“Oh, of course.”
“But I sure don’t see any sign of anything going on either.”
She frowned, shaking her head, and then her eyes lit up and she said, “Wait a minute,” and was off into the house. Before I had time to begin to wonder what she was doing, she was back, large black binoculars in her hand.
“Let’s take a look,” she said in a conspiratorial voice despite the fact that there was no one in sight but the two of us. “You can see for miles with these things.”
She steadied them and slowly panned the area. “Not a soul in sight,” she said. “But I do see one police cruiser in the parking lot. So something must be going on.” Sighing, she handed me the glasses. “Maybe your eyes are sharper than mine.”
At first, I couldn’t see anything interesting either, even though the glasses were pretty good as far as clear vision went. I could see each bungalow sitting in the slanted afternoon sunshine looking quiet and charming, just as they had the day before. I was just about to lower the glasses when I noticed the slightest movement on the hill above the compound. There was a flash in the middle of a path between two boulders and suddenly a figure appeared. I focused hard. I was pretty sure it was Sandy.
I gasped. “Oh, look at that!” I said.
“Where? What?”
Bebe put her hand out for the binoculars, but I was clutching them greedily.
“Wait. Just let me see….”
“Mele! Come on!”
“Oh, okay. Here. No turn them up higher, toward the top of the ridge. Do you see her?”
“Who?”
“I think it’s Sandy.”
“Sandy!” Bebe groaned. “I couldn’t get a good look and now she’s gone behind those bushes. Oh, here she comes! She went behind the line of trees by the stream and now she’s heading for her cabin. What is that she’s carrying?”
“What? What?” I reached for the glasses and Bebe hung on for another minute before she let them go. I had just enough time to see something flash again, something Sandy was carrying, and then she was inside her bungalow and invisible to us.
“Oh,” I said, deflated. “I couldn’t get a good look. What did you think it was?”
“I don’t know.” Bebe looked thoughtful. “It was made of something like glass or metal. It threw a huge reflection off the sun for just a second there.”
I nodded. “I saw that too. But I couldn’t begin to name what it was. A mirror? Scissors? A gun?”
“A gun!” We both cried it out at the same time and grabbed each other and began babbling semi-hysterically.
“Okay, hold on,” I said at last. “We don’t know that a gun was involved. I mean, why would it be a gun? Marguerite wasn’t shot, was she? Or is there something I don’t know about?”
Bebe shook her head. “”No, I don’t think so.”
We both thought for a minute. Bebe looked up.
“What if Sandy had a gun hidden up there in the countryside and she went to get it because of being scared now with the murder and all.”
I nodded slowly. “Or maybe she was going out for a walk and decided to take a gun with her for safety.”
Bebe frowned skeptically. “Maybe.”
“Should we tell the police what we saw?”
I thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know. We don’t really have anything to tell, do we? Just what we thought we might have seen.”
Bebe got a slightly clouded look on her face. “Right,” she said. “And they don’t take what we think we’ve seen seriously. Not ever.”
I nodded. That had been my general experience with the local police department, even though Bebe was dating the captain and I was semi-interested in their best detective. I suppose it’s only human nature that the professionals don’t think we amateurs quite have the whole picture at our disposal. Still, it’s annoying when you notice the skeptical looks they give you.
I sighed and sat back down in my chair. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to tell anybody anything unless I have it nailed down with a hammer. I’m sick of being teased about my detective efforts. I think I’m going to try to stay out of this one.”
Bebe sank back into her chair and took a long sip of her iced tea. “You’re right,” she said. “That goes for me too. I’m just going to take it easy. I’ll enjoy hearing the theories and experiences as they come my was, but I’m definitely not going to make any efforts to get involved.”
“Right.”
A car drove up. We could hear it parking in the front, but we couldn’t see it from where we sat. We looked at each other with raised eyebrows, wondering, and then Detective Roy McKnight came sauntering around through the side yard. He grinned his usual adorable grin and I smiled back. How could I help it? Sometimes it seemed like he was almost on the verge of being my guy. Sometimes.
“Hey there,” I said. “Back from the big city, are you?”
“I’m back,” he admitted, sinking into a chair near by, a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ve been to the metropolis and I’ve seen many sights. Maybe I’ll tell you all about it someday.”
“You’d better,” I told him, giving his leg a soft kick with my foot. “I want a complete accounting of every minute you’ve been away.”
“Right.” He laughed at me. “But I’ve heard you’ve all been busy while the Captain and I were gone. Rustled yourself up another murder. You just can’t resist, can you?”
My heart fell. He already knew all about it and was ready to make fun of me if I showed any interest. It was time to give him my best stone-faced look and deny all knowledge. But I knew it was no use. I couldn’t avoid the issue totally.
“I don’t look for them,” I protested, keeping it light. “They seem to look for me. What can I say?”
“Uh huh.”
His attitude was starting to bug me. I smiled brightly. “So, do we have a cause of death yet? Insight into motives? Far flung theories?”
He gave me a quizzical look and sighed. “None of those. Nothing for sure yet.”
“Was it a poisoning?”
He looked at me, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “Test results aren’t in.”
