“Please sit,” Fernandes told Carla. “I think you will be more comfortable calling me ‘Detective’ than ‘Detetive.’ I am comfortable either way. They are so close, no?” He pulled out one of the chairs against the wall for her, then sat in another. Owen remained standing, arms folded against the top button of his suit jacket. After a moment, he moved behind her and gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze.
At a desk in the corner, a pretty brunette crooked a phone between her ear and shoulder, jotting notes on a sheet of paper and occasionally commenting. The soft sh-sh Portuguese consonants splashed into the silence, a hypnotizing accompaniment to Fernandes’s grave stare. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were a startling pale blue.
“Chefe Esteves tells me you found Senhor Costa’s body,” he finally said. He spoke excellent English, Carla noticed, with only a faint lilt to his r’s.
“Yes.”
He remained silent, as if waiting for more.
“He was on the floor. Behind the counter,” Carla added. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of Costa’s stare and the lump on his forehead, then opened them again when the scene only became more vivid.
“I’m sure it was disturbing,” the detective said softly. “When Estela gets off the phone, you can fill out your statement at her desk while she downloads your pictures in my office. We have a coffee machine, if you would like a cup.”
“Thank you, no,” Carla said. The acrid flavor she normally enjoyed would probably only make her want to throw up. She felt another comforting squeeze from Owen.
Detective Fernandes rose and said, as if it were an afterthought, “And if I may see your passport . . . Do you have it with you?”
Jarred, Carla said, “Well, yes, but . . ..”
Owen’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “Why do you need that?” he demanded.
“I will just write down the number. A mere formality.”
Wordlessly Carla took her passport out of the inner zipper-pocket in her purse and gave it to Fernandes. Her anxiety must have shown on her face.
“There is nothing to worry about,” he said, but Carla noticed that he seemed to be jotting down more than the number on a notepad he took from his pocket.
“This isn’t your office?” she thought to ask, as Estela hung up and disappeared into a doorway with the camera.
“A reception area,” he explained. Somehow, that made Carla feel better. Just a form to fill out. No interrogation in some dark, remote room.
She sat at the desk and Detective Fernandes returned her passport and handed her the form. “Please try to remember everything,” he said. “Perhaps there is some little detail you forgot to tell Chefe Esteves that will help us understand what happened.” Owen sent her a supportive blink. The detective folded his hands behind his back while Carla wrote.
After filling out her and Owen’s contact information, Carla scribbled down everything she could think of: The wine tasting. The phone call. The bottle in the glass case. The way Senhor Costa kept looking under the counter. The peculiar way Carla caught him watching her after bagging the bottle. Remembering it now, it seemed he said, “I will see you again” only because he knew she’d find a surprise in that bag.
Then the return. The broken case. The office door ajar to the basement. The other door onto the outside corridor. “Someone could have come in that way,” she wrote, and for a moment she was sorry she hadn’t tried the handle to see what was out there.
Seeing Detective Fernandes’s quizzical lift of brows, Carla realized she had paused.
“I found the body,” she wrote. “The welt on his forehead shocked me. It looked deliberate.” She shuddered. “Like someone wanted to be sure he was dead,” she wrote. She skipped over Costa’s false teeth and went to the theft of the duke’s bottle when she was calling for help. “The man had been watching me. Mr. Costa’s niece said he was in the shop earlier.” She gave a quick description, including the scars on the thief’s lip and eyebrow.
Detective Fernandes read her signed statement and gave her a curious glance. “Do you read mysteries, Senhora Bass?”
Before she could answer, he asked, “You saw no one else enter or come out of the shop?”
“Yes. I saw two men.” She said slowly, remembering. “Before I went into the shop the first time.”
“Would you please describe them? It would be helpful.” He gave her back the form.
On the back, since she’d run out of space, Carla wrote, “A tall gray-haired man in an old-fashioned dark suit came out. Then another man, old but fashionable, went in.” She described the second man’s goatee and smart haircut, adding, “Both looked upset, but neither looked dangerous.”
