“You kinda forced her hand.”
Carla pursed her lips. "That’s what Owen said."
“So, what happens now with this Paulo?”
“He’s off the hook for murder. But he’ll face prosecution for theft. O Lobo admitted Paulo was only involved in the bottle switch. He’s willing to testify Vitore planned the swindle.”
“Vitore?”
“The vintner who set up the whole thing. And he’ll face prosecution for that part.” Over cups of coffee in Carla’s kitchen Sunday—Owen had driven off somewhere to brood alone—Natália had translated the front story of Vitore’s arrest in O Examinador.
“Ah, the company you keep!” Bethany said.
Carla attempted a smile. “Just another episode in the life of an interior decorator abroad.”
“I hope there won’t be any more like that, honey.”
“You and me both. Not to mention Owen.” Carla brightened. “We’re eating out tonight.” At noon he had called her, apparently in relieved mode again, saying she needed a restful evening that would take her mind off everything. That was when he had also suggested the Ponte de Lima trip.
Bethany propped her chin on her hands. “Your friend Maria must be relieved her boyfriend isn’t a murderer.”
“Yeah, but it’s over between them,” Carla said. “She told me she can’t trust him. He’s a liar and a thief.”
Bethany smiled wryly. “She has a point.”
“Costa also left her a stipend in his will, to further her education in the future. I think she feels she owes it to him to really focus on studies.”
“That’s creepy. Like he knew he was going to die?”
Carla considered that a moment. “He probably was beginning to suspect that he might be in over his head with the duke’s Port; what he thought was the duke’s Port. But I think it was more because caring about Maria’s future made him realize he’d better make a will.” She explained the inheritance law to Bethany, then leaned toward the screen. “You want to hear another ironic thing in this case?”
At Bethany’s nod, she said, “There’s probably three forgeries. The one Paulo left in Pereira’s cellar. The one given to Vitore that was supposed to be the real deal, but wasn’t. And this third one that Costa was trying to sell back to Pereira. It’s being tested now.”
“Do they know who the forger is?”
“Oh, yeah. Vitore and O Lobo both gave the police his name. Some guy in Porto. He probably has the original bottle.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The Porto police went to arrest him, and it seems he’s closed shop and gone to Brazil.”
That was the last crumb of information she’d been able to wangle out of Detective Fernandes before he said, “And now you know more than you need to know about something that is no longer your concern.”
“Jeez, why Brazil?” Bethany asked.
Thinking of Torre’s words, Carla said, “It’s a place where people can disappear and not be found. Brazil is big. If you change your name, no one can find you.” Senhora Gonzaga’s sad confession of hoping to go to Brazil with Costa, posing as his wife, stirred a brief ripple of sympathy that quickly vanished. She was going to kill you, kiddo! And she really did murder him.
“So, I guess all’s well that ends well,” Bethany was saying.
“True,” Carla murmured. “For some of us, anyway.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine – A Fine Alvarinho
It had been chilly all day, with only a brief reappearance of the sun's warmth, so Carla wore a shawl. They were at Felix Taberna again—this time indoors, enjoying the soft glow of wall sconces and flickering shadows from the candle at their table. Duck rice, a house specialty, was followed by cheesecake and espresso. The past week might never have happened as she and Owen talked about the coming week-end in Ponte de Lima.
It's the oldest village in Portugal," he told her again with boyish enthusiasm. He must have memorized the entire Wikipedia summary. “It’s named for the Roman bridge across the Lima River. That's what Ponte de Lima means, you know. The Bridge at the River Lima.”
“I like the room you picked,” Carla said, thinking of the website photos he'd shown her. One street away from the river, high on a slope with views from every room. The photographs showed an all-white attic interior with pitched ceilings, a white rug, white sofa, and lots of white cushions. “It looks like being inside a cloud.”
Owen gave a pleased grin. “Tiago says they have good restaurants in Ponte de Lima, too.”
