When Maria didn’t answer, Carla said, “Maria, I’m trying to help you. And help Paulo. If you won’t meet with me and get Paulo to come, I’ll have to tell the detective what you told me yesterday—that you saw Paulo go into the shop, too.”
“You would do that!”
“I can’t keep information from them without getting into trouble myself. And,” Carla warned, “since someone else reported seeing him enter the shop, if you don’t tell them what you saw, it will look like you’re abetting him.” Wondering just how extensive Maria’s English was, she added, “Helping him. You could look like his accomplice, his partner.”
After a pause, Maria said, “Where will we meet?”
“Museu da Imagem. On the second floor.”
“They don’t open until eleven.”
“I know, but it’s quiet and private, and no one will bother us there.”
The Image Museum was easy for tourists to walk right by as they went through the stone arch of the Arco da Porta Nova on their way to Sé Catedral and shops further along on Rua do Souto. The red exterior looked like just one more colorful facade in a city full of them, even though it contained historical photos of the city and some beautiful photography exhibits. It was also free to the public.
“You’ll be there, right?” Carla asked. “At eleven.”
“Yes. I will try to have Paulo come too.”
“You have to do more than try.”
“I will do my best,” Maria said in a flinty voice and hung up.
For a moment, Carla regretted coming on so strong. She could probably forget about any Portuguese lessons. Still, if neither of them showed at the museum, she really would call Detective Fernandes and tell him what little she knew.
There was a second reason she’d chosen the museum for their meeting: The name Gonzaga had stuck in Carla’s mind. Since the museum didn’t open until eleven, she’d have time to visit Senhora Gonzaga, the proprietress at the café across from Costa’s wine shop.
*
There was a balmy feel to the air as she left the apartment building. Carla couldn’t resist looking around, wondering if she could spot her assigned shadow. Was it the stooped old man across the street, fussing with his shoelace? Maybe he was just made up to look old, a Sherlock Holmes disguise. The man sitting in the blue Fiat parked not too far away from her? At first, it was comforting to set off, knowing she was being followed if any problems arose. Then a sense of resentment began to stir: Every move of hers would be known to the police, even though she hadn’t done anything.
Better the police than O Lobo, kiddo.
When she reached the corner souvenir shop, she remembered the street bordering the other side of the building that helped to form its pie-wedge shape. The corridor she’d seen from Costa’s office window could probably be entered from both streets. She walked around to check, nodding to herself when she saw the tall weathered door separating Costa’s shop and the souvenir shop. Returning to the corner, she crossed to the café, sending a quick glance at the wine shop.
The white perimeter tape with POLÍCIA in dark blue letters made Carla wince. Poor Senhor Costa, whose only sins were cheating at cards and womanizing. How pleased he had seemed at the prospect of World Portal Inn’s business! She turned back to the café.
The name, Hora do Café, was lettered high on the plate glass, in an arc. Below, the clear space was easily large enough for a person inside to see whatever was happening across the street. A small sign to one side posted the hours: 9:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m., De segunda a sábado. Monday through Saturday.
A buzz of voices greeted her as she entered. She guessed the woman behind the register with salt-and-pepper hair pulled up in a knot must be Senhora Gonzaga. The woman’s round cheeks, generous mouth, and plump shoulders suggested someone with no hard edges. She also cared about her looks: Her eyebrows were softly enhanced with a charcoal pencil. She’d used a pale lipstick, so that her make-up wasn’t garish. Above her apron bib, a lavender scarf was knotted at her throat.
A long glass case to the right of the register displayed assorted pastries. A young, pretty girl in a green dress and yellow apron was just taking out two frigideiras—the delicious puff pastry meat pies Owen looked for whenever they went out for breakfast.
Three women at a nearby table were in animated conversation. One of them rested her hand on the handle of a baby stroller, rocking it back and forth. The toddler inside was a mass of pink ruffles, her sweet, snub-nosed face topped with black curls. She chewed on a pacifier, regarding Carla with dark, unblinking eyes. Carla felt a prick of yearning. How sweet it must be to choose baby clothes, to comb those curls. Be patient, kiddo, it’ll happen. It has to!