After a quick scan of her words, the detective turned his watery blue gaze on her and said, “Whether they are dangerous or not is for us to decide.”
Carla felt her cheeks grow warm. “Yes, of course.”
Estela returned with the camera. After a brief exchange with Fernandes in Portuguese, she gave it to Carla.
“You have been very helpful,” Fernandes said. “If we have further questions, we will contact you.” He gave her and Owen each a card. “This is my number if you think of anything else.”
At the door, he said to Carla, “I must ask you not to leave the country until the case is closed.”
“Wait just a minute,” Owen said. “I have to fly to California next month to take care of some business matters.”
“You may leave the country. She should not.”
“But I have clients to visit,” she protested.
The detective frowned at her. “I would hope there is no need to get a court order . . ..”
“Am I a suspect?” Carla’s voice wobbled.
“Anyone near or in the shop in connection with this unfortunate happening has our interest. Senhor Costa’s niece, the man who stole the bottle, the two men you saw . . ..”
“Me,” Carla whispered.
“It is only routine, until this case is solved. Nothing more.”
But some cases take years to solve! Carla bit her lower lip.
“I hope you solve it quickly,” Owen said, a grim look on his face. He folded his arms. “My wife has no reason to kill a wine-seller. She has no reason to kill anyone.” His voice rose. “She’s not a killer!”
“I’m sure this is true,” Detective Fernandes said, “but there are procedures.”
Chapter Four – Something Weird Was Going On
Sitting at one of the tables in Centésima Página’s back garden, Carla sipped the house white wine and picked at her quiche. The umbrella above cast a golden sheen on their white tablecloth.
“Not hungry?” Owen asked. “Me neither.” He’d loosened his tie and draped his jacket over the chair back. His blue shirt gave his gray eyes a bluish cast. He reached over and stroked her hair back from her temple. “Babe, it’s going to be all right. There must be someone we can talk to. Someone higher up.”
Carla stared morosely at her plate, drawing a circle on the white tablecloth with her index finger. “It might just make things worse.”
Owen lapsed into silence. After a moment, he said, “You’re probably right. I suppose Fernandes knows his job, even if he’s a jerk.”
For a moment Carla toyed with the idea of flying out to the San Francisco office anyway. But Fernandes had mentioned a court order. There was Owen’s assignment to consider. If she did something stupid, something rash, she could put him and his whole project in a bad light.
“You should eat something even if I don’t.” She indicated the salmon sandwich and fries on his plate.
A party of six under a blue umbrella at the next table spoke rapidly in what Carla guessed was Spanish. Their voices rose and fell in laughter—people enjoying their lunches, oblivious of a dead body a few streets away. She glanced at the leafy hydrangea bushes not yet in bloom on either side of the bookstore’s back doorway. The caption she’d intended for the café post came to mind: “Capture the eye-catching charm
of Portugal . . ..”
Nothing says ‘eye-catching’ like a corpse. I should have stuck with the café.
Mentally she went over the scene in the wine shop again. Costa on the floor behind the counter. The lump on his forehead. The shattered case. It was the kind of thing that happened to Aimée Leduc, her favorite Parisian insurance investigator, not to Carla Bass, interior designer from the Bay Area.
“Babe, I can cancel the meeting,” Owen said.
“Hmm?”
“You look exhausted. Do you want me to cook dinner?”
“I’m fine,” Carla lied. Actually, she felt simultaneously drained and hyper. She forced a smile. “Well, we said we were looking forward to new venues and new adventures, right?”
He squeezed her hand. “I think we had different adventures in mind.”
“True,” she said ruefully. Up to now, around their work hours, Braga had been a magical place, full of romantic dinners, ardent nights, scenic tours on Sundays, when work stopped and they were free to sightsee.
Now, despite how tired she was, questions whirled in her mind. Why had Costa wanted her to look at more wine samples on the shelves while he bagged the bottle she chose? Why had he suggested she take pictures of the Port in the glass case?
To keep me from seeing him put the duke’s bottle in the bag instead of my own.
“Something weird was going on,” she told Owen. “Senhor Costa switched those bottles on purpose.”
Owen released her hand. “Why would he do that?”
“To get the duke’s bottle out of his shop. But what made him think I’d bring it back?” she wondered aloud. "I could have just kept it."
The corner of Owen's mouth drew to one side wryly. “You have an honest face, babe. Of course you’d bring it back if it was the wrong bottle.” He picked up his sandwich.
“Costa deliberately swapped them.”
Owen shook his head. “Your Senhor Costa just made a mistake, babe. From what you’ve said, he had things on his mind, probably the bottle in the display case. That picture you showed me? Three thousand euros? Someone wanted that bottle, and Costa surprised him.” Owen bit into his salmon.
Carla pushed her quiche to one side. “I can’t finish this. I’ll have a couple of your potatoes, though.” She snagged a fry, following a couple of bites with another sip of wine, her thoughts returning to the wine shop.
“I’ll bet anything that a bottle signed by a duke would be worth more than three thousand euros. After Senhor Costa got that phone call . . ..”
Owen’s forehead crinkled in worry. “Babe, let the police handle it.”
“They think I’m a suspect! A minute ago, you were complaining about that.”
“I know. I know. Look, I don’t particularly like Fernandes, but he is a detective. A thief already banged Costa over the head with a wine bottle. I don’t want you to be next.”
“How do you know the thief who took that bottle wasn’t the man who stole my bottle? Well… the bottle I was returning?”
“All the more reason to let the police handle it.” Owen pressed a palm against her cheek. “Go home and rest. Read one of your mysteries. No, I take that back,’ he amended. “Watch a Portuguese movie on TV. You know we keep saying we’ll do that. It had to be horrible to find the . . . uh, Senhor Costa. You need to get it out of your mind.”
“Portuguese. I’m glad you reminded me.” In a casual tone, Carla said, “I may call Maria Santos to set up language lessons.” For a moment, she thought of telling him about Maria’s strange message. Later.
“Good idea. Tell her we both want lessons, and find out what she charges,” Owen said. “Seriously, though, let me cook tonight. Second offer. You gotta admit I make great fish and chips.”
Carla slanted her eyes at him. “You’re already having chips. Go back to work. I’m planning a surprise for you.”
“Oh? Give me a hint?”
She eyed his plate. “Something better than a sandwich.”
Chapter Five – What Harm Can a Little Investigating Do?
In the apartment, Carla shredded a head of kale, minced a yellow onion and a clove of garlic, sliced six potatoes, added bouillon, and brought the whole thing to boil, then turned down the flame to let it simmer. It was the first time she was trying caldo verde. Normally she thought of hot soup as being a winter dish, but the kale-and-potato soup, poured over rounds of pork sausage, was popular here in cafés all year round. She was also planning rojões cominho—braised pork cubes with cumin, coriander, lemon and wine—but she’d start that after her conference with Bethany.
Making soup always put her in a good mood. The caldo verde gave off an inviting aroma that made her stomach growl. She sliced off a heel of the bread she’d bought at the market on the way home. Nibbling it, she turned off the flame and went up the hallway to her office.
As she downloaded her pictures into the Portugal album on her computer, Costa’s doorway with its beautiful blue and white azulejos conjured up the cozy alcove where he had offered her wine and crackers, both of them unaware he’d be dead before lunch. The name of the shop was tiled above the harvest scene: Adega do Costa—Costa’s wine cellar. Why hadn’t she checked that earlier? There was probably a website with a phone number. She might have intervened at a crucial time and stalled whatever was about to happen.
