Carla chewed her lip. The more she thought about things, the less sure she was that arresting Vitore would help Paulo. Instead, Vitore might help O Lobo pin Costa’s death on Paulo. Sure, the police could get Vitore for swindling Pereira. But that was a lesser crime with a lesser penalty.
Senhora Gonzaga’s the only one who could help Paulo.
And she lied about him. Why? Even if Costa was worried about Paulo romancing his niece, and Senhora Gonzaga had felt Paulo was a playboy, it was none of that woman’s business. Thanks to her, Paulo was a murder suspect.
Carla pinched her chin between her thumb and forefinger. Should she call Fernandes and tell him Senhora Gonzaga lied?
And get chewed out again?
It would be better to get Senhora Gonzaga to tell him she lied. But how?
The front hall door closed. A moment later Owen came into the room. He walked over, kissed her on the lips, lifted her off the chair, and twirled her around, a Cheshire Cat grin making his dimples even more pronounced.
“Good day, huh?” she asked, catching her breath as he set her down.
“We have a new applicant for the night clerk position,” he said. “He speaks Portuguese and three other languages. Gabriela likes the idea of expanding the book collection. And Tiago is talking to a potential chef.”
Carla smiled. “What’s not to like?”
Owen hooked his thumbs his pockets, something that Carla always found sexy because of the way it made his pants hang on his hips. “And how was your day?” he asked.
Carla mentally riffled through the day’s events. “Business is picking up at home. We have a new client. And,” she smiled up at him. “I bought new shoes.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“And I had coffee with my competitor from last night,” she slipped in.
“The vintner?” Owen looked startled. “What was his name again?”
“Vitore.”
Owen gave a soft whistle. “How did that come about?”
“He was waiting for me when I came out of RCC Lux.”
“He followed you?” Owen’s cheer vanished.
“I think it was just coincidence,” she said, not wanting to worry him. “I think he spotted me through the window and saw a chance to talk to me. He wanted me to sell him one of the paintings.”
“What’s he like up close and personal?”
“A jerk. He also was interested in the bottle O Lobo stole from me.”
“He brought the theft up with you?” Owen’s voice ascended a note. “And you think this is coincidence?” He rubbed his forehead, then ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t like the sound of this. He asks you to coffee supposedly to buy a painting, but quizzes you about a bottle everyone seems to be looking for? A bottle Costa was killed for? Or with?”
“He left when I couldn’t tell him anything,” Carla said.
“First this O Lobo guy grabs you by the neck. Now this vintner is asking questions. I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not get into an argument—”
“You’ve told Detective Fernandes, right? He knows Vitore is following you?”
Carla put both hands on her hips. “Of course he knows!” She heard her own voice start up the scale, one word at a time. “Fernandes is all knowing, with eyes everywhere. Meanwhile, I can’t even leave the country to go meet the new client Bethany told me about.”
“Don’t get mad at me because you don’t like Fernandes,” Owen said. “I’m just worried about your safety. Shouldn’t I care what happens to you?”
“You don’t have to yell!”
“You don’t either!”
They glared at each other.
“I need to start dinner,” Carla snapped. She went into the kitchen and took a pot from the cupboard near the sink, banging it down on the counter. As she measured out a cup of rice, she heard him go into the bedroom, closing the door loudly.
And he’s not a door slammer, she told herself remorsefully.
The menu she’d planned, tomato rice and shrimp with hot, red peppers, was one of Owen’s favorite Portuguese dishes. Thinking of how happy he had looked when he came home, she felt like kicking herself. She’d probably ruined his appetite, wrecked his evening, and all because she was sick of Fernandes and how her life had been turned upside down.
She’d apologize later, at supper. He needs to cool down first, anyway.
She covered the rice with two cups of water, adding salt, then took the shrimp from the refrigerator and began peeling them, recriminations swirling in her head. If only she hadn’t paused at the corner Monday to photograph those damned tiles. If she hadn’t sampled the damned Port. If she hadn’t bought the damned Port. The whole week could have been so different.
But it wasn’t. And now she had to find some way for Fernandes to learn Senhora Gonzaga had lied to him.
If Maria and I went to her together . . . and Senhora Gonzaga realized that Costa’s killers could go free . . . . She would hardly want that to happen.
Carla pursed her lips. Senhor Costa’s funeral had been this afternoon. Tomorrow morning she’d call Maria. Once she explained this latest development, she was sure Maria would want to accompany her to the café.
Chapter Twenty-Five – Can We Talk?
Carla breathed in the fresh morning air, walking along Avenida Central, enjoying the sense of tranquility that washed through her. Last night, after Owen and she had both apologized, they talked late into the night, falling asleep later, holding each other close. At present, Owen was at his office in the hotel, as he was every Saturday morning when the workmen weren’t there. When he finished his work, they planned to have lunch at Casa Estaroles, a cozy, family-run restaurant half a street away from their apartment, then drive up to Bom Jesus do Monte—a tourist spot on their must-see list ever since their arrival. According to the brochure, the church, Good Jesus of the Mountain, high in the hills, had fountains, hidden grottoes, gardens, sculptures, and endless vistas. The perfect peaceful afternoon after a week from hell! Carla thought.
