, and it’s a part of history. I should have it, but my necklace has gone, and Ally has gone. How can you be so cruel, Beni? I thought you liked me! I like you!” Tamsin was whimpering like a child, and employing much the same sort of logic as one. “Maybe,” she added with spite in her voice, “if you wanted that necklace for your precious museum so much, you stole it and killed Ally too! He told me about what you said about the necklace—that you’d do anything to have it. He told me!” I was surprised she didn’t poke out her tongue as a parting shot.

  “Me!?” cried Beni, “I did not steal the necklace! I did not kill Alistair and I did not kill Madelaine!” That just about covered it . . . well, he’d left out the theft at the museum, I supposed, but he was in a temper.

  I jumped in. “So who did, eh? What about you, Chuck? You were against the swimming pool. And I get the distinct impression that you’d like to own this apartment—the one with its famous balcony and the truly grisly history. Well, maybe now Tamsin will be persuaded to sell.”

  “So I killed Alistair for a balcony? This balcony?” Chuck’s already high register was even higher. “I’d be more likely to kill for the Kragen des Todes than a goddam balcony!”

  Gerard gasped and roughly grabbed Chuck by his arm. “The Kragen des Todes? What do you know of this? Why do you speak of this? It is a terrible thing!” Gerard was horrified at what Chuck had said, but I had no idea what either of them was talking about.

  “What’s the Kragen des Todes?” I asked. Beni responded with a shrug, and Tamsin shook her head, indicating she didn’t know. I said to Chuck, “Come on, spill!”

  I could tell he wished he could take back what he’d said. His eyes darted about, as though he was being hunted and looking desperately for an escape route.

  “Ummmm . . . It’s complicated,” he replied, weakly.

  “It is not complicated,” boomed Gerard in a surprisingly loud voice, “it is death. Death is always simple.” It was a bold statement, and he certainly had my undivided attention.

  He drank down the last dregs of his cognac, slammed his glass on the table top, and said, “The Kragen des Todes is what the Germans called the Collier de la Mort. It is the same thing. The Collar of Death. It is what Madelaine is wearing in the portrait that was taken,” he added, more to me than anyone else. “It is a terrible thing that the Gestapo do when they are here. Them and the SS. They bring young women, some are just girls, like my sister, to this place. They make them dress like a queen. They make them wear fine clothes, jewels, and the Kragen des Todes, then they treat them as slaves, then the women, the girls, they are seen no more. Not by their family. Not by anyone. They disappear. They are dead. This happens many times. Stories come down to us, from the servants who work in the Palais. As soon as a woman wears the necklace, she is dead. And you,” he looked directly at Chuck, “you think this is interesting. Ha! Interesting? It is real people. It is my family. It is not history, it is real. You make the Gestapo seem glamorous! You want to live here because you are captivated by them. You are a terrible man!”

  Chuck leapt to his feet. “I’m not ‘captivated’ by the Gestapo! My grandfather helped Robert H. Jackson lead the prosecution at the Nuremberg Trials, for God’s sake! Nazism was a terrible blot on the history of mankind. I truly believe that, but we cannot ignore history. We must learn from it! That’s why I write the books I write, so people can learn.”

  “Why mention this Collar of Death at all?” asked Beni, now totally engaged and apparently confused.

  Again, Chuck looked at his feet and didn’t answer, which was fine by me; I was pretty sure I’d worked it out. The necklace part, anyway. Chuck, Beni, and maybe even Gerard, had equally strong motives for wanting to own it: either because of its role in history, ancient or more recent, or because of a personal connection.

  “I don’t know why people always talk about the horrible things that happened here,” said Tamsin plaintively. “This is my home. You’ll give me nightmares.”

  Once again Tamsin had managed to take a conversation about man’s inhumanity to man, and make it all about her. Wow!

  The doorbell rang, and Beni leapt to his feet. “It is the food,” he shouted, looking at his watch. “I will arrange all this,” and he took off toward the kitchen. Meanwhile, Gerard looked sulkily at his empty cognac glass, shooting Chuck the odd disparaging glare, and Tamsin began to whine again that she was cold.

