They took a quick shower together—as if neither of them wanted to leave the other alone—then threw on some casual clothes and headed back to the front office. They found Tia up to her exotic eyeballs in customers, helping her two harried clerks at the front desk.
The lobby was crammed with visitors from all over the world, the air filled with the smell of foreign soaps and traveling odors. Groups of young people in jeans and backpacks milled about, carrying variously shaped containers for their various instruments. Families waited in line trying to control children ranging from toddlers to teens. Middle-aged men and women in suede and tweed jackets and V-neck vests stood in a corner near the desk shaking hands and patting each other’s arms as if they hadn’t seen one another in ages. Their collective voices carried enthusiastic snatches of Portuguese, Spanish, German, French and English up the rafters overhead.
Meanwhile from a chair in the far corner near the hall, the lawyer friend, Valdinho, kept a close watch on the crowd and on Tia through his thick glasses, while pretending to do lawyer work.
He was turning out to be a pretty good bodyguard, Miranda decided. In a brown checked coat and corduroy slacks, he even blended in with the crowd.
Parker managed to get a word with their client and discovered Pipia was at the opera hall in the village, practicing for her upcoming performance.
Then he made a call to get them a new ride while Miranda kept a second eye on the scene. Once more she scanned the guests, watched some of them check in and go out the door with a valet. No one looked like a killer or a BMW saboteur, but you never knew. She didn’t like leaving Tia alone, even with the crowd and the watchful boyfriend. But they couldn’t very well sit here guarding her, twiddling their thumbs. They had to go find whoever was making all this mayhem and stop him before he got any closer.
After a few minutes, Miranda felt Parker touch her arm.
He looked distressed. “No rentals available.”
“None? We don’t have to have anything fancy.” Though she knew Parker preferred it.
He shook his head. “Not a vehicle to spare because of this.” He nodded at the crowd. “There’s a two hour wait for a cab.”
“Bummer.”
“The town isn’t far. Are you up for walking?”
This case came with its own fitness program. Good thing she liked keeping in shape. She lifted her palms. “At least we won’t have to worry about finding a place to park.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The opera house was on the north side of town, thank goodness, and the hike was downhill. Miranda was only half worn out when they reached the place.
She needed to work on her cardio when they got back to Atlanta, she decided. Between the rich food Parker liked to feed her and too much sitting around the office between cases, she was getting soft.
Their destination was a large rectangular shaped brick building decorated with art nouveau signs detailing the upcoming recitals and concerts, including Pipia’s the night after tomorrow. It was built into the slope of a high hill with three stories on one half and only one on the rise.
She followed Parker down a winding walkway that went around the back and noticed a railing blocking off a steep drop to rocks and trees and gnarled branches below. Maybe fifty feet beneath them a picturesque waterfall danced over the stones. The sight would have been lovely if she hadn’t almost barreled down a mountain in a BMW with no brakes a few hours ago.
A cold chill sliced through her. She pulled her sweater tight. The weather had grown cooler but that wasn’t the cause of the sensation.
She felt Parker reach for her hand. She turned and saw he was wearing a stern look. He didn’t need to say anything for her to see he was determined the incident with the BMW wouldn’t stop them. They had a job to do. They had to find out if Joca was the one behind all these strange doings.
Right. She was with him on that score.
Parker found a back way in. They stepped inside unnoticed and soon were moving across a parquet floor and down a hallway lined with posters of famous musicians and concerts and composers—none of which Miranda recognized. Bits of music came from the rooms on either side. Thunderous chords of a piano, blasts of a trumpet, high-pitched tweets from a clarinet, all joining into one cacophonous clamor that could make a dog howl.
She didn’t know how each player could concentrate on his or her piece with all the competing racket.
“How are we going to find Pipia?” she whispered to Parker.
“Listen for a violin.”
She wasn’t sure she could pick it out but when they turned a corner, the blend of noises grew softer and the sweet strains of pure notes met her ears. Miranda hustled toward the sound and found a door half open. She peeked inside and saw the young woman she’d met last night bowing away on her violin. Her thin fingers flew in a frenzied dance over the neck and she wore an intense crease of concentration between her brows.
She was good.
Parker waited for her to finish the piece then applauded.
Pipia looked up, startled. She seemed to take a minute before recognizing her mother’s dinner guests. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was listening.”
“Your mother was right, Pipia,” he said. “You play beautifully.”
“Thank you.” There was a faint blush on her pretty cheeks as she lowered her violin. She seemed genuinely modest about her talent. “Can I help you with something?”
“We’d like to speak with you.”
She raised a brow, looking a bit defensive. “About the letters my mother has been getting?”
“About several things.”
“Very well. Come in.”
She put her instrument down in its case and pulled up chairs for both of them. Perching on a stool near the window, she turned to them. “What would you like to know?”
Miranda studied the young woman. She had on baby blue jeans and a light pink T-shirt. Her shoes were last year’s fashion and her dark blond curls were pulled back with a plain band. She seemed the picture of lack of pretention. All she seemed to care about was her music.
“Have you spoken to Didi this morning?” Miranda asked.
“No. Why? Has something happened? Is my mother all right?”
“She’s fine,” Parker assured her with a smile.
Pipia hadn’t heard about the car wreck and Parker wasn’t going to enlighten her.
“We’re wondering if you can tell us more about your family. Background information.” He gave a casual gesture. “It’s been such a long time since I saw you as a child.”
Starting slowly, work up to the big stuff. Miranda hoped it worked.
Pipia seemed confused. “My family?”
