Chapter Twenty-Two - Shoes, Beautiful Shoes
At RCC Lux, Carla found the sales clerk tapping a finger against her chin, head cocked, as she studied a display of platform wedges with small bunches of plastic berries on each instep. Open-toed stiletto-heeled sandals in various colors surrounded the wedges.
“Boa tarde,” she said when she saw Carla. “You are back again!”
“I couldn’t stay away,” Carla said, noticing the clerk’s name tag this time: Silvia. She filed that away.
With a chuckle, tossing back her shoulder-length, tawny hair, Silvia said, “Many of our customers have such a problem.”
Carla eyed the platform wedges—not her favorite style—and an orange, strappy stiletto sandal next to it. Near the window, a pair of white stiletto sandals with gold straps caught her eye, but they suggested evening wear. The strawberry pink stilettos were gone. She should have bought them as soon as she knew she liked them.
“Do you have anything else?”
“We have been rearranging. I was getting ready to bring more out,” Silvia said. She disappeared into the back room and returned with a stack of boxes.
Carla slipped off her shoes. Seeing the folded pad in her left shoe, the clerk looked at Carla in concern.
“You have had an accident?”
“Long story,” Carla said, not wanting to go into it. “I bruised my heel a couple of days ago. It’s almost okay.”
Silvia pursed her mouth philosophically and took the lid off a shoe box. For the next half hour Carla tried on shoes, imagining and discussing with Silvia various colors and styles and their possible effects with various outfits. She fell in love with a lime green pair that had two straps across the arch and an ankle strap. They were enclosed, though, with pointed toes.
“A perfect color for the season,” Silvia said.
Carla knew she was going to buy them, but the pleasure of shopping made her try the others on.
“The yellow and gray is smart, yes?”
“With the right outfit,” Carla said diplomatically. It seemed a hard-to-match combination. “You’d have to wear them with a single color to make them work.” Still, the strap over the arch was in a beautiful swirl. It was tempting.
“The plum, perhaps?”
“Mmm. Something brighter?”
“So, you will not like the brown and tan.”
Carla shook her head and took one of the lime green shoes out of the box again, turning it in her hand, this way and that. “Do you have a belt or a handbag to match these?”
“Yes, this color is very popular right now.”
She had just finished paying at the counter and was walking toward the door, when a vaguely familiar, buxom young woman walked in. Carla had to think a moment.
Rosa. The waitress at Senhora Gonzaga’s café.
“Boa tarde,” Carla said, curious about what brought the young waitress into the shop. Shoes at RCC Lux had to be too expensive for her salary.
Rosa looked puzzled. “Boa tarde. Oh,” she said. “You come to the café two days ago.”
“You remember me?” Carla asked in surprise. Dozens of tourists had to come into the café this time of year, and many of them must have long, blonde hair.
“Yes. Senhora Gonzaga was so trouble because you ask questions about Senhor Costa across the street.” Rosa said. “They are friends, and she is still so grieving he is dead.”
“I didn’t mean to upset her,” Carla said. “I don’t like questions either,” she confided. “The police asked me a lot of them, too, because I found the . . . I discovered Senhor Costa.”
Rosa’s brown eyes filled with sympathy. “It is upset to all of us. He was nice man. He sometime comes in for café before he opens his shop. And he would tell me all such nice compliments.” She preened a little.
Senhora Gonzaga must have loved that. “Don’t you work on Fridays?” Carla asked.
“I work only until three. Every day. After lunch is not so busy, and Senhora Gonzaga don’t need me.”
She eyed Carla’s packages. “So, you buy some shoes here? I always come in here to look at shoes after I go to O Belo. I was hoped to find shoes at O Belo, because Segunda-feira, Senhora Gonzaga told me there is sale."
"Segunda-feira?" Carla frowned, sorting through days of the week in Portuguese. "Oh, Second day. Right. Monday." Even though Sunday was Domingo and not "first day." Just another little fence to jump in learning Portuguese.
"I don’t have time to see all week because of classes,” Rosa continued.
“University classes?” Carla wondered if Rosa knew Maria.
