First her uncle. Then her boyfriend. Carla squeezed her shoulder in sympathy. “You found out what you wanted to know,” she said softly. “Paulo is in trouble. Serious trouble, it sounds like. No matter how difficult, you should take his advice.”
The scene upstairs had brought back Carla’s common sense. Owen and Bethany were right. This was a police matter. “If he won’t go to the police, you need to,” she told Maria. “Otherwise they’ll think you’re a part of whatever he’s involved in.”
Maria only shook her head and wiped her eyes again.
“Let me get you lunch before you catch the bus,” Carla said. They were walking toward Rua de São Victor.
“I am not hungry.”
“You’ll feel better if you eat something.”
Maria shook her head again, and Carla remembered her own lack of appetite after the shock of finding Costa. When they reached the corner, she offered, “Can I drive you to campus? We can walk back to my apartment and get the car.”
“Thank you, but I must do some thinking to myself, alone. The bus is good for that.” Maria indicated with her chin the bus stop to the left, halfway down the street.
“I suppose so,” Carla said. “You’ll be okay, then?”
“You are very kind, Carla. I have much appreciation . I will talk to you soon.”
Very kind, my foot, Carla thought, watching Maria’s forlorn figure walk to the stop. Guilt wrapped around her shoulders like a soggy blanket. After all, it had been her idea to go to Paulo’s apartment.
Chapter Eight - Detective Fernandes Comes Calling
Detective Veríssimo Fernandes arrived three minutes after Owen finished his cigarette on the balcony, precisely at seven, accompanied by the peal of the bells from Igreja dos Congregados and Sé Catedral. He carried a black leather briefcase. After shaking hands with Owen, then Carla, he followed them into the living area. Carla led him to the overstuffed easy chair at the end of the coffee table, then sat nervously beside Owen on the nubby white sofa. He took her hand in his as the detective cleared his throat.
“Senhora Bass, I have a few questions,” Fernandes leaned forward and gave her the ghost of a polite smile. Behind the wire rims, his pale blue eyes seemed fathomless.
“She wrote out a statement,” Owen reminded him. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Facts raise more questions, Senhor Bass. When I saw the label with the duke’s signature, it triggered my memory. I remembered an article in O Examinador a few years ago. Three years, to be exact. I went to the newspaper office yesterday, and I looked through their archives. Your pictures were a great help, senhora.”
Gratified, Carla moved Detective Fernandes a few pegs up on her approval scale. “Thank you,” she said, and smiled at Owen.
“I found the article I remembered,” Fernandes continued. He opened his briefcase and took out two photocopied pages, laying them on the coffee table so that they faced Carla and Owen. “Do you recognize anyone in these pictures?”
Carla picked up the first page, a reportage in Portuguese of some special event. The camera showed a clean-shaven older man with white-streaked hair and sideburns sitting below a huge painting. His cheeks had a sculpted look, almost chiseled. With apparent pride, he held a bottle, his forefinger resting just below Duke C. J. de Acaer’s thank you and flourished signature. Despite the gray tonality of the news photo, Carla recognized the bottle she’d tried to return to Costa. In the painting above, an even older-looking man with a tufty mustache sat in a similar posture holding the same bottle. Above the small bow tie and white stand-up collar, his face wore a look of haughty dignity. The bottle must be some family legacy.
“The original photos and painting were in color, of course,” Fernandes said.
Carla set the page down and picked up the second one. A new photo showed the bottle’s owner proudly holding it in one hand toward the photographer so that the label was clear. His other arm was around the shoulder of the goateed man Carla had seen entering Costa’s shop yesterday. Leaving in a huff, she remembered. Both smiled into the camera.
“That’s one of the men I told you about,” Carla told Fernandes. “He was at the auction preview last week, too.”
Owen peered over her shoulder and started reading the caption aloud, “Inácio Herberto Luis Vitore, viticultor e amigo.” At Fernandes’s pained expression, Carla could tell Owen was murdering every word.
“Who is he?” she asked. “And who’s the other man?”