I knew they couldn’t be, but I also knew there were other ways to begin to form an opinion of what had happened.
“So what do you think? Poison, or no?”
“Maybe poison. Maybe something else, like the large lump she has on the side of her head. Someone obviously whacked her.”
“Oh.” Bebe and I exchanged glances and Roy started on his usual warning for us to stay away from the action.
“Don’t worry about us,” Bebe said defensively. “We’re not involved. We’re innocent bystanders. We’ve got nothing to do with it.”
“Oh yeah?” His smile faded and he looked at me quizzically. “Then why is the top murder suspect requesting you instead of a lawyer?” He raised an eyebrow in my direction again.
“What?” I cried.
“No way!” Bebe said at the same time.
I was shocked, but I had to admit, once I thought it over, I wasn’t really all that surprised.
“Do you mean…? Is it Carlo?”
“Yes it is. He may be about to be charged with the murder of Marguerite Kurtis. He says he trusts you more than he trusts any lawyer we might be able to dig up for him.” He stared at me for a long moment, watching me squirm as I tried to understand why he would do such a thing, then added, “So that’s the question. Are you going to come and listen to the man? Or do we tell him to go pound sand?”
“Well, I’ll at least go hear what he has to say,” I said quickly.
Roy threw his head back and spoke toward the ceiling. “Of course,” he said. Did I detect a whiff of sarcasm?
“That doesn’t mean I’m equipped to represent him or anything like that,” I said quickly.
“Tell him that,” Roy said with the world-weary look of a man who’d told him that many times…and had the information ignored. “He says he’s seen you work miracles with murder cases.
”
“No kidding.” Of course I liked hearing that. Wouldn’t you? “Are you sure he doesn’t have me mixed up with someone else?”
He gave me another pained look. “He thinks he knows things he can’t possibly know. But I’m sure you’ll know how to deal with him.”
“I shouldn’t, should I? I mean, I’m not a lawyer and I’m not even a real private investigator. But I might as well go see what I can do for him. Don’t you think?”
“Like a moth to the flame,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Of course you should. How could you avoid it?”
Chapter 8
I marched into the police station in my best power suit—dark navy blue with a pencil skirt and a very trim, very crisp, white linen shirt—pretty snazzy if I do say so myself-- and tried to maintain a cool and confident exterior. After all, I’d been drafted into this effort. Shanghaied, you might almost say. And I didn’t want any of the principals taking my work lightly.
That being said, I had a completely open mind. Far be it from me to let that incredibly delicious food Carlo produced affect my judgment in any way. At least, I was going to try very hard to ignore memories of gastronomical delight.
The front desk clerk was busy with signing in a recent arrestee and I was waiting for my turn at his attention when I realized Nigel Champaine was sitting in a chair, not far away, and being questioned by Deputy Glenn, an occasional partner of Roy’s. I sidled my way a little closer, pretending to be fascinated by the wanted posters on the wall, hoping to pick up the gist of the conversation. It wasn’t easy, but I did get a phrase here and there.
“Absolutely not,” Nigel was stating with firm conviction. “I haven’t been near the place in two days. I definitely wasn’t there last night.”
That brought my eyes wide and made me take notice. He was stating it as though it were a categorical truth, and yet I’d seen that man with my own two eyes. Eyes under a spell, maybe, but clear eyes none the less.
I glanced over. Deputy Glenn was dutifully writing down everything Nigel was saying and nodding as he did so. I frowned, then my gaze met Nigel’s and I almost panicked. He was giving me a fierce glare, as though he could sense I knew things he wished I didn’t. But why would he be thinking along those lines? He didn’t even know who I was. Still, I got the distinct sense that he was running over plans in his mind to do something about me.
The desk sergeant was ready for me now, so I commenced to fill in forms and make declarations, and when I finally surfaced once again,
Nigel was gone and Carlo was waiting.
“Carlo Bianchi,” I said as I was escorted past the holding cell and into the interrogation room that held my client. Was he my client? Whatever. For the moment he was whatever I needed him to be. I stood before him and attempted to maintain a serious frown. This was, after all, serious business.
“Mr. Bianchi, I understand that you want me to provide some sort of help to your case. I want to make sure you appreciate the fact that I am in no way a lawyer, or anything close to it. And since your case is a capital one, I think…”
“Never mind.” Carlo’s huge brown eyes were filled with tragedy. “I don’t want a regular lawyer.”
“Well, I’m not even an irregular one,” I told him.
He shook his head. “I know that. But I want you. I’ve heard all about your investigating career. You’re the one who gets to the truth, and once the truth is out, I’ll be home free.”
He threw his arms out in a sort of Italian supplication and looked so sincere, I had to consider giving him the benefit of the doubt—even though I was curious about where he got his information.
I sighed and sank into the chair across the table from where he sat, looking somehow small and scared—not the confident man I’d met the night before.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll talk it over and see if this will work.”
He nodded, his dark eyes filled with worry. “First, you’ve got to know, I didn’t do it.”
I leaned forward, holding his gaze with my own.
“Didn’t do what, Mr. Bianchi? What exactly has happened?”
