Deadly Vintage
Elizabeth Varadan
© Elizabeth Varadan 2019
Elizabeth Varadan has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2019 by Belanger Books, LLC.
This book is for my husband, Rajan
Table of Contents
Chapter One - A Fine Bottle of Port
Chapter Two - Polícia!
Chapter Three - Only a Statement, Nothing More
Chapter Four – Something Weird Was Going On
Chapter Five – What Harm Can a Little Investigating Do?
Chapter Six – In the Jardim de Santa Bárbara
Chapter Seven - A Visit to Paulo
Chapter Eight - Detective Fernandes Comes Calling
Chapter Nine - Carla Pays a Visit of Her Own
Chapter Ten - A Sharper Focus
Chapter Eleven – A Threatening Message
Chapter Twelve - Carla Tells All and Learns a Few Things
Chapter Thirteen - A Rude Surprise
Chapter Fourteen – A Change in Plans
Chapter Fifteen - Some Disconcerting News
Chapter Sixteen - A New Friend
Chapter Seventeen – An Expedition
Chapter Eighteen – Dinner at A Taberna do Félix
Chapter Nineteen - Going, Going, Gone
Chapter Twenty – A Jarring Conversation
Chapter Twenty-One – Candy Wrappers and Doldrums
Chapter Twenty-Two - Shoes, Beautiful Shoes
Chapter Twenty-Three - Coffee with a Culprit
Chapter Twenty-Four – Realizations
Chapter Twenty-Five – Can We Talk?
Chapter Twenty-Six –Because of Family
Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Best Laid Plans
Chapter Twenty-Eight – All’s Well That Ends Well—for Some
Chapter Twenty-Nine – A Fine Alvarinho
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One - A Fine Bottle of Port
Carla Bass paused at the corner souvenir shop, a pie-wedge shaped building. She was returning from an antique store where she’d seen a gilt-framed mirror one of her clients might like. The narrow street to the right had intrigued her for some time. Linden trees unfurled dark green, heart-shaped leaves on the shop side of the cobbled street. Across from the shop, a salmon-colored door and awning of a small café matched two open umbrellas at outside tables. Above the door and plate glass window, pots of red geraniums lined the balcony.
Perfect for a new blog post. Already words were coming to her: “Capture the eye-catching charm of Portugal on your own back patio . . .”, or some such. A sliding glass door could substitute for the plate glass window. At first Carla had worried about how to conduct her interior design business from abroad, but her blog and Skype meetings with her partner, Bethany, made it surprisingly easy.
During the six weeks Carla Bass and her husband had been in Braga, Portugal had felt like a grand adventure. While Owen oversaw a hotel remodel for his employer’s new chain, her interior design business was enjoying a boost. She had started a blog, posting snapshots of tiled walls and wrought iron balconies. She’d bought a Portuguese grammar book and another fat volume, 621 Portuguese Verbs, given that the remodel was expected to take six months.
The cool breeze stirring the air felt fresh on her face. Late April mornings were still crisp in Braga. In fact, the weather reminded her of Piedmont, California, where her and Owen’s friends were taking turns house-sitting.
She took her small Lumix camera out of her handbag and walked past the souvenir shop to get a good shot of the café. The wine shop next door caught her attention instead. The set of tiles across the front was different from the traditional azulejo tiles decorating facades and entrances of so many buildings: It showed a wine harvest scene above the doorway. Blue and white depictions of grape clusters framed the plate window and each side of the door. Owen might like a pictorial effect like this for the hotel. Only last night he’d said his team was considering azulejos for the facade.
The hotel also planned to offer more than one Port. This shop probably had a good selection. She took out her phone from her handbag and dialed her husband.
“Hi, babe,” he answered. She pictured his lopsided smile, the dimples that always made him look boyish, despite the way his blonde hair was starting to thin above his temples.
“I’m at a wine shop with an incredible doorway you should see.” she said. “I’m taking pictures. Do you want to meet me at Centésima Página for a quick lunch and have a look? You might get some ideas for your entrance.” Centésima Página was a combined bookstore and eatery on Avenida Central, a few hundred yards from the hotel remodel he was overseeing.