At the next table, two young men watched the young waitress bring their frigideiras, halting their talk to give her admiring stares. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head. Her apron strings were pulled tight, emphasizing her small waist and full bosom. The men exchanged glances, and one muttered something as she set the plates next to their cafés.
At a corner table a thin young woman sat alone, texting. Carla grimaced, seeing the I-Heart-Braga tee, the sky-high, bleached-blonde ponytail. An American tourist for sure.
“You wish café, senhora?” the proprietress said, bringing Carla back to the purpose of her visit. The woman’s shrewd eyes, at odds with her aura of softness, were sizing her up. To start off on a friendly foot, Carla asked, “What does the name on the window mean in English?”
The woman’s gaze relaxed. “I think you would say, ‘coffee break.’ Maybe ‘hour for coffee, or coffee time.’” She smiled, motioned toward an empty table by the window. “Sit, please,” she said. In a louder voice, she called, “Rosa!”
Rosa looked over from the table where she’d been flirting with the men. Carla leaned close to the register. In a low voice, she said, “Actually, I would like to talk to you, Senhora Gonzaga, if you have a minute.”
The woman gave Carla a sharp look. She took a small wrapped candy from her a pocket in her apron and began twisting the gold foil open. “You know my name?”
“If you have time, can we talk about . . . what happened Monday? To Senhor Costa?”
Senhora Gonzaga popped the unwrapped toffee in her mouth and sucked on it, the way Owen had sucked on sweets once when he tried to give up smoking. Something about the gold foil nagged at Carla.
She introduced herself to put the woman at ease. “I’m Carla Bass. Detective Fernandes came to my apartment yesterday.” She’d found that, at least in business, a direct approach often elicited useful information.
“Detetive Fernandes?” the woman asked around her candy, using the Portuguese appellation. “Ah. Sim. Yes. I remember you. A thief took your bottle.”
Carla nodded. “Detetive Fernandes told me you saw what happened.” She took pains to say his title right, since it felt as if Senhora Gonzaga had pointedly corrected her.
A sigh escaped the woman, one that sounded heavy with sorrow. “Sim. Yes.” She motioned to Rosa, indicating she should take her place. “Come,” the proprietress told Carla. “We talk outside.”
On the sidewalk, near the door, Senhora Gonzaga stared across the cobbled street, lost in thought as she chewed the last of the sweet and swallowed it. “What you wish to know?”
“Was he a friend?” Carla asked softly.
“Yes. But that is not your question.”
“No,” Carla admitted. “I wanted to know more about what you saw before that man took my bottle.” Technically it wasn’t her bottle, she reminded herself, but Senhora Gonzaga wouldn’t know that.
“Yes, I was here all morning. I see you take pictures of Senhor Costa’s shop and go in and come out. I see you return, and I see the thief take your bottle and run away.”
“What about in between? Detetive Fernandes said you saw another man.”
“The chico.” Senhora Gonzaga gave a dismissive shrug.
“Chico,” Carla knew, was Portuguese for young man. “What did he look li
ke, this chico?”
“He have curly hair, very dark. He was not tall. Maybe medium. Not too thin, but not fat. Young. Very nice face.”
It could be almost any good-looking hunk in the area, not necessarily Paulo.
“He have a covinha.” Senhora Gonzaga tapped her chin. Carla frowned her puzzlement, and the proprietress twisted her fingertip deeper.
A dimple. Uh-oh.
Carla asked, “Was he in the shop long?”
“Sim.” Senhora Gonzaga nodded firmly. “For some time. Maybe . . . quinze minutos. Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Maybe half hour, even. We were busy in café.” The proprietress spread her fingers and lifted her shoulders.
Despite all the maybes, the news jolted Carla. “Did you tell Detetive Fernandes how long he was inside?”
“Why you are so interested?”
The question caught Carla unaware. She thought quickly. “It was a shock, coming back and finding a dead body. I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep wondering if I could have done anything to help.”