He shrugged like I should surely know all this already. After all, he’d probably been over it a thousand times with the detectives.
“Start at the beginning,” I told him. “Tell me everything.”
His shoulders sagged, but he lifted his chin and began.
“Poor Marguerite is dead. Someone killed her. I don’t know who.” He gave me a pathetic and rather watery smile. “She was the love of my life,” he added, his voice breaking a bit. “Once I find out who killed her, I’m going to…”
“Stop! No detours. Stick to the issue at hand. Did you kill her?”
He looked offended. “No, of course not. How dare you…?”
“Did you get someone else to kill her?”
“No!”
“What motive could anyone have had to kill her?”
“No, no one.” He shook his head, looking bewildered. “I loved her! Do you hear me? Everyone loved her. No one could have had any motive. She was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, the most loveable, the sweetest….”
I blinked. Were we talking about the same woman? Or was this whole thing a strange show he was putting on?
“Hold it,” I said firmly. “If you didn’t kill her, who did?”
He frowned, then moaned, then began to writhe in his chair. “Why would I kill the woman that I loved?” he cried out piteously.
This was beginning to seem like questioning a wounded animal. He looked like someone who needed a good hug more than he needed the 3rd degree grilling I would have preferred to give him. But I knew if I went after him too hard, he’d clam up and dismiss me from the case. Still, at the same time, I knew if I showed too much compassion, things might really get out of hand. I had to find a good balance here.
“You tell me,” I said at last.
He shook his head in exasperation. “No. What can I say? This is getting us nowhere. Go out and find the murderer! Isn’t that your calling? Go and get to work!”
I started to pack up my things. “Well, Mr. Bianchi, if you won’t open up to me and tell me the truth, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
He glared at me. “I don’t want a lawyer. Don’t try to do lawyer things. That’s not what I want you for. I need you to do what you do best. Find the real killer. That’s the only thing that will save me.”
I looked at him and shook my head. “But how can I do that if you won’t tell me anything?”
“There are other people who were there last night. Ask them for their ‘truths’.” He threw me a fierce look when he added, “Or lies.”
I shook my head again. “It’s no use. I have nothing to go on. Not a clue. If you won’t tell me what I need to know, it’s over for me.”
He stared at me, sulking like a puppy.
“You have to help me,” he pleaded. “I need to get out of here fast. I’ve got to prep for dinner. Without me, that kitchen doesn’t hum.”
I sighed. “They’ll probably get you before a judge and give you bail by this evening. Then you can get back to your cooking.” I stood and started for the door.
He let out a cry of misery and I didn’t want to look back, afraid I would find him with tears running down his face, but when he called out, “Wait! Come back. I’ll tell you what you need to know. I promise,” I turned back reluctantly and sank back into my seat.
“Okay,” I said, pulling out my notebook again. “But make it fast. I’ve got things to do.”
He sniffed a few times and asked for a handkerchief. I pulled out a packet of tissues, slid it toward him. He grimaced, took a tissue, used it, and finally he began to talk.
And boy did he talk. We started with the days when he was just a lad in Sicily, helping his mother stamp out pasta in sheets, then his formal culinary training, the little bistros he’d worked when he first came to California, and finally how he came to be working for Nigel Champaine and his restaurants.
All of this had nothing to do with what I’d asked him, and it took some time, but we finally got back to the crux of the matter.
“So who killed Marguerite?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t me.”
Great. Back where we started. But I did pick up a few items—such as the fact that Carlo and Marguerite had been carrying on a rather torrid affair—at least from his point of view—and she had suddenly turned cold toward him. He didn’t know for sure, but he suspected another man.
I recalled Nigel being welcomed quite readily into Marguerite’s bungalow after midnight and I thought he might be right.
“I really don’t have much time,” I told him once again. “You made that tiramisu, didn’t you?”
He looked puzzled. “The tiramisu?” he said.
“Yes, the tiramisu. The poisoned tiramisu that Marguerite ate.”
His jaw dropped and then his eyes blazed with new fury. “My tiramisu! No! Never! Who touched my beautiful tiramisu?”
Too late I remembered that I didn’t know for sure that Marguerite had been poisoned. Ooops.
“Carlo, tell me. What did the police say? How did she die?”
He shook his head, still steaming. “I don’t know. They keep saying she had a bad bump on the head. Isn’t that the thing that killed her?”
“How did that bump happen?”
He avoided my eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know everything. That’s what you’re supposed to find out.”
“Were you there when she got that bump?” I asked softly.
“No! I mean, well…” He spoke quickly and vehemently in Italian and I had a pretty good idea those words were something obscene. He leaned closer, his face tortured. “I wasn’t going to tell you about that,” he whispered, looking distressed.
I took his hand in mine and held it. “Tell me.”
He sagged as though just too exhausted to fight this any longer.
“Okay, but you won’t tell the cops?”
I couldn’t promise that, but he didn’t wait for a pledge.
“It was just a little fight we had. I brought her the tiramisu and she couldn’t resist. I knew it would work. She smiled at me.”
Murder and the Secret Spring Page 6