“I’ve got a meeting at two,” he said. “Twelve-thirty okay?”
“Twelve-thirty it is.” They exchanged their usual phone kisses and Carla hung up.
Picking her way across cobbled street in her stiletto heels, she walked to the front of the café and turned to view the wine shop. A tall, weathered wooden gate separated it from the corner shop on the left. To the right, a lacey wrought-iron balcony above an ochre wall set off the blue of the tiles.
Just as she raised her camera, a gaunt-faced man exited the shop. He wore a dark suit, old fashioned in a way she couldn’t put her finger on, and he walked past the souvenir shop and around the corner with a surprisingly energetic step for his age. His high forehead and flattened gray hair made her think of old Boris Karloff movies on the TV classics station at home.
She raised her camera again, then lowered it, annoyed as another man came from the other direction and paused by the door, blocking a few tiles on the doorway’s frame. With an air that struck her as almost furtive, he glanced around before stepping inside.
Carla had seen him before, but where? Sharp profile, white goatee, hair stylishly fringing the collar of his shirt. Designer jeans. Even the swagger was familiar. While she was framing a horizontal shot of the doorway, it came to her: Last week he was at a viewing for the upcoming estate auction this Thursday evening. They hadn’t exchanged two words, but she’d caught him checking her out. Ogling was more like it. Too young for you, buddy, she’d thought.
She took a second, vertical shot and was tucking the camera back into its cloth case when he came out again, his jaw set in a determined line. This time he looked briefly in her direction, but he seemed so preoccupied she doubted he recognized her. He strode down the street the way he had come, practically slamming his feet against the walk, his hands curling and flexing, as if he wanted to punch someone.
Nice guy—not!
Carla crossed over and entered the shop. A bell tinkled above her head. Shelves filled with bottles of regular wines and Ports met her eyes. A glass case in the wall on her right housed a bottle that seemed on special display. In a corner alcove, a table and two chairs were set up for tasting.
To her left, the proprietor in a black vest and white shirtsleeves gave Carla an appraising glance. Gray flecked his temples and his thick mustache. “Bom dia,” he said.
“Bom dia.” Carla matched his pronunciation, making it sound like “bong dia.” Despite her best efforts, trying to pronounce Portuguese was making her crazy. Portuguese was filled with nasalized vowels and consonants whose rules seemed to shift from gutturals to whispers. Still, even though most of the locals in shops and restaurants knew English, Carla found them especially friendly if she tried to speak Portuguese. She took out the small dictionary tucked in her purse and looked up “bottle.”
“Por favor, queria . . . uma garrafa . . . do Porto.”
“I speak a little English, senhora,” the propriet
or said, drawing out “little” to “leetle.” With a quick glance at something below the counter, he asked, “What kind of Port you want? You are in the land of great Port. We invent it, you know.”
Carla put her dictionary back in her handbag. “I would actually like your advice.”
“Ah. Senhor Costa at your service. I am pleased to advise such pretty lady.” He inclined his head in a way that suggested a bow, and came around the counter, hands clasped behind his back. “You are inglesa? English?”
“Americana,” Carla said. “My husband is coordinating the remodel of a new hotel branch of World Portal Inns.” Senhor Costa tilted his head, as if trying to remember the name. “A boutique hotel, part of a California chain—on Avenida Central. On Praça República,” she added.
Senhor Costa nodded. “Sim. Yes, I know it. Not far from here, near the Arcada and the fountain.”
“That’s the one.”
“That already used to be a nice hotel.”
“It will be again,” she assured him. “The grand opening isn’t until September. He’s planning to keep the building’s character, with the restaurant and bar in front, and a gardened terrace with tables at the side.”
“A nice feature. I remember.”
“And he plans to offer a fine Port in the bar. More than one Port, probably.” Actually, the bar manager, Tiago, would be making the selections, but he was open to suggestions.
“Ah! A fine Port for hotel bar. I think of three you like. Come.” Senhor Costa led her to the corner alcove where the table and two small chairs nestled. Several glasses were clustered in the center of the table, along with a box of crackers, a dish, and a wine opener with a metal top shaped like a bunch of grapes.
“Please sit. I will bring some to taste.” Senhor Costa walked over to the wall of shelves. Carla smoothed her pencil skirt and sat. The faint, fruity aroma of an earlier tasting hovered in the alcove. He selected three bottles, and set them before her, then uncorked one and poured a splash into a glass.
“You like one of these, the hotel will buy more from me, eh?” He winked and his smile widened, revealing a set of white, even teeth that would have made any Hollywood celebrity proud. He uncorked the second bottle, shook some crackers into the dish, and waited, hands clasped behind his back.
“Very nice,” Carla said, after sipping the first sample, “but a little sweet.”
He pursed his lips. “Is very good with Azeitão cheese.”
Carla shook her head and nibbled one of the crackers. He poured a sample from the new bottle, and she took a sip of the shimmering red liquid. Fruity, as she expected. Good, though.
It was the tawny Port, deep orange in color, with its nutty taste and velvety texture that decided her. “This one!”
Senhor Costa looked pleased. “Suave, no? How do you say? Smooth. Ten years old.” He quoted her the price and she felt her brows lift. But Owen’s employer wanted the new branch of World Portal Inns to be upscale as well as comfortable and inviting. She took another sip, letting it linger on her tongue.
“I have twenty-year Port, too,” Senhor Costa said. “Ver-ra smooth.”
“I’ll take a bottle of this for now,” Carla said. “If my husband recommends it, we’ll be back for more.” Owen would probably be interested in the twenty-year Port as well. It was important to offer guests a range, and Tiago would appreciate that.
To her surprise, Senhor Costa half-filled her glass again and poured a half-glass for himself, holding it toward her to toast. “Saúde,” he said.
“I haven’t eaten yet,” Carla protested.
Senhor Costa shrugged. “We drink to more bottles in the future. I know your husband will like this.” His soft accent turned “this” into “theesh.”
The phone rang while he took a new, unopened bottle to the counter, muttering, “I put this in bag for you.” Carla idly brushed a few scattered cracker crumbs into a neat little pile at the corner of the table while he took the call.
“Olá,” she heard; then, more sharply, “Não! Não o tenho!” Senhor Costa banged down the receiver.
Carla ran through the few Portuguese words she knew. “Tenho” meant, “I have.” “Não” meant “no.” No! I don’t have! Or maybe, No! I don’t have it!” When she peered around at him, Costa had propped his elbows on the counter and was massaging his forehead. His grimace suggested worry or pain.
“Do you have a headache?” Carla asked. “I have aspirin.” She started rummaging through her purse.
“Pah! No headache. This crazy person keep calling to sell me bad wine I don’t want.” With a sweep of his arm, Senhor Costa told her, “Take a look around my shop.” He attempted a grin. “Maybe you see some other wine for your hotel wine bar, eh? A good vinho verde, maybe.”
Carla got up and browsed the shelves, more to let him regain his composure than to inspect wines or Ports. Her stiletto heels echoed on the hardwood floor. Her chest was warm from the Ports she had sampled. She felt a little light-headed. At the glass display case by the window, she scrutinized the curious-shaped bottle inside. The long neck topped a bell-shaped body that bore the label, "Manoel Beleza de Andrade, 1812." A hand-printed sign next to it read, “€3.000,00.”
“Have you had many offers?” Carla asked.
She turned and found Senhor Costa watching her, a thoughtful expression on his face as he twisted the top of the wine bottle bag.
“There are those who will pay much more for the right bottle, senhora. Eighteen-twelve was historic time for Portugal. For France, also. Manoel Beleza de Andrade was one of Douro region’s leading vintners. But, no, senhora. No one has shown interest in this one.”
“It must be like drinking money—a hundred euros a sip,” Carla said, attempting a joke.