  “A good meal will warm you up,” said Chuck.

  “Yes,” I added, keen to make at least something of my surroundings, “it’s a lovely evening, and it would be a shame to be indoors.” I suspected that my life on Burnaby Mountain meant I was just a bit hardier than our delicate little flower, Tamsin, who had obviously become acclimatized to the warmth of the south of France. Just to be sure, I added, “And I, for one, would rather eat at this table than the one where we ate at last night.”

  “Absolutely!” agreed Chuck, a little too loudly.

  “Chuck, will you help me carry this?” called Beni from the kitchen. Chuck dutifully helped Beni carry foil containers, plates, glasses, and cutlery from the kitchen, as well as a couple of bottles of champagne and some red wine. We all pulled our chairs to the table, and soon we were tucking into a wonderful choice of pissaladier (a local onion and anchovy tart), salade Nicoise, Provençal stuffed vegetables, veal Milanese, pasta, and gnocci with three different sauces—creamy, meaty or spicy, and bread and cheeses, of course. For me, it wasn’t so much a question of choosing as of having a bit of everything. In my own defense, it was all so good it would have been a sin to miss anything.

  Tamsin nibbled at the stuffed vegetables; Gerard said he didn’t feel up to much more than a little gnocci, then ate a great big pile of it; and Beni and Chuck “grazed,” though less voraciously than I did. Chuck hit the meat in a big way, Beni more the pasta. We were all pretty quiet for a while which might have been a good way to ratchet down the tension, but it meant I didn’t have as much of a chance to gather new information.

  We were all ready for the cheeses and coffee when the doorbell rang again. It was gone ten o’clock, so I couldn’t imagine who it could be but Moreau. I was quite glad, because I wanted the day to end, but I knew it wouldn’t until he was done with me . . . with us all.

  “I’ll go,” said Chuck. Beni and I didn’t object because we were smoking, Gerard seemed to be glad to let his food settle, and Tamsin . . . well, it would be unlike Tamsin to volunteer to undertake any sort of action at all, as far as I could tell.

  Captain Moreau walked out onto the balcony, just ahead of Chuck. I wondered what his thoughts were at the sight that greeted him; it must have looked as though a wonderful dinner party was just wrapping up. Beni politely rose to greet the policeman, and he pulled an empty chair up to the table.

  In French Beni invited the man to join us for some cheese, or bread, or maybe a glass of wine. Moreau sat in the seat he was offered and accepted a glass of red. He pulled out his cigarettes, raised them toward Tamsin with a query on his face, to which Tamsin didn’t react at all, but to which Beni responded telling him to go ahead and smoke. He did.

  “Bon soirez,” began Moreau.

  Beni immediately looked at me and Chuck and said, “Captain Moreau says ‘Good evening.’”

  A feeling of dread crept over me as I realized that we might be in for a very long night.

  “I speak only very little French, as Monsieur l’Capitaine knows from our meeting this morning,” commented Chuck.

  Moreau had a busy morning, I thought to myself. Aloud I said, “Mine’s okay, but I don’t get every word when people speak quickly. Maybe Chuck and I could just ask you if we don’t quite catch something?” Beni nodded. “Do you speak French, Tamsin?” I continued. I could guess her response.

  “Mais bien sur, je parle français couramment,” was Tamsin’s incredible reply.
/>   “You speak French fluently?” I asked her. Maybe I had misunderstood.

  “Of course, you have to if you want to go shopping,” she replied innocently.

  Well now, that threw me! I’ve heard of idiot-savants, of course, but who’d have thought that this twit would be able to master a second language? Not me, for one! It certainly put the pressure on Chuck and me to keep up with Moreau. I concentrated hard, and, to be fair, I think Moreau was making a real effort to speak quite slowly and very clearly.

  “You all know of the death of Mme. Schiafino,” he began, and we all nodded gravely. “She died some time between three this afternoon—that is when she was last seen alive, by a neighbor—and about half an hour before the body was found. I know that she was a guest at the party last night where M. Townsend died. We now know how M. Townsend died; at least, we know what caused his death. I am still investigating how the digitalis was introduced to the escargots. Two unexpected deaths in the same building within twenty-four hours is not likely to be a coincidence—” I could imagine Bud saying much the same thing, “so I am interested in understanding how Mme. Schiafino and M. Townsend were connected. This might help us to understand why they both died. I have had the opportunity to speak with you all about M. Townsend and the gathering here last evening. Now I need to speak to you all about Mme. Schiafino and her relationship with M. Townsend. I am sure you understand. I want to do this privately, and you are all advised to consider if you would like to have a legal representative present when we speak. This is now a formal investigation into murder and you will all be required to make a sworn statement at the end of our interview. To this end, I must ask you all to accompany me to the police station. I have several cars waiting to take you all there, and, when we have completed the process, you will be driven to wherever you wish—either back here to the Palais, or to your hotel, Professor Morgan, or your home, Doctor Brunetti.”

  Tamsin let out a little scream. “Oh no! Not a police station! I don’t want to go to a police station! Captain Moreau—it’s so late . . . Can’t this wait until tomorrow? Can’t you question me here? I don’t want to go to a police station. I’m sure it’s not very nice there!” Even in French, it was still all about the Widow Tamsin!

  “Yes, it must be done tonight,” replied Moreau, firmly. “Mme. Townsend—this is your husband’s murder that we are investigating! Do you not care that the culprit might flee?”

  “You think it was one of us?” asked Beni, his voice booming, maybe more loudly than he had intended.

  Moreau smiled with his teeth, not his eyes. “This is still something we are investigating. There are many avenues for us to follow. You are the people who were with M. Townsend at his time of death and so, of course, are of interest to my investigation. As the people who were with Mme. Schiafino last night, and the people who found her body, again, you are of interest. In fact, you are very interesting people.” He smirked. It wasn’t a comforting expression.

  “I didn’t find her body,” bleated Tamsin. “I’ve never been in her stinky little apartment. I don’t know why I can’t have a good night’s sleep in my own bed. I didn’t kill Ally and I didn’t kill Madelaine . . . and I certainly didn’t steal my own necklace. So why can’t I do this tomorrow? Besides,” she added quite slyly, “if you’re interviewing us all, one at a time, it’ll take hours . . . If you started with her,” she pointed that finger at me again, “and went all night with the others, you might be ready for me in the morning, then you could come here and we could have breakfast together.” It seemed that Tamsin had come up with the perfect plan—for Tamsin.

  “Mme. Townsend, I must speak with you at the police station because we have special equipment there—cameras and recorders—in our interview rooms. It is not like the old days when a policemen and a suspect had a conversation, one to one, and then everyone accepted the policeman’s version. No, no, it is not like that at all!”

  “So we are all suspects?” asked Beni.

  “Yes,” replied Moreau.

  There it was, finally out in the open. We were all suspects in one confirmed murder, an unexpected death and two robberies . . . or even three, if you were to count Mme. Schiafino’s portrait.

  It was at that dramatic moment that my handbag started to perform . . . playing the annoying tune I’d foolishly set as my ring-tone, which drove me mad the second it started. I apologized profusely as I scrabbled around trying to locate my phone, but by the time I triumphantly plucked it from the black hole that was my handbag, it had stopped ringing. Typical! I knew that wasn’t the moment to find out who had called. I stuffed the phone back into the abyss; I’d check to see if anyone had left a message the next chance I had. I hoped it was Bud returning my call, and I also hoped that I wasn’t going to get caught in a game of voice mail tag. I really wanted to be able to talk this all through with Bud. I was beginning to feel as though I was overboard and drifting from the ship—and Bud was the last chance I had for anyone to throw me a lifeline. I can’t swim, so this mental image had me panicking, big time.

  Apart from Tamsin’s protestations, we were all quiet. Too tired to argue, I guess. And full. Well, I was, anyway. I was glad I’d eaten heartily. Who knew how long the night would be?

  “I will take M. Fontainbleu with me to the station,” said Moreau, standing. “He will be glad to be back at home and asleep, I am sure. I believe he knew Mme. Schiafino the best among you?” His quizzical expression drew nods from us all.

  “That is a good idea, Captain,” said Beni. “I am sure we are all happy for you to speak with Gerard first. We will wait our turn.” I was pretty sure Tamsin wasn’t happy that the aged gardener would be the first one to be heading for his bed, but then, frankly, I didn’t care. I suspected that she’d be dealt with before me, in deference to her tragic loss, but I hoped that French gallantry would at least allow me to be interviewed before Chuck and Beni. Especially Chuck—it sounded like he’d just been relaxing all day—not dealing with a large lunch and a robbery.

  “Captain Moreau, would it be alright with you if the rest of us spent a little time clearing up here?” I wanted to add, Except Tamsin, of course, who probably won’t lift a finger, but I resisted.

  Moreau looked around and nodded. “Yes, I will take M. Fontainbleu, and there are two more cars. Ladies in one, gentlemen in the other. Ladies first, of course,” and he smiled that shark-like smile again and nodded to Tamsin and me. She looked at me as though I were something on the bottom of her shoe. Nice!

  Late Saturday Night

  IT TOOK BENI, CHUCK, AND me a little while to clear the detritus from Tamsin’s balcony. I grappled with my conscience as we tipped unfinished food into plastic bags and then sent them hurtling down the garbage chute in the kitchen. I could almost hear my mother saying, “Waste not, want not, Caitlin.” She always used my full name when she was trying to impress something upon me . . . or tell me off about something. Now no one calls me Caitlin except my doctor and my dentist.

  The truth of it was, only the cheese was worth keeping for the next day. When we had begun clearing, Tamsin announced that she had to go and change her clothes for an ensemble more suited to attending an interview at a police station—shocker, right?—so the two men and I were left alone to do the best we could. Beni and I managed to drink coffee and smoke as we cleared. Chuck did most of the carrying to and fro, but all the conversation was what you might call “small talk” because none of us were discussing dead bodies or priceless jewelry . . . for a change.

  I managed to duck out to the bathroom. I sometimes take advantage of the fact that men seem to think that all women have bladders the size of a walnut. I checked my phone and could see that whoever had called me earlier on had an ‘unknown number’, and was, therefore, not Bud. There was nothing I could do about that—it might just have been someone mis-dialling, after all. I called Bud’s cell—voice mail; then his office—voice mail; then the Anderson apartment—again, voice mail. I finally tried Jan’s cell phone. I know
that calling the wife of someone you want to talk to is not really the “done” thing, but—needs must! I even got voice mail there, too.

  It gave me a funny feeling, as though something was wrong. It’s weird, isn’t it? We’re so used to being able to reach people exactly when we want them these days that not being able to get hold of them makes you feel as though they’ve fallen off the face of the planet. I didn’t leave a message at any of Bud’s possible locations on the first try and decided to do something I’m not really good at. I laboriously typed a text message that simply read “Call me?” then sent it to Bud’s cell phone. That would be where it would be most likely to reach him quickly. Where was he? The grow-op bust in Chilliwack couldn’t have taken that long, surely? Usually, they take about an hour, tops, to get in, get the people out, and then it’s all down to clearing the property and getting rid of the drugs. Then it’s all back to the station and get the paperwork done . . . Bud would have been finished hours earlier.

  It occurred to me that maybe something had gone wrong, and I didn’t like that thought. Not one little bit. I remembered the big grow-op they’d found in the Okanagan region. The guys who’d set up the operation had trained bears, by feeding them dog food, to protect the site. Now, although this might be unlikely in Chilliwack, there was always the chance complex security measures had to be overcome. Bud would have gone out in his Kevlar, he always did, but what if the operation had gone sideways? If someone had been hurt? Or killed? What if Bud . . . no, I couldn’t go there. I was beginning to feel panic in the pit of my stomach, so I looked at myself in the mirror and gave myself a talking to. I was in enough trouble as it was, and I couldn’t go worrying about what was probably nothing at all back home in Vancouver. I had to use my energy to make sure I didn’t continue as chief suspect in a double homicide and triple theft.

  That got me focused. I emerged feeling mentally realigned, physically relieved and refreshed, and ready to face Moreau.