Rosa nodded. “I have them on the afternoon. But on Sexta-feira . . . on Fri—”
"Friday," Carla coached, briefly feeling fluent in languages.
"On Friday I don’t have class, so today I go to look, but I don’t like anything. Monday, Senhora Gonzaga can find nothing to like for herself also. I think there hasn’t been nothing good all week.” Rosa gave the gold-strapped sandal near the window a covetous glance.
Carla turned Rosa’s words over in her mind. When would Senhora Gonzaga have time to look at shoes Monday? According to what she had told the police, she was in the café in the morning, when she saw Paulo go into the wine shop. After Rosa left at three, the proprietress would have to stay until closing time at seven.
But maybe she went out at lunch time and planned to make her purchase after hours if she saw something she liked, Carla reasoned. Many stores were open until eight. She tried to remember if O Belo was one of them.
“Senhora Gonzaga must have gone during her lunch, while you were there,” she mused aloud, trying not to sound prying.
“No. It is too busier then. People like to have snacks. She has gone just before lunch to look. And she hurry back before so many people come in.”
“That doesn’t seem like much time to check out shoes.”
“Well, she goes for maybe half hour. Maybe more,” Rosa said crinkling her forehead as she considered it. “I was in charge,” she added, preening again. “Because I am so . . . so . . ..”
“Capable?” Carla suggested, her mind busy with this new information. Rosa nodded.
Hadn’t the proprietress said she was in the café all morning? Why lie, unless you have something to hide? Maybe Senhora Gonzaga was the one who visited Costa through the souvenir shop the way Carla had envisioned O Lobo or Senhor Vitore slipping in.
Back to the senhora and her foil-wrapped toffees. Carla rolled her eyes. Maybe all of Braga ate foil-wrapped toffees.
“She didn’t see anything she liked at O Belo?” she asked, mentally reviewing the street’s layout, trying to imagine how Senhora Costa would get into the souvenir shop without Rosa seeing her. The corner was visible from the café.
Rosa shook her head. “No, but she said there are shoes I will like. But I wait too long.”
Carla gave a sympathetic “tsk,” her thoughts tracing the only route possible: The proprietress would have to set out for Rua dos Chãos, as if heading for Praça da República, Rua do Souto, and O Belo’s shop. At the bank, she could turn left, go along Avenida Central to Rua de São Gonçalves, hook around the corner and go up to the street behind Costa’s shop.
She wouldn’t go through the souvenir shop. Senhor Torres would recognize her. All the proprietors on the street must know each other. She’d enter from the back street. She’d have a key to the gate.
But then, after doing Costa in, Senhora Gonzaga would have to return to the café by the same circuitous route. Was half an hour enough time for all that?
And how would she carry away the bottle from the broken case? She’d have a purse, but how big a purse?
Rosa eyed Carla’s bags again. “What did you buy?” she asked shyly.
Carla smiled. “Shoes and a handbag.” At Rosa’s inquisitive stare, she opened the bag with the purse.
“My favorite color has always been green.,” Rosa said softly. “This is such a pretty green. Don’t you agree?”
“It is,” C
arla agreed, her mind still on Senhora Gonzaga’s hypothetical route. Re-considered, it didn’t seem likely. The woman was lying, that much was clear, but she was lying for some other reason. That lie had caused Maria no little confusion about what she saw Monday, and it had gotten Paulo in deeper trouble than he would have been for just stealing.
I sure would like to know the reason.
Rosa’s voice broke into her thoughts. “This has been great to practice my English with you, senhora. How do you say? Have a great day.”
Carla smiled again. “You have a great day, too.” Since Rosa was already drifting over to the platform sandals with berries, Carla fluttered a wave at Sylvia and left.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Coffee with a Culprit
She almost careened into Senhor Vitore, who stood to one side of the door, away from the parade of shoppers, his hands clasped behind his back, as if waiting. Carla side-stepped him just in time. Vexed, she said, “Desculpe-me,” suspecting she was pronouncing it wrong. She didn’t like his smirk, either, as he smoothed the hair neatly fringing his nape. What was he doing here? Not waiting for her, surely.
But he was. With an appraising glance that in the space of a second traveled from her hair to her turquoise and black heels, came back up to rest briefly on her bosom, and then flicked to her face, he asked, “May we talk?”
A shiver ran through her. She thought back to Monday, when she saw him angrily exit Costa’s shop. His glance had swept over her then. Maybe he did remember her standing in front of the café with her camera. His last stare at the auction had been one of animosity over her outbidding him for the paintings. Which of those two moments made him want to talk to her?
Before she could say anything, he said, “About the Da Silva Porto paintings. Perhaps we can discuss them over an espresso. Or do you prefer tea?”
Carla was tempted to refuse him outright with a simple “no thank you” and go on her way. Instead she said, “The Da Silva Porto paintings? I don’t know what there is to discuss.”
“They have good coffee at A Brasileira,” he said, cupping her elbow.
Curiosity overcame her wariness. True, arrows and candy wrappers were pointing to him again, but it was broad daylight and they weren't in some dim hallway. What can happen with so many people around? She might learn something.
Shifting the shoulder strap of her handbag as a polite way to disengage her elbow, Carla let herself fall into step beside him, darting cautious glances at him. She was sure this was about more than paintings.
A Brasileira was crowded. It was one of Braga’s oldest cafés, situated at the corner of Rua do Souto and Rua de São Marcos. The name meant “The Brazilian Woman.” A poster on the corner column of the café under the blue-tiled façade showed a picture of an old woman in a green dress with the words “O melhor café é” over the stylized portrait, and “d’A Brasileira” below it. The best coffee is from the Brazilian woman.
They sat outside at a corner table under a white umbrella. Outside tables had a view of the Praça República and Carla found herself idly watching a new crowd of tourists at the distant fountain. Vitore waved a waitress over with an air of authority. From the way they bantered in Portuguese, he must be a frequent customer. He had to be well-known, Carla reminded herself. Detetive Fernandes had said Vitore was from Braga, though he lived in Porto now and only came up to Braga for the occasional auction, or maybe to visit friends.
He wore the same smartly cut navy blazer that he’d worn last night over designer jeans. He was friends with Pereira, she reminded herself. She thought back to the news article Fernandes had shown her and Owen Tuesday evening in the apartment, the one with the picture of Vitore eyeing Pereira’s treasured bottle.
As Vitore talked with the waitress, she noticed slight pouches under his eyes that suggested dissipation. His mouth was petulant and wore a disdainful expression when he wasn’t smiling. Maybe the waitress found this attractive, mistaking it for confidence. Carla pinched her lips, finding him thoroughly distasteful.
He would know where Pereira kept the duke’s bottle in the cellar.
“Espresso,” she said when Vitore asked her, and he ordered one for each of them.
“A pastry?” he suggested. “I’m having a pastel de nata.”
“No, thank you.” The small, flaky egg tarts were quickly becoming one of Carla’s favorite sweets, but she didn’t want this conversation turning cozy.
The waitress hurried off. Vitore cleared his throat. “About the paintings,” he began. “You must have a comfortable budget. I was surprised you could buy the pair.”
Impeccable English. “My client is the one with the comfortable budget,” Carla said. “I’m an interior designer. The paintings are for her home in Belvedere. California,” she added. “In the United States.”
“I know where California is.” He favored her with a disarming grin. “Now. The paintings. If it were not for the stone lions I wanted for my garden in Porto, I would have bought the paintings to go with one I already have. But perhaps you will sell one of them to me. Then I will have at least a pair.”
So. This is about the paintings.
His dark brown eyes gleamed with hidden depths, unfathomable. Secretive eyes. Sly. He reminded her of a fox. He seemed to be waiting, but for what?
She was glad the waitress brought their order at that moment so that she could compose her thoughts while he counted out the change on the tray—no tip, she noticed. Cheapskate. She made a mental note to wait until he left and then leave a tip of her own. He tore open two of the square packets of sugar showing miniature portraits of the Brazilian woman, then poured the sugar in his cup, stirring it briskly and setting the small spoon to one side.