“The perfect get-away. I’m so ready.”
Exactly.” He reached over and cupped her chin. “You look beautiful tonight.”
Later, holding hands, they walked along the cobbled Rua Dom Diego de Sousa, its street lamps bright under a gibbous moon. The courtyard outside the Sé Catedral was empty. The stone walls, rife with history, were somber and silent. The street soon merged into Rua do Souto. A few die-hard tourists straggled here and there, perhaps on their way to an after-dinner drink or simply on a late evening stroll.
Out of the blue, Owen said in a low voice, “Not to belabor things, babe, but . . ..” His face was in shadow.
“But?”
“Please don’t get involved in anything so dangerous again.”
Carla gave a little laugh. “I don’t expect to stumble across another dead body anytime soon.” When he didn’t answer, she leaned her head against his arm. Somehow, the “please” had sounded so bereft. “Sweetheart. Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve learned my lesson. I’m just glad things are back to normal.”
His answer was to press her hand, and then lightly rub her nails and cuticles, stirring a pleasurable skin-prickle along the back of her hand and up her arm.
They came to the Praça da República. Assorted tourists and locals clustered around Café Vianna's outside tables despite the cooling evening. Streamers from the water jets in the huge plaza fountain whished into the air and delicately splashed down.
“Feel like another glass of wine?” Owen asked.
They took a table close to the fountain. A slim waitress wearing a maroon apron hurried up and took their orders—two Alvarinhos. She glided away and returned shortly with their glasses and the bottle of white wine, pouring each of them a generous amount.
Owen raised his glass. “This is the kind of evening we’ll always remember after we go home,” he said, nodding toward the lights playing on the fountain streamers and then looking around at the tables filled with lively customers, all immersed in conversation.
“We will.” Carla blew him a kiss. They clinked glasses, and she took a sip, enjoying the light tartness, feeling thrilled all over again to be in Portugal. It was nearly eleven, but voices rose and fell, laughter spraying into the air like the fountain’s arcs of water. Figures swayed, hands lifted and dipped expressively.
“Braga never sleeps, does it?” she murmured.
Her glance came to rest on the table behind Owen, where an older man sat alone, twirling a glass of red wine. He looks so solitary, she thought, taking in his gray, bushy eyebrows, his trim mustache and grizzled beard. His bearing was tidy and dignified. He wore a flat cap and a jacket with that special cut that said “European.”
All alone, with so much festivity around him. How sad!
But he’d only been waiting, it seemed. A similarly-dressed man—this one thin, with a long face—joined him, sitting poised on the edge of his chair. The soft sh-sh of Portuguese drifted to Carla. Was it her imagination? Or was there was something shifty about their hunched postures, their cautious glances?
She lowered her eyes, so as not to be caught staring.
“After the grand opening in September, we should go to Lisbon,” Owen said. “Take a couple of weeks for pure vacation before going home. In September, it should still be warm, especially farther south.”
“I'd like that,” Carla agreed. “Maybe we can hear some Fado.” Natália had said Lisboa was the birthplace of Fado.
Her glance wa
ndered back to the table behind him, just in time to see—so subtly it could almost be her imagination—the first man nod and the newcomer rise. Carla watched the latter weave around tables, disappearing into darkness beyond the corner at the end of the arcade.
Hmm.
“And then maybe include a few nights in a fishing village.” Owen said.
Carla tore her attention from the older man who sat regarding his glass.
“There's so much to see in Portugal,” she told Owen. Despite her best intention, she darted another look at the table behind him.
The man was gone. Just like that! Only his half-empty wineglass remained.
“What?” Owen asked, his dimples faintly visible, as he waited for whatever she was going to say.
“I was just thinking . . ..” Mind your own business, kiddo! She tilted her head to one side and smiled at her husband, then took a sip of wine and slowly swallowed it. “I really like a fine Alvarinho, don't you?”