“What was it like growing up with your sister?” Miranda prompted.
“My sister?” Pipia gave a little laugh. “She’s always been the headstrong one.”
“I gathered that,” Parker said still smiling.
Pipia rubbed her arms and looked out the window. “She’s been so angry since our father left.”
“She blames your mother,” Parker said softly.
Pipia nodded. “But it was not her fault. Didi just…we both miss him.” Her large exotic eyes grew moist. “We had so much fun growing up. He would take us to the city and buy us pretty dresses. We would go to fancy restaurants, just the three of us. And once a year, he would take us on a train ride to Minas Gerais for a family reunion. Of course, mother would come then, too.”
Miranda leaned forward. “Yes, your mother mentioned your father visited his brothers and sisters recently.”
Pipia’s lips tightened. “He comes from a large family of nine. Five boys, three girls, besides himself.”
“A lot aunts and uncles.”
“And so many cousins it was hard to remember all their names.”
Miranda was quiet, watching Parker wait while Pipia brushed a tear from her cheek.
“Every summer we would go to the sugarcane plantation in Minas Gerais and see our uncles and
aunts and cousins. We would swim in the river and run through the fields, laughing and trying to catch each other. Everyone was so happy.”
Very carefully, Parker ventured the next question. “Were any of your father’s siblings jealous of his success?”
“Jealous?”
“He did so much better than they. Didn’t he?”
“He made himself wealthy, of course. But he was always generous with his family. He hired my uncle Dani to oversee the plantation. I remember Uncle Dani always made us laugh and took us on pony rides. And our Aunt Ceci would bake such wonderful cakes.”
“So everyone was content?”
She frowned as if straining to recall something. “I remember Tio Sebasti. Our uncle Sebastian. He always seemed so sad. He would sit in the corner of the kitchen, always so sullen and quiet. They said he had been in the hospital. I never knew what was wrong with him.”
Not much information there, Miranda thought. She wished she could just ask about Joca but it would be too easy for Pipia to clam up if they pushed too fast.
Her thin shoulders rose in a heavy sigh. “I remember when Didi and I grew older, the family outings were less frequent. We would come home on the train and our parents would not speak to each other.” She shook her head. “For a long time I was afraid it would end between them. And then one day it did. I was not surprised when my father left.”
Parker reached out to touch her hand. “I’m so sorry, Pipia.”
Bravely the young woman lifted her chin. “My mother has found someone else now. He makes her happy. I so want her to be happy. Didi will come to understand one day. At least that is what I hope for.”
Pipia might be the younger one but she had more maturity. Miranda gave Parker a sidelong glance. He returned an inconspicuous nod.
She cleared her throat. “You know this young man your sister’s dating?”
Pipia’s expression turned sullen. “Joca. I do not like him.”
She feigned surprise. “Why not? Isn’t he sort of famous around here?”
“He would like to think so. He plays futebol and thinks that makes him special. But I fear he is too much like my father.”
“You mean…”
“He looks at other women. I know he sees Gretchen Schiffer a good bit. She owns a pub in town.”
Miranda played with a button on her shirt tail. “Gretchen Schiffer. I understand they’re cousins.”
Pipia’s elegant brows rose. “Cousins? Who told you that?”
“They’re not related?”
“I think her mother is a friend of Joca’s mother. I would not call that a cousin.”
Miranda wouldn’t either. So he lied to Didi, but this wasn’t getting them anywhere.
Parker must have been thinking the same thing. He got to his feet. “Pipia, I hate to ask this but do you know whether Joca has ever been in any trouble?”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Did he instigate any pranks when he was in school? Do damage to property? Anything like that?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you know if he has a record?” Miranda said bluntly.
Pipia blinked at her. “Why? What has this got to do with the letters my mother has been getting?”
“We aren’t certain.” Parker inhaled and then let out the big one. “Our rental car was sabotaged as we were leaving Campos do Flores this morning. The brakes failed on the road going down the mountain. We could have been killed.”
Pipia stared at him eyes wide, mouth open. For a long moment she seemed unable to speak. “That is dreadful, Wade. Absolutely dreadful. But I cannot think the boy who is dating my sister could do such a thing.”
Miranda was through with the niceties. “We caught Joca flirting with Gretchen yesterday. We showed this to your mother. She told Didi about it, and Didi told Joca last night.” She showed Pipia the photo on her cell.
The young woman stared at the picture for a long while. Then she pressed her hand to her head as if a migraine were coming on. “I knew Joca has been using Didi for his own pleasure. He does not really care for her. I have told her that a million times, but she will not listen to me.”
“Pipia,” Parker said gently. “We’re so very sorry for Didi. But in light of this information do you think Joca is capable of sabotage?”
She studied him for a long moment, her exotic eyes growing even darker with pain. She slid off the stool and picked up her violin again. Playing it must be an escape for her from all her recent troubles.
She opened her mouth, closed it again, shook her head. “I am sorry. I cannot say. I did not know Joca very well. He was five years ahead of me in school. I do know he is very stuck on himself. But, no. I cannot believe he is a criminal. I do not think he sabotaged your car.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Outside Miranda avoided the railing and the sight of the steep drop and hurried around to the front of the opera house. She came to a halt under a banner for the festival flapping in the wind overhead and rubbed her arms.
“Well, that was pointless.”
Parker came up beside her and put his hands in his pockets. “She’s had too much to deal with in a short time.”
“Yeah, poor kid. She can see through Joca on the dating angle but she’s in denial about the rest of it.”
“It’s natural she would want to protect her sister.”
“Yeