Carla caught her breath. “Not yet,” she said after a pause. She made her voice cheerful. “There are still things we want to do. More travel. And we both like our careers.”
She and Owen had decided in November they were ready to start a family. When she went off the pill, she’d expected to become pregnant right away, but that didn’t happen. Tests didn’t reveal a reason, but her doctor reassured her it was too early for her to think of fertility treatments. “If you haven’t conceived after a year,” she said, “then we can consider some options. Often the problem just corrects itself. Enjoy your life. Relax. Let nature take its course.”
Coming to Portugal had seemed a lucky way to follow her advice: The atmosphere in Braga was so laid back, Carla could feel the rushed tension of Bay Area living drift out of her day by day.
Until yesterday.
Still, by the time they returned home, she hoped she’d be shopping for baby clothes.
Maria’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I don’t think I will have children for a long time. I am like you. I will have business and travel.”
Carla pushed the issue of family to the back of her mind and considered Maria’s mysterious note. Start with the language lessons. “I really do need someone to help me learn Portuguese,” she said. “I get the grammar. But the pronunciation is killing me.”
Maria laughed. With a touch of pride, she said, “Our language is difficult, yes? I can come to your home. And perhaps you will help me with my English.”
Okay, fine. Now, let’s get back to the uncle.
“In your note, you said,” Carla began.
On the street, a group of young girls, their voices rising and falling in sibilant consonants and nasalized vowels, made their way toward the Pastelaria Lusitana.
“When I travel, I will go to Brazil,” Maria said, “after I finish my studies in Lusofonia.”
“Lusofonia?” Carla asked, aware she was losing control of the conversation again.
“The study of all Portuguese speaking countries and their cultures. Did you know that the Portuguese in Brazil is different from—”
“In your note, you said you wanted to tell me about your uncle,” Carla interrupted.
“Sim. Yes.” Maria’s face immediately became grave. She glanced down at her hands.
“What about your uncle?” Carla asked when the silence between them lengthened.
Maria turned to her, her dark eyes sad. “I want you to find out who killed him.”
Carla stared. “I’m sure the police are doing that,” she said.
“My uncle was not a good man, but he was not a bad man. He did not deserve to be killed.”
“The police will take care of it.”
Maria didn’t reply.
“Why wasn’t he a good man?” Carla asked gently. Aside from having two women?
Maria colored with embarrassment. “He like to gamble. One time he tries . . . tried to cheat in cards. He bet a special bottle of Port, but he doesn’t want to pay, so he cheated, but the person he was cheating caught him.”
A bottle of Port? Carla perked up. “Was it the bottle he kept in the glass case?”
“No, some other bottle. He finally gives . . . gave it to the man. But I am ashamed he would cheat.”
“How do you know all this?”
“One of my friends that I share the apartment with. Ana. She works part time as maid for the widow of this man he gave the Port to. She—the widow—is angry when Ana mentions my uncle’s wine shop and says she knows me.”
“That seems a little extreme.”
“After my uncle gave the Port to the woman’s husband, they were never friends again. I don’t think my parents know this. I only find out when Ana came to room with us. I was so much disappointed.”
“But that’s not what you wanted to tell me about your uncle,” Carla said. It was a less admirable side of Senhor Costa than she would have expected, but if he had paid up, it was hardly a reason to kill him after all this time.
“My uncle was worried about something. I am trying to think what.”
“You should let the police handle it,” Carla said, aware that it was what both Owen and Bethany had told her.
“But yesterday I didn’t tell you all the truth.”
Carla narrowed her eyes. “About what?”
“I did see someone go into the shop before you came with your bottle.”
“Oh?” Carla heard her voice turn cold and distant.
“Just before you went inside the store, and before that man who stole your bottle went in and came out, Paulo also went in and came out right away, so fast he cannot have killed my uncle.”
“Wait,” Carla said. She put her hands to her temple. “Who is Paulo?”