“I am here to ask questions, senhora, not answer them.”
Carla pressed her lips together. Your approval rating just took a serious dip, buddy.
“With all due respect,” Owen said in the tone she’d heard him use on the phone when he smoothed over difficulties, “We’re helping you every way we can. Don’t we deserve a few answers?”
Fernandes hesitated. With a reluctance that suggested he was breaking protocol, he said, “Senhor Vitore is a vintner in the Douro valley. He lives in Porto, but he is from Braga, and he is close friends with Senhor Pereira, the owner of the Port.”
“And the man in the painting above?” Owen asked.
“Teófilo Augusto Anselmo Pereira,” Fernandes said. “A wealthy landowner near Vila Verde, now deceased. His family descended from fidalgos—in those days, a title somewhat like a knight. Today he would be like an English gentleman with no real title.”
“So, is the other Senhor Pereira, his grandson? Miguel . . ..”
“His great-grandson, senhora. Miguel Luis Alfaro Pereira.”
“Those are mouthfuls of names,” Owen observed. “What does the article say?”
“He is telling reporters that this bottle was a gift to his great-grandfather’s ancestor in gratitude for some deed he had performed for the duke.”
“What was the good deed?” Carla asked.
The detective’s mouth drew to one side in what could almost pass for a smile, “He was vague about the deed. He only said this Port was a measure of the duke’s gratitude to his family, and that he will never drink this Port, nor sell it. You see the puzzle, yes? Your pictures suggest Senhor Pereira no longer has it.”
“Maybe he sold it after all,” Owen said. “Even rich families can be hard up for money if their investments fail.”
Detective Fernandes’s eyes seemed to take on a deeper shade of blue. “Senhor Pereira did not sell it. I made a phone call to him last evening. A few weeks ago, Senhor Costa contacted him, wanting to sell a bottle of Port just like this to him. He had purchased it from someone else. He, too, remembered the newspaper article and wanted to sell it back to Senhor Pereira for a substantial amount of money.”
Maria’s earlier tale of card-cheating popped into Carla’s thoughts.
“Senhor Pereira told him he must have a forgery. His bottle was still in his wine cellar.”
“And was it?” Carla asked.
Again, the hint of a smile. “Apparently, there are two such bottles now—Senhor Pereira’s in his cellar and Senhor Costa’s that he wished to sell. One is a forgery, but which one? Senhor Pereira is having experts examine his own bottle.”
Owen leaned forward with interest. “How will they be able to tell?”
The detective made circles in the air with his hand. “The cork’s seal. The age of the paper and ink. They have their ways, and that is for them to work out. And now I have already told you much more than is usual when I am on a case.” He gathered the two pages and put them back into his briefcase, then sat back in his chair, regarding Carla.
“At this moment, it is Senhorita Santos who interests me.”
Carla felt blood rush to her face. “Senhorita Santos?” she said.
“When Chefe Esteves interviewed her, he did not feel she was telling him everything she knew. She told him she had seen no one except you and the thief whom you asked for help. But Senhora Gonzaga, the proprietress at the café across the street, saw another young man go in and come out again before you came along.”
Maria’s tear
ful face rose in Carla’s mind. She felt reluctant to mention Paulo. For one thing, she would have to mention the trip to his apartment.
“Maybe it was just a customer who got scared when he went in and saw the broken case,” she said. “The guy that stole the bottle from me probably stole the bottle in the case,” she added, “and hit Senhor Costa over the head with it.” Carla saw the corners of Fernandes’s mouth twitch. Annoyed, she remembered his question at the police station as to whether she read mysteries.
“That’s one possibility,” he said after a pause. “Which reminds me . . ..” He pulled another paper from his briefcase and gave it to Carla. It was a photocopy of a mug shot showing a front view and profile of someone named Evaristo Marcelo Bernardino Serafim. Underneath the name, someone, probably Fernandes, had written in a tidy hand, “O Lobo.”
“Is this your thief?” he asked.