The proprietor shrugged. “The Port is not always to drink. Very rich people like to show on.”
“Show off,” she corrected, then worried she might have hurt his feelings, but he only nodded abstractedly.
A crazy way to show off. Why buy a Port you don’t plan to drink? Briefly Carla wondered if Mrs. Demming, her client in Belvedere, would love showing off such a bottle. No. Mrs. Demming, was into 19th century furniture, old-world paintings, statues, vases, mirrors, clocks. She’d been delighted when Carla told her she would be going to Portuguese auctions and antique shops. Which reminded Carla to tell Bethany about the gilt-framed mirror during their Skype meeting this evening.
Senhor Costa’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Maybe you will take a picture to show your husband what crazy people will buy.”
“Oh, he’d love that!” Carla chuckled and set her glass on a shelf next to the glass case. She took her camera from her handbag again and snapped two close-ups of the odd-looking bottle. Then she walked over and paid Senhor Costa for the Port, carefully counting out the correct euros.
“Obrigado,” he said, thanking her, and handed her the bag.
“Obrigado,” she echoed.
“Obrigada,” he corrected.
She sighed, momentarily defeated. The gender thing. “I keep forgetting.”
To get back to what she hoped was a graceful exit, she said, “I appreciate the samples. You have a lovely shop.”
He nodded. “I will see you again.”
To buy more Port? That’s confidence! She smiled at him. “You could be right.”
*
Braga was a large city, spreading into the surrounding mountains and forests and climbing up hillsides. A few tall, modern buildings were interspersed with older stone architecture. The historic center where she and Owen had an apartment was like a small village set inside the city. Nearly everything was in walking distance: the hotel whose remodel Owen was overseeing, antique shops, restaurants, cafés, an abundance of churches, museums. Even the house with the estate auction Thursday night, where Carla would be bidding on two paintings by Da Silva Porto. As she left the wine shop, bells from Igreja dos Congregados started tolling the noon hour, echoed by the bells of Sé Catedral. She had thirt
y minutes to drop off the Port at the apartment and walk back up to the bookstore café to meet Owen.
Hurrying down Rua dos Chãos, she rounded the corner of the Baroque Banco de Portugal, just two doors from the new hotel. Scaffolding and netting covered the hotel's front. For a moment, Carla was tempted to sneak under the netting and go inside to show Owen the Port. But it would be more fun to surprise him this evening after the Portuguese meal she planned. She crossed the Praça da República and hurried along Avenida Central past the Igreja de Nossa Senhora a Branca (the Church of Our Lady in White) on her left. Their corner apartment was across the street beyond.
She entered the vestibule with its opposite French door overlooking the back garden. The entrance to a second, ground-floor apartment was next to the stairs, but she’d never seen the tenant. She climbed to their first -floor apartment, since there was no elevator. Once inside, she set her purse down and took the wine bag to the kitchen, putting it on the granite counter.
When she pulled out the bottle, she nearly dropped it. The faded label showed it was an 1863 Vintage Port from Quinto do Vezuvio. At the bottom edge, a signature scrawled in ink that once must have been dark but now had faded to a pale rust, said, “Obrigado, Duque . . .” followed by a dramatically curly C and J, and then “. . . de Acaer.”
“Duque” had to be Duke. From someplace called Acaer. C for Carlos? Cesar? J for José? Juan? A bottle signed by a duke must be worth thousands of dollars!
I have to call Senhor Costa. She couldn’t. She didn’t have his number. Or his first name. She didn’t even have the name of the shop. She had to take it back to him. She set the bottle on the entry table, pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag, and dialed Owen’s number.
“Hi, babe. What’s up?” he asked.
“I’ll be a few minutes late,” Carla said. “I have to return a bottle of Port to the wine shop I told you about.”
“Take it after lunch,” Owen said amiably. “What’s the rush?”
“I’ll explain when I see you.” Carla hung up and started to put the bottle back in the bag, then hesitated. This was the closest she would ever come to having a nineteenth-century bottle of Port in her possession.
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