Her answer apparently satisfied Senhora Gonzaga. “You could not do anything,” she took a quick look at Carla’s wedding band, “senhora.” The proprietress dropped her voice and added confidentially, “That is not the only time this chico went into the shop. I see him go there maybe three or four times. And always Senhor Costa is upset after.”
Fernandes was right. A woman was more likely to confide in another woman. “Was this over a long time?” Carla asked.
“Maybe one month. I think even more. Senhor Costa did not trust him. The chico was too much interested in special bottle in big case. So. Senhor Costa, he take it out of the case and put it away. He told me this.” Senhora Gonzaga punctuated her statement with a firm nod.
“I see.” Carla said. That had to be the bottle O Lobo grabbed from her. “Did Senhor Costa mention what he did with the bottle?” For a moment, Carla worried that she sounded too prying. But Senhora Gonzaga had warmed to her subject.
“No. He never talk about it again. But I see he is troubled, because, like I tell you, the chico comes back.” Senhora Gonzaga wagged a disapproving finger in the air and leaned close.
“And I tell you one thing, between you and me, senhora,” she said, running her tongue over her lower lip as if savoring the tidbit of information she was about to share. “That chico is up to no good with Senhor Costa’s niece.”
“They’re seeing each other?” Carla made her voice innocent, wondering how much of this Senhora Gonzaga had shared with the police. Paulo, you’d better come clean fast!
“She have never told me anything, because we don’t make conversation. She comes in here sometimes. But her uncle tells me she is student at the university. He was worry she is in love with that chico and will not finish her studies.” Senhora Gonzaga folded her arms. “And I agree he is right to worry. A woman can recognize um mulherengo when she sees one, eh? A young girl cannot. Verdade?”
“Verdade,” Carla agreed, trying to match Senhora Gonzaga’s pronunciation. From the woman’s expression, “mulherengo” must mean something like a playboy. Hoping to sound gossipy, Carla lowered her voice. “Do you think Senhor Costa ever talked to the chico about his niece? You know, tried to warn him off?”
Senhora Gonzaga shrugged again, the corners of her mouth turning down while she considered it. “No, I don’t think so. Roberto . . . Senhor Costa would have told me. And I never ask.” She half curled, half fluttered her fingers. “A good friend knows when to be silent.”
Roberto. Carla filed that away. “His niece is the one who called the police for me,” she said. “Lucky she was here.”
Senhora Gonzaga nodded. “She comes into my café many times, sometimes with her books, and she studies, and then she goes to her uncle shop to talk. She has troubles, too, I think. Probably the chico, but I could not ask.”
“No,” Carla said, although she couldn’t help thinking Senhor Costa might have been better off if Senhora Gonzaga had been a bit more meddlesome.
“Did the thief go into the shop before I came back?” she thought to ask.
Senhora Gonzaga shook her head. “No. No one else, senhora. Just the chico.”
Carla gazed across the street to hide her amazement. Maria had said O Lobo went into the shop and ran back out. How far would Maria go to protect her boyfriend? Even when he told her to stay away?
She turned to Senhora Gonzaga. “Maybe the thief who took my bottle went in and came out from the other side, and then came back to watch?” A memory flashed through her mind of O Lobo’s thoughtful stare from across the street before he came over and pretended for five seconds to assist her. She thought of the door to the patio from Senhor Costa’s office. “There’s a side entrance to Senhor Costa’s shop, right?”
Senhora Gonzaga gave her a long, considering look. “Is possible.”
The atmosphere had changed. The woman’s chilliness was almost tangible. Carla chastised herself inwardly. She had acted too snoopy. Asked too many questions. She must seem terribly insensitive to this woman. To bridge the growing discomfort, she said, “I suppose you’ll be at the funeral. I’m sure it’s hard. It’s always hard to lose a good friend.”
“The funeral is for family only.” Senhora Gonzaga’s voice was curt.