For a moment, Carla had trouble breathing. She brought the paper closer, taking in the man’s slicked-back hair, the scar on his lip, the other on his eyebrow. In her encounter with him, he had looked shifty and insolent. Some skinny little creep that got in fights. In the mug shot, his thin, hardened face looked predatory. “Yes,” she said.
“He’s been in prison before?” Owen asked. His arm went around Carla’s waist.
“A robbery some years back in Lisbon. Recently he’s connected with some black-market activity in Porto. And . . . more serious things.” Fernandes shrugged. “Our concern, not yours.”
“And now he’s operating in Braga?” Carla willed herself not to be frightened. “O Lobo? Doesn’t ‘lobo’ mean ‘wolf?’ In Spanish, it does.”
“Ah, yes. Spanish is popular in California. And, yes, ‘lobo’ means ‘wolf’ in Portuguese, too. But . . ." he massaged his chin, ". . . getting back to Senhorita Santos, Chefe Esteves heard her offer to give you Portuguese lessons.”
So Esteves was listening after all. “Should I have mentioned that?”
“We both want to take lessons,” Owen said. “In fact, yesterday I told my wife to call her and set something up.”
Deciding honesty was the best approach, Carla said, “I met with her this morning.”
Fernandes nodded. “At a little after ten o’clock. At the Jardim de Santa Bárbara.”
A feeling like ice water trickled down Carla’s spine. “Excuse me?”
“You’re having my wife followed?” Owen’s voice rose. He sat back, his hands on his knees, his jaw jutting.
“And then you both went to an apartment building on Rua Jorge Araullo for some time,” the detective continued to Carla. He steepled his fingers, his mouth a straight line.
Owen turned to Carla, his expression one big question mark.
“Maria was having boyfriend problems,” Carla explained, wishing it weren’t so complicated. She glared at Fernandes. Her shock had turned to burning anger and a sense of betrayal. She was being tailed, was she?
Fernandes’s gaze sharpened. “What kind of problems?”
“Her boyfriend wouldn’t answer her calls,” Carla snapped. A protective instinct had kicked in where Maria was concerned, and she was loath to mention Paulo at all. Whatever his problems, she felt he wouldn’t have killed Costa. The arrows all pointed to this O Lobo guy.
Fernandes tapped his fingertips together. “And you went with Senhorita Santos to his apartment because . . .?”
“I went for moral support. I felt sorry for her. He’s giving her the brush-off. Haven’t you ever been young and in love?” If she hoped to put Fernandes in his place, it didn’t work.
“This isn’t about me, senhora. It is about a young girl who is not telling the police what she knows. It is about a thief who is more dangerous than you think. It is about a serious forgery. And it is about my business to find out all the facts. Now. You didn’t see Maria Santos before she came across the street to help you?”
“No,” Carla said, her righteous indignation fading. “That was the first time I saw her.”
“We feel she knows something important. Perhaps when you go for your language lessons, you can find out what that is.”
“Why would she tell me anything?”
“A woman is more likely to confide in a woman. You already have her trust. She is confessing boyfriend problems. She may confide other things she might not tell the police.”
Get her to tell me all and then report back to you? I don’t think so. Carla already felt bad enough about the way Maria’s visit to Paulo at her urging had turned out. Right then and there she decided to scrap language lessons with Maria and mind her own business. She folded her arms. “Detective Fernandes, I’m very sorry, but I would not be comfortable acting like a spy.”
“You would be helping us to find her uncle’s killer. Her life may be in danger as well.”
“Oh!” Carla put a hand to her mouth. She hadn’t thought of that.
“I don’t want my wife in danger,” Owen objected. “This is a police matter.” To Carla he said, “We can probably get language lessons at International House.”
“International House doesn’t give Portuguese lessons,” Fernandes said. “They teach other languages to native Portuguese speakers.”
Looking flustered, Owen raised his palms. “Even so—”
“I understand your feelings, senhor, but your wife is already in danger. She can identify the thief who took a rare bottle from her yesterday. He knows that. There is much money involved. The sooner we know what Senhorita Santos knows about that bottle, the safer they both will be.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Owen insisted. To Carla, he said, “I know we each make our own decisions, but please listen to me on this.”