Acknowledgements
First and foremost I would like to thank Belanger Books for their continued support. I would also like to thank the Storytellers Writing Group, trusted beta readers: Skeeter, Nancy, Randall, Jennie, Rosi, your suggestions always strengthen the work. Thanks also, Kathy Asay and Michele Drier, fellow writers in the Sacramento chapter of Sisters in Crime, for reading early drafts, and Joana Prata in Braga, for reading a later draft and giving important feedback.
Friends in Galicia (Melanie & Craig Briggs, Terri & David Anderson, John & Ida Blackbeard) told me charming things about Braga which inspired my first visit. Manuel Calda Castro shared tons of pictures with me, as did Trevor Pope in Texas after a vacation to Portugal.
Others provided much needed information for writing this book. My deepest gratitude to:
For information regarding the Interior Design business and Hoteliers, Pat Emery, at Ambiance Design Services in Los Angeles, Jennifer Jones at Niche Design Interiors and Claudia Justel at Adeeni Design Galerie (both in San Francisco), and Leo Chandler, General Manager, La Rivage Hotel, Westin Sacramento
An article by travel writer Stuart Forster, followed by a Skype Conference, put me in touch with Rui Prata, then director of Museu Imagem in Braga. Prata filled us in on Braga history, toured the city with us after hours, and has become a valued friend, as has his daughter, Joana. Many people in Braga were generous with information and time and have become friends. At Posto de Turismo, Cristina (Ana) and Marcia answered endless questions and provided information in emails; Carla Pereira has made us part of her Portuguese family, and let one of my characters work in her uncle’s store, Casa Stop. Marisa Da Luz, fadista extraordinaire, invited us to fado events. Inês Barbosa introduced us to the music of fado, as well as giving historical background on various parts of the city. Helena Veloso, co-owner of Centésima Página (one of the most unique book stores I’ve ever seen) has also been supportive. A big thanks to all of you.
For information about legal processes and proceedings in Portugal, I am grateful to Commander Jose Antonio Cardoso Barbosa, in Braga (who is nothing like the chilly Detective Fernandes in the book). The commander kindly met with us many times to share information he thought would be helpful. Thanks also go to Jairo Ivan Domingos Campos, Comissário in Porto, who kindly answered follow-up questions via email. Clara Silva da Costa, Advogada answered my questions about how wills work in Portugal.
John R. Modica, at Direct Auction Galleries in Chicago, and Peter O’Grady, at O’Gallerie Auctions in Portland, OR, answered questions I had about how auctions worked, and Anibal Pinto de Faria at P55 Art and Auctions in Porto, and Lidia Aguilar in Braga answered more specific questions about how they operate in Porto and Braga.
Much appreciation goes to Stefan Sällberg, Vintage Port, who provided information on Port history, bottling, labeling, and fraud issues, and to Louisa Fry, Marketing and Communication, Instituto dos Vinhos do Douro e Porto, for information specifically on wine fraud. Special thanks to Miguel Potes at Symington for information about vintage and antique Ports and for his permission to use the 1863 vintage Port from Quinto do Vezuvio in my book.
About the Author
Elizabeth Varadan is a former elementary teacher who has always loved music, art, and other cultures. She and her husband live in Sacramento, California, but travel frequently to Spain and Portugal. Her children’s fiction has appeared in Story Friends, Ladybug, and Skipping Stones Magazine, as well as in the 2016 anthology, Beyond Watson (Belanger Books). Her middle-grade mystery featuring Sherlock Holmes, Imogene and the Case of the Missing Pearls (MX Publishing), was published in 2015. Her picture book, Dragonella, was published by Belanger Books in 2017 (English edition) and in 2018 (Spanish edition). Her story collection, Carnival of the Animals, was published in 2018, also by Belanger Books.
You can visit her at her blogs:
http://elizabethvaradansfourthwish.blogspot.com
http://victorianscribbles.blogsspot.com
Or at her author page at Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Varadan/e/B003VOTCFG
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