After a sip from her own cup, enjoying the bitter tang she always savored, Carla said, “I can’t sell you one of the paintings. They were sold as a pair because the previous owner wanted them to remain that way.”
Vitore made a dismissive gesture with a thrust of his goatee and took a bite of his pastel de nata.
“And my client fell in love with them as a pair, when I sent pictures to her. It’s part of the look we’ve envisioned for her entry hall.”
Another dismissive jab of the goatee.
“But even if I wanted to sell one, which I don’t,” Carla said, resenting his attitude that any impediment to his wish list was negligible, “they’ve been picked up for shipping.” They wouldn’t be until tomorrow, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Ah well.” Vitore shrugged. “Assim é a vida, yes? Such is life. So, we must talk of other things. How are you enjoying Portugal?” He sipped his espresso and regarded her with his fox's eyes. “How long will you be here? Has anyone shown you around our beautiful city? Do you need a guide?”
Is he hitting on me? Carla lifted her cup with her left hand so that her wedding band showed. “I’m in good hands for seeing Braga,” she said. “My neighbor has taken me under her wing. But to answer your first question, I love Braga. It’s full of charm.”
“Full of charm, yes. But,” Vitore wrinkled his brow as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I am guessing you have had an un-charming experience. I think you are the one who found the owner of Adega do Costa dead in his shop. It was in the newspaper Tuesday morning.”
Carla felt the hairs on her neck go on stand-up alert. She made her eyes wide—artless, she hoped—and asked, “What newspaper was that?”
“O Examinador.”
Tuesday, in the Jardim de Santa Bárbara, the article Maria had translated only mentioned Costa was found dead by a customer and that a three-thousand-euro bottle had been stolen from a smashed case. Why would Vitore decide she was the customer who found Costa?
“I don’t know Portuguese,” Carla said. “What else did the newspaper say?”
“That an American woman was returning an expensive bottle to him, but when she went into the shop she found him dead.”
“Yes, that was me,” Carla said, controlling her unease. The newspape
r hadn’t said anything about an American woman returning a bottle.
“And a thief stole the bottle she was returning.”
Bingo! I was right. This isn't about the paintings.
Not trusting her voice, Carla looked down, then shook her head and sighed as if plagued by the memory. She was sure now that she was sitting across from O Lobo’s employer. The one who had arranged the whole bottle-switch thing. And maybe more.
“I’m curious,” Vitore said. “Why were you returning the bottle?”
“It wasn’t the Port I bought. I bought a tawny Port. This was something different. I think he put it in my bag by mistake.”
“Ah.” Vitore finished his pastel de nata and dabbed the corners of his mouth with the small paper napkin, then wiped his fingers and brushed at his mustache as if it might hold crumbs.
A careful man. When he’s not dropping candy wrappers.
“You must have had a good look at it when you took it out of the bag.” Again, the sly eyes watching her, waiting. “What did it look like?”
Carla lifted her shoulders. “Really old, from the label. And someone had scribbled all over it. It wasn’t the one I’d bought, for sure, so I brought it back.”
“The newspaper said it was expensive,” he pursued.
“If it was expensive, it wouldn’t be in my budget,” Carla quipped, relieved to feel her mettle returning.
“Perhaps your wealthy client’s budget?”
A disbelieving laugh escaped Carla. Did he think she was returning to Costa’s shop to make some kind of a deal with him? Oh, please. Although, given what she’d learned about Costa, the wine-seller probably would be open to deals. Vitore would know that. To people like Vitore, probably everyone was open to double-crossing someone else.
“My client is a teetotaler,” she told him.
“Teetotaler?”
“She doesn’t drink. She wouldn’t be into expensive Port, if that’s what it was.”
Vitore said mildly, “Even a wealthy teetotaler might like to show off an expensive Port.” He glanced at his espresso and took a sip.
At his wording, Carla had to look away. Senhor Costa’s flirty voice revived in her head, saying, in his quirky English, “People like to show off.”
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