She shook away a prick of guilt for not telling Owen her morning’s plan. She had wavered over dishes about whether to call Detetive Fernandes instead of Maria. But what was the point in talking to Fernandes before she knew why Senhora Gonzaga had lied? Two women could find that out easier than a policeman. Hadn’t the detective said that a woman was more likely to confide in a woman? Hadn’t she already proved that? The proprietress didn’t like Paulo, but she probably didn’t realize how much trouble she’d made for him. It was up to Carla to make her understand. She quickened her step, enjoying the sound of her new lime green stilettos clicking on the small, gray and white paving stones.
Maria was waiting by the souvenir shop on the corner, as they had agreed. Her hair was in a French braid this morning, and she fingered it absently, lost in thought. She smiled wanly as Carla approached. The shop was already open. Torres was busy with a customer at his counter, but he nodded at Carla through the open doorway.
“Are you okay?” Carla asked, taking in the dark circles around Maria’s eyes and the lines of grief etched at the corners. Funerals and burials had a way of bringing death crushingly home. At her own parents’ funeral, Carla had been too numb to pay attention to the minister’s words, but when the caskets were lowered into the ground and she had thrown her clumps of dirt, she had felt engulfed in loss. It was only Nana’s quiet strength and understanding, her way of respecting Carla’s silences and giving her small tasks to perform that had helped Carla manage the first weeks.
Now she wondered if she’d done the wrong thing, asking Maria to accompany her to question Senhora Gonzaga about Paulo. Still, Maria had a right to know why the woman had fingered Paulo, and Carla needed Maria’s help to find out. Putting out a tentative feeler, Carla said, “I’m sorry to pull you away from your family at such a sad time.”
“I am glad to come away,” Maria said. “Everyone is angry or sad. My mother keeps
crying. My uncle was her older brother. He always look . . . looked out for her. Now there is only her. My aunt says ugly things about my uncle. She is afraid he has left money to his other woman, because there is a will. My father says not to yell at my mother. But he shouts this. It is all terrible.”
“Isn’t there always a will?”
Maria shook her head. “Normally my aunt would share everything in equal parts with her two sons. But a lawyer has asked the family to meet with him Monday. Someone else is going to get something.” Maria’s lip curled. “That is her only concern. She does not care he is dead.”
Carla gave Maria’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. How sad that the family was in disarray instead of supporting each other. More than once, she and Owen had been touched by the affection and closeness of families in Portugal. Teenage boys kissed their grandmothers. Mothers always seemed to be hugging their children or smoothing back their hair. Babies in strollers were the kings and queens of the plaza. Obviously, Maria’s wasn’t one of those families.
“People handle grief in different ways,” Carla said tactfully.
“There is no grief in my aunt. My cousins know this, too. There was no love in their house. They would say this to my mother when they visited us. Before they went away to get work. It is for that they have stayed away.” Maria lifted a palm. “Assim é a vida.”
“Mmm,” Carla murmured, hearing the familiar phrase.
“So now we will find out why Senhora Gonzaga lied.” Maria’s voice took on a flinty tone. “She has never liked me.”
Carla blinked her surprise. Senhora Gonzaga had made it sound as if they’d never even spoken. “Did she tell you that?”
“No, but I can see from her eyes when she looks at me. If I say ‘boa tarde’ or ‘bom dia,’ she will only nod. When I pay, she never says ‘obrigada.’ And she never smiles at me.”
Yeah. That’s probably a good sign.
Carla glanced across the street and nearly groaned. Across from them, on the corner, Tiffany-from-Nevada’s thin figure pivoted in what looked like hesitation. For a moment, she seemed to be about to start down toward Senhora Gonzaga’s café. Looking around, she spotted Carla and hurried across the street instead, cheerfully waving.
Now, of all times! Carla closed her eyes, then opened them, bracing for Tiffany’s energy.
Today Tiffany wore flowered ballet flats, white Capris and a three-quarter sleeve T-shirt with lace trim. And those awful sunglasses. “You were so right about those gardens,” she gushed, as she came up to them. “Jeez, I musta taken a million pics. Wanna see?” She started to unzip the camera bag around her neck.
Carla forced a little laugh. “I’ve probably taken the same pictures myself.”
“Of course.” Tiffany slapped her forehead. “What am I thinking!” Her glance took in Maria who was staring at the square stones of the walk.
“Your friend doesn’t like Portugal?” Tiffany asked. “She doesn’t look too thrilled.”
“She’s from here,” Carla said impatiently. “She has a lot on her mind.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
A twinge of guilt for her abruptness made Carla add, “I’m sure your friends in Reno will love to see your pictures.”
“For sure! This place is unbelievable.” Tiffany looked at the gift shop’s doorway. “Gosh, they’re open. What luck! I need to pick up some souvenirs.”
“It’s a nice shop,” Carla assured her. “Enjoy the rest of your stay in Braga.” She stretched her mouth in a false smile and took Maria’s elbow.