The phone call Costa had received while she was in the shop still nagged at her. On a hunch, she thumbed through 621 Portuguese Verbs. She was sure Senhor Costa had said, “não o tenho—I don’t have it.” Not “não o quero—I don’t want it.”
She was right. And “it” had to have been the bottle that the duke signed.
So, who was Senhor Costa talking to? The creepy man who stole it from her when she was looking for help? After killing Costa, had he hung around to see what would happen next? Carla had read about killers watching the action afterwards, even helping the police search for suspects. It could explain why the thief was waiting across the street when she rushed out of the shop.
She turned on her laptop and entered “antique Port wines” into Google. Maybe some background on the duke’s bottle would explain why Senhor Costa had it in the first place. A lot of sites came up, many about wine auctions. She clicked through them, but none of the Ports were what she was looking for. She rested her elbows on her desk and her chin on her hands, thinking.
Senhor Costa would have switched bottles when she was photographing the one in the case. Whoever called him must have said he was coming right over. But he didn’t find the bottle because she had it. Costa probably thought the caller would be convinced and go away. But what did Costa plan to do with the Port when I returned it?
What would someone do with a bottle that had a label signed by a duke? It hadn’t been in the glass case with the other bottle. He must have had special plans for it. Carla pulled up her album pictures of the bottle again. Duque C. J. – maybe Carlos José or Carlos Juan – of Acaer. 1863. “Obrigado.” That meant “Thank you.” Actually, it meant “Obligated.” Duque C. J. felt obligated to someone for something. Who was Duque C. J.?
She fed “Duque Carlos José” into Google, and dozens of partial names came up: Duque José, Duque Carlos, José Duque, Carlos Duque; some in Spain; some in France. A lot of them were on Facebook, which made her smile. She tried combinations with Juan. After a few minutes, she gave it up and wondered if she could look up Senhor Costa instead. She didn’t know his first name. But she had the name of the shop. She typed in Adega do Costa and clicked her mouse. A list of restaurants and bars came up, but no website for a wine shop.
The warbling tone of Skype interrupted her thoughts.
“Hey, what’s up?” Bethany wanted to know. “You’re usually right on the dot. I have some interesting news.”
Carla looked at her menu bar. Ten after six. “I was . . . doing some research.”
Bethany’s forehead puckered with concern. “Everything okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I don’t k
now. You look kinda frazzled.”
Carla glanced at the small video of herself in the lower corner. Her long, blonde hair was tangled. She hadn’t thought to comb it. Her face seemed washed out and tense. Her lipstick was eaten off. “It’s been an unusual day.”
“Unusual how?”
Carla hesitated.
“You and Owen aren’t having problems, are you?” Bethany’s large brown eyes widened in worried sympathy.
“No, we’re good.”
“You’d tell me if something was the matter, right, honey?” Bethany had grown up in Beverly Hills, influenced by Hollywood, and “honey” still wove through her conversations, even though she’d been in the Bay Area for twenty years.
“You know I would,” Carla assured her. They told each other everything. They’d met at California College of the Arts in the nineties—California College of Arts and Crafts at the time—and they’d clicked right away. They double dated with boyfriends, consoled each other over break-ups, compared courses at the college, and later compared the different businesses where they interned. It was during their internships they discovered they had a similar vision for what an interior design business should be like. Their look would be classical elegance. Traditional. Nothing modern. Ten years ago, their combined savings and a bank loan had enabled them to open Traditional Home Atmospheres in SoMa—the South of Market Area of San Francisco. The loan had long since been paid off, and the business was doing well.
“So, if it’s not Owen…” Bethany said.
“I’ll tell you after biz talk, okay? Let’s get the week lined up. You said you have some interesting news?”
Bethany hooked a lock of her short, auburn hair behind her ear. “New client,” she said. “Guess where? Carmel.”
“Nice!” Carla loved that whole area. She and Owen had honeymooned in Carmel. Her birthday present for him last year had been a gift card to play at Pebble Beach Golf Links.
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