Carla’s mind raced. The way Paulo kept urging Maria to stay away for her own safety meant he cared about her. O Lobo could be the “evil man” who visited him this morning. Maybe he had made threats about Maria. The key was to get Paulo to admit what he knew to the police. If she and Maria tried again, maybe together they could convince him, and the case could be wrapped up soon. She let out a wistful sigh. And then she could come and go as she pleased.
I’ll do it,” she said.
Owen looked at her in disbelief. “Carla!”
“Detective Fernandes is right. Maria might confide in me.”
Owen got up and started pacing. He ran his hand through his hair. “We need to talk about this, Carla. I don’t want you involved.”
“I am involved, whether we want me to be or not. We can thank Senhor Costa for that,” she added bitterly. If only she hadn’t gone into his shop the first time. But then Maria would be facing whoever was out there all alone. Whoever killed him probably would have done so anyway, given the importance of that stupid bottle. Both stupid bottles, the duke’s and the three-thousand-euro bottle in the case. Somehow, they were connected. But how?
“I’ll call her tonight and ask for a language lesson tomorrow,” she told Detective Fernandes, although it wasn’t language lessons she planned to talk about.
He rose and picked up his briefcase. “Very good, senhora, I will be in touch. In the meantime, you each have my card. Call me if you learn something I should know.”
“You’ll have someone follow her to keep her safe, won’t you,” Owen asked anxiously.
“Sweetheart, have you forgotten?” Carla asked, and shot Fernandes what she hoped was a venomous look. “I’m already being followed.”
“She’ll be safe,” the detective promised. They were at the door.
Owen looked from Carla to Fernandes. “I can’t say I’m happy about this,” he said.
The detective didn’t reply. Instead, he held out his hand, and Owen gave it a grudging shake. Then, as if remembering his manners, Owen said courteously, “You’re very fluent in English, Detective Fernandes.”
“It is my business to be fluent. Crime crosses seas and borders. I am also fluent in Spanish, Italian, and French.”
When the door closed behind him, Carla turned to Owen. “Don’t be upset with me.” Owen pu
lled her close and kissed her forehead.
“I’m not upset. I’m worried.”
“I’ll have protection, so it should be all right.” Despite her initial anger, now she felt a surge of relief that someone was following her. Carla shook her head then at the irony of her situation: Earlier today Maria had wanted her to spy on Paulo. Now Detective Fernandes wanted her to spy on Maria. Who else would she be spying on before this was over?
But Owen’s kisses moved to her temple, then to her neck, and Carla decided to leave that question for later.
Chapter Nine - Carla Pays a Visit of Her Own
Morning came too early. If it were Sunday, Carla thought, stretching contentedly, they could laze in bed and revisit the night before. Instead it was shower, toast, coffee, and seeing Owen off at the door.
Once he had left for the hotel, still feeling like a purring cat from their amorous night, she reminded herself to call Maria.
“Olá, Carla,” said Maria’s listless voice.
“Maria, we need to meet this morning. It’s about Paulo.”
“No, I cannot. I have a class on Wednesday mornings.”
Carla sucked her tongue against her teeth. She had assumed Maria’s classes were always in the afternoon. “You’ll have to miss it this once,” she said. “A detective visited me yesterday. Someone else saw Paulo go into the shop.”
She heard Maria’s sharp intake of breath.
“And please get Paulo to come. He needs to tell us what kind of trouble he’s in.”
“I have tried to call him. I think when he sees my number, he doesn’t answer.”
“Give me his number, then, and I’ll call him. Or you can go to his apartment again.”
“He told me to stay away.”
“Then let me convince him to go to the police. I’m sure they have his description. They’ll be looking for him. It’s better for him to go to them first.” She wondered if she should tell Maria they’d been followed to Paulo’s apartment yesterday. The police would be watching his door now, waiting for him to come out, waiting to see what the boyfriend looked like. It wouldn’t be long before they realized Paulo was the one seen by the proprietress at the café.
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