As they started across the street, she said in a low voice, “Remember, we’re only visiting Senhora Gonzaga because we know she lied, and we want the truth, so that Paulo isn’t found guilty of killing your uncle.” Thinking of Maria’s quarrelsome family, she added, “We shouldn’t get angry with her or have words.”
“Have words?”
“Let’s not get into an argument with her. We just want her to tell us what she really saw and to clear Paulo of what he didn’t do. He’s already in enough trouble for what he did do.”
The two salmon-colored umbrellas above the outside tables had already been unfurled, their warm tones the perfect complement to the deep green of the leaf-laden linden trees lining the street.
“I’m the one Rosa talked to yesterday, so let me do the talking,” Carla said. “Just steer the conversation back to English if Senhora Gonzaga starts talking in Portuguese, okay?”
It was only a few minutes after nine. The café wouldn’t be too busy yet. A good time to talk. Then she’d call Detetive Fernandes. How satisfying it would be to tell him the first witness who implicated Paulo was unreliable.
Carla noticed the large door to the right of the café. Probably to the flat upstairs, the one with the geraniums on the balcony. Maybe Senhora Gonzaga lived above her café the way Natália and her husband lived above the barber shop.
There was no sign of Rosa when they entered. Senhora Gonzaga had just given a small cup of espresso to the sole customer, a man in a green work suit at a table near the far wall. As he downed a large sip, the proprietress eyed them warily, hands clasped in front of her yellow bib apron, the sleeves of a gray and white print blouse ending below the elbow with a tasteful ruffle.
Her gaze shifted from Carla to Maria, and back to Carla. “Bom dia.” she said. “Please sit. I will be right with you.”
“Actually, we need to talk to you.” Carla looked around. She had counted on Rosa being there to take care of customers and, if necessary, to back up her claim that Senhora Gonzaga had gone to O Belo’s when she claimed to be in the café. “Where’s your helper?” she asked.
“She cannot come in today. She have twist her uncle.” Carla’s confusion must have shown on her face. The proprietress pointed to her foot.
Ah. Ankle.
Senhora Gonzaga walked over to them, her forehead drawn in concern. “What you want to talk about?”
Carla took a deep breath. In a low voice, in case the customer understood English, she said, “Why did you tell the police—and me—that you saw Paulo go into the wine shop and stay for a long time when Senhor Costa was killed?”
Senhora Gonzaga’s stare was like a prim reprimand. “Paulo? Who is this Paulo?”
Maria bristled. “You know who Paulo is!”
“He’s the young man you told the police you saw,” Carla said. “The ‘chico.’”
“Please to excuse me.” Senhora Gonzaga went behind the counter as the customer came to the register to pay for his drink.
As soon as he left, Maria launched into rapid Portuguese.
“Keep me in the loop,” Carla said. “What did you just tell her?”
“I said she made much trouble for Paulo. I ask why she lies.”
Carla blew her breath out. So much for ‘let me do the talking.’
“But he was in shop. I see him,” Senhora Gonzaga told Carla.
“You couldn’t know how long, though.” Carla said. “You went to look at O Belo’s shoe sale and couldn’t find what you wanted. Rosa took over the customers for you for maybe half an hour, but you told the police you were here all that time.”
“You have question my waitress?” An affronted look came over Senhora Gonzaga’s face. “What is your interest in this, Senhora Bass?”
Carla met her gaze. “I found the body. I made the report. And ever since then, people have been after me. I’ve been threatened. A man tried to kill me.” She felt her ire mount. “If you hadn’t given false information, the case might be settled by now. I won’t feel safe until it is settled, so I need you to start telling the truth.”
“I am sorry you have so much trouble,” Senhora Gonzaga murmured, and for a moment she did look sorry. Sad even. Then, “But I do not have to tell you why I do anything. You are not police.”
“You need to tell the police, then. Or I will. You’re a likely suspect, you know,” Carla added. “You could have gone to Costa’s shop instead of to O Belo’s.” For a moment, she wondered ag
ain if the proprietress really was the culprit. Then she re-ran the logistics through her mind: too long and involved a route, given the time frame Rosa had mentioned. Thirty minutes wouldn’t work. It’s Vitore or O Lobo.
“You probably don’t realize how much trouble you’ve made for Paulo,” she said, softening her tone.
Senhora Gonzaga pinched her lips together and frowned, as if coming to a decision. “Come, we will talk about this privately. Please, sit,” she said again, nodding at the table where her customer had sat. She came around the counter, walked to the glass door, turned the sign on the door so that “Fechada” faced out, then twisted the deadbolt.
“Is private, between us,” she explained. “No customers to interrupt.”
Carla hesitated, then decided that made sense. She had wanted a private conversation in the first place, which was why she had originally envisioned going outside while Rosa took care of customers inside. With a nod to Maria, she took a window table instead of the one in the corner, and pulled out a chair on one side. She sat, staring through the clear pane below the cafe’s name at the wine shop across the street, trying to imagine exactly how much would have been visible to Senhora Gonzaga on Monday.
But Senhora Gonzaga probably would have been at the cash register, she reminded herself. If she was in the shop. When she was in the shop. Rosa would have been with customers.
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