“Paulo is my boyfriend.”
“You’ve told the police about him, right?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Maria chewed at a fingernail. “They will not be fair to him.”
“Why not? How can you be sure he didn’t have something to do with your uncle’s death?” Carla braced herself for a hot defense of the boyfriend.
Instead, Maria said mildly, “He didn’t have time to kill my uncle. We were supposed to meet for lunch.”
“Say that again?”
“I came early to the café and then to say hello to my uncle before to meet Paulo for lunch at Centésima Página. It is a nice bookstore with a small cafeteria.”
“Yes, I know,” Carla said impatiently.
“But then I looked out the window and saw Paulo goes into my uncle’s shop. I wondered, ‘What is he doing there? And he ran out again, in just segundos; seconds, I mean.” Maria bit her lip. “Minutes, maybe. But only very few.”
Carla stared at the stone steps leading up to the saint’s statue. “So, you’re saying your uncle was dead when Pablo—”
“Paulo,” Maria corrected.
“. . . when Paulo went inside?”
“Yes. And then I saw you. And then I saw the man steal the bottle from you. I even saw him go in before you came. But he came out again very fast, too.”
“Why don’t you tell the police all of that?”
“I told them about the thief. And about you. But Paulo cannot prove how long he was in the shop. Only I saw him, and I am his girlfriend. They will say, ‘Of course you take his side.’”
While Carla mulled that over, the group of girls she had seen earlier walked back from the café, one of them laughing so hard she was gasping for breath as they went on their way.
“Why tell me all this?” Carla asked, while the practical part of her mind told her inner snoop to mind her own business.
“I have tried to call Paulo many times, but there is no answer.”
Hadn’t Detective Fernandes said anyone in or near the shop around the time of Senhor Costa’s death was a suspect? Maybe Paulo thought he was in trouble, even if the police didn’t know about him yet.
Maria added, “Paulo is a waiter at Nossa Cozinha. It is on Rua de Baixo. Can you go there tonight to see if he is working? If he is not, then something has happened to him.”
“Why can’t you go?” Carla asked.
“He doesn’t like me to go to the restaurant. Once I had went there and he was angry with me and told me not to come again.”
Carla chose her words carefully. “If Paulo is in trouble and doesn’t answer his phone, he may want you to keep out of this.” And if he doesn’t like you coming to his work place, kiddo, the romance is probably over.
“So, you will not help.” Maria turned her face away and flicked her long hair over her shoulder, her shoulders rigid.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help,” Carla hedged. “I’m just saying you should be careful and that you should go to the police. How did you meet this Paulo, anyway?”
“He was in the wine shop one day, talking to my uncle. And later I see him in Centésima Página. He recognizes me and we start talking. As you say, small world, no?”
A
suspiciously small world. “I don’t know what he looks like,” Carla pointed out. Not that she was going to get involved.
Maria’s face lit in a smile. She took her cell phone from her pocket. “Here is his picture.” The small rectangle showed a muscular young man with dark brown hair, puppy-dog eyes, sensuous lips, a faint cleft in his chin, and whorls of hair above an opened shirt button.
“Good-looking,” Carla said, and refrained from adding, “in the way your mother should worry about.”
Maria’s eyes shone. “Pretty, yes? Handsome, I mean. You say handsome for a man, no?”
“Checking to see if he’s at the restaurant won’t explain who killed your uncle.”
“No. This is true. But . . ..” Maria’s face was awash with conflicting emotions.
Her boyfriend’s alibi is as important as finding her uncle’s killer?
“If you see Paulo is at work, and tell me, then I will know he is okay,” Maria said.
Not gonna happen, kiddo.
“And then I will keep calling him until he answers.” Maria frowned. “And ask him why he was in my uncle’s shop.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“He gets his wine from a store below his apartment. Garrafeira do Faria.”
Carla knitted her brows. Something didn’t add up. “Didn’t you say he saw you the first time in your uncle’s shop?”
“I think he only went only that once. He likes Garrafeira do Faria better.”
“You probably told Paulo you often stopped by to say hello to your uncle. It seems logical he would come to your uncle’s shop again, hoping to see you there.”
“Paulo goes to work at eight,” Maria said. “You can go in there for even a snack. They serve snacks.” Church bells began tolling. She looked at her wristwatch and jumped up, gathering her book bag and handbag. “Eleven. I must go to class. The bus takes fifteen minutes and one comes soon. You will call me and tell me, yes?”
“Sit down,” Carla said. “I’m not going to spy on your boyfriend for you. If you’re so concerned, go to his apartment.” Maria blushed, and Carla pressed her point. “If he works nights, he’s bound to be home, sleeping late.” Most restaurants and bars closed around one or two a.m. “What time is your class?” she asked.
“Not until three, but I will eat in the cafeteria on campus, and then I will go to one of the libraries for my research.”
“I’m sure busses to the campus run pretty often. Anyway, this is something you’ll have to handle on your own. There’s nothing I can do.” Carla rose.
“I cannot go to his apartment,” Maria said, fingering the strap of her handbag.
“You were planning to keep calling him,” Carla said. “Visiting is hardly worse.”
“He will be angry with me that I come.”
Carla folded her arms and twiddled her fingers against her elbows. This is so not my business. A quick glance at Maria’s downcast face yanked at her. She knew what it was like to be young and in love with the wrong guy—something she had gone through in her senior year in high school, when her hunky boyfriend had gotten a cheerleader pregnant. And, except for stopping by the antique store to confirm she wanted the mirror, the day was free.
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “You can see for yourself if he’s okay. You can ask why he was in the shop.” Something I wouldn’t mind knowing myself. Since Detective Fernandes had as much as told Carla she was a suspect until the case was closed, this might move things along.
“Maybe it is better than calling,” Maria murmured.
Carla took Maria’s elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go."
Chapter Seven - A Visit to Paulo
Rua Jorge Araullo, four streets away from Carla’s street, was in a less charming area. No tiles or bright plaster. No balconies with flowers. The paint peeling off the door of Garrafeira do Faria next to the entrance of Paulo’s living quarters didn’t raise any expectations for his taste in wine.
She followed Maria up two flights of narrow stairs at the back, dimly lit by low-voltage bulbs with plastic shades. On the second floor, a hall led to the front of the building. Maria knocked on a door that looked like it could use a refinishing job. After a long silence, while Maria anxiously massaged her forehead, the door opened, and a bleary-eyed Paulo peered out.
As soon as he saw Maria, he grimaced and held out a raised palm, saying something rapidly in Portuguese in a choked voice.
He started to close the door, but Carla inserted her foot, wincing, as she felt the squeeze. She pushed the door open and walked in, her stilettos clicking on the red tile floor. The apartment reeked of stale cigarettes. Other than that, it looked fairly tidy.
“Quem é ela?” Paulo asked Maria.
Carla had memorized enough of the who-what-where-why-how words to understand his question. “I’m Maria’s friend,” she told him, although acquaintance was probably more like it.
“You must speak English, Paulo,” Maria said. “She is here to help you.”
Carla lifted her brows. That was probably going too far. She eyed Paulo in his brown fleece robe. He was as handsome as the picture Maria had shown her, despite his tousled hair and his need of a morning shave. The expression that flitted across his face looked as lovelorn as Maria’s.
“You must leave,” he told them. “Is not safe here.”
“I saw you at my uncle’s shop yesterday,” Maria said.
He heaved a sigh and looked at the floor.
“My uncle is dead.”
He murmured something and tried to cradle her cheek in his palm, but she drew back.
“And the police questioned me.”
Paulo’s eyes widened. “Did you tell them you saw me?”
“No, but you must tell me why you were there.”
“I was . . . looking for advice on wine.”
“I don’t believe you. You say you always go to Faria.”
Carla walked past the green sofa to the window to give them some privacy, then realized, as Paulo lapsed back into Portuguese, he wasn’t worried about her eavesdropping.
The window looked out on Rua Jorge Araullo. It occurred to Carla they were right over the drab wine shop. She turned around, impressed by the apartment’s layout and decor.
Despite the building’s dull exterior and the stale air inside, the place was cheery. It was all one large, airy space, wallpapered in yellow and divided by a U-shaped, yellow-tiled counter with two stools. She noticed a nearly empty bottle of wine on the counter next to an overflowing ashtray. She went over and peered behind the counter, discovering a mini kitchenette with a two-burner range, a small refrigerator, and a tiny sink. Someone had planned it well. In the space beyond, to the right, a bed hugged the wall, its striped green spread echoing the green sofa in the lounge area. Next to the bed was an oak chest of drawers. Partly-smoked cigarettes spilled over another ashtray on the floor. A tiny hall led to what must be the bathroom. A nice finishing touch would have been some framed abstracts or travel posters, but even with bare walls and Paulo’s smokes, it was an attractive little apartment.
Her glance fell on the wine bottle’s label--an expensive red; Conceito Douro, 2007. Paulo had good taste in wines for someone who needed advice.
Their voices were rising. Suddenly Maria broke into English.
“Don’t say that! You are good for me. And speak English.”
She turned to Carla. “Carla, you must convince him to go to the police. He knows something he doesn’t tell me. It can be dangerous for him, I think.”
More than anything, Carla wanted to rewind the past half-hour. Return to that moment when she told Maria she would have to handle the problem of Paulo herself. But no, here she was in the middle of things after her smarter self told her not to get involved.
Maria and Paulo were waiting for her to speak, Maria clasping her hands, her face trustful, as if she expected Carla to magically persuade Paulo.
But what if he did it, kiddo?
Carla turned to Paul
o.“Even if you were in the shop for only a few minutes,” she said, “you might have noticed some little detail that could help the police.” Some little detail. She sounded just like Detective Fernandes!
“I notice only a broken case and a dead body.”
Maria beamed. “Then there is nothing to worry about.”
Paulo ran his hand through his tousled hair. “I have much to worry about. I cannot speak with the police.”
“If you go to the police,” Carla said, curious about what he was holding back, “it will remove suspicion.”
“Is not so simple. I . . . I have done something.” At Maria’s shocked expression, he hastened to say, “I did not kill your uncle. But I have done something, and an evil man came here this morning.” Paulo massaged his bristled chin. “He will come back. I know.” What he said next in Portuguese made Maria gasp and put both hands to her lips.
To Carla he said, “You both must go and not come back. Is not safe.”
When neither of them budged, he flung his hands up in exasperation, turned, strode across the living space to the small hallway, and went into the bathroom. A moment later Carla heard the click of a lock and the sound of the shower.
Well. That’s one way to get rid of unwanted visitors.
They continued to wait a few silent minutes, but it became clear he wasn’t coming out until they were gone. For a moment, a stubborn streak in Carla made her want to open and close the apartment door loudly and then keep waiting. But what if he got physical and threw them out bodily, one by one? He looked strong enough to do that.
“We’d better go,” she told Maria. On leaving, she did close the door loudly behind them so Paulo wouldn’t have to keep showering for the rest of the morning. Maria pushed in front of her, holding a hand to her face. As they made their way down the hallway and stairwell, Carla could see the girl’s hunched shoulders shaking while she wept.
Outside again on the pavement, Carla handed her a tissue from her handbag. “That last bit in Portuguese . . . what did he say?” she asked, as Maria dabbed at her eyes and wiped her nose.
Maria took a deep breath. “He told me I must forget I ever knew him.” Another small sob came out like a hiccup. “Oh, Carla, why is life is so hard?”
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