“I hope they find the man who did it,” Carla said softly, wondering at the woman’s changed demeanor. Maybe she was a lonely widow with a crush on Senhor Costa.
Or maybe plump, aging, sad-eyed Senhora Gonzaga was Costa’s other woman.
Chapter Ten - A Sharper Focus
The Museu da Imagem was just outside the Arco da Porta Nova at the end of Rua dom Diego de Sousa. As Carla passed under the arch, church bells began striking eleven. She skirted the revolving postcard rack outside the gift shop next door and entered the free museum. With a quick smile for the young man at the desk, she walked past the metal spiral staircase that led to first floor offices. At the end of the long room, in the old stone tower, she took the elevator to the second floor.
So far, she was alone. She strolled around the current exhibit while she waited, her stiletto heels making soft, delicate clicks against the floor as her glance brushed over framed photographs of the Carnation Revolution lit from ceiling fixtures. Additional light filtered through pale curtains on the French doors that opened onto a small balcony above the entrance. A few weeks ago, Carla had persuaded the museum’s director to unlock the doors and let her take pictures of the city’s red-tiled roofs from the balcony.
She walked over, pinched a curtain to one side, and peered out. Paulo and Maria were coming through the arch, both dressed in jeans and tees. They couldn’t have been far behind her. As she mulled over what to say, they disappeared from view, blocked by the balcony.
Then she spotted him, walking through the arch—the gaunt-faced man she’d seen go into Costa’s shop Monday when she was photographing the exterior. There was no doubt it was the same man—high forehead, thin lips, wispy gray hair flat to his head. Boris Karloff in a worn, black suit. He stopped at the postcard rack.
The murmur of voices reached Carla from the elevator. She hadn’t even heard it go down and come up again. She turned as Maria and Paulo stepped out, holding hands. Clutching hands is more like it. Maria face was anxious. Paulo’s looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept.
“Bom dia,” Carla told them, hoping her attempt at the Portuguese greeting would put them at ease.
They muttered their greetings and Maria tightened her hand on Paulo’s, her mouth pinched. “What have you said to this detective?” she demanded.
“I haven’t told him anything yet,” Carla said, stiffening. Don’t get defensive; you’re here to help, she reminded herself. “He visited me and my husband to ask more questions, and he said he had a description of a young man who was seen going into your uncle’s shop before I brought the bottle back.”
“What you want with me? I have said I can tell you nothing,” Paulo said. “And I cannot go to the police.”
<
br /> Carla made her gaze steady. “Since the police probably have your description, you should go to Detective Fernandes and tell him anything you know that can prove your innocence.
“And you,” she said to Maria,” should go and explain that you were afraid to say anything Monday. Tell them you thought it over and convinced Paulo to come with you. Both of you will be seen in a much better light.”
Paulo scowled. “You plan a lot of things for us, senhora. How do I know you are not the one who gives my description to this detective when he visits you?”
“I don’t even know why I’m trying to help either one of you,” Carla said. Furious, she turned and walked away, her steps sending a rat-a-tat-tat message.
An emotional interchange in Portuguese ensued as they followed her into the elevator. On the way down, they averted their eyes. Carla took a deep, calming breath. “Why can’t you go to the police?” she asked Paulo.
He gave a rough laugh and looked away. The elevator stopped. Judging by his resolved expression as he stepped out, he wasn’t going to volunteer anything else.
Keeping pace with him, she took out her camera, turned it on and showed him the picture of the duke’s bottle. “Please, Paulo, what can you tell us about this bottle? I’m told you showed an interest in it and that you were seen going into the wine shop many times.”
Paulo’s face blanched. “You know about that bottle?”
“What!” Maria yanked his arm, forcing him to stop and look at her. Hurt and betrayal washed over her face. “You went into my uncle’s shop many times? Why you never tell me!”
“Is complicated,” Paulo said. He pulled away and kept moving.
“You know something about that bottle?” Maria persisted, following. “Why?”
“A man stole that bottle from me when I was trying to return it,” Carla told him.
Paulo stopped abruptly. “What this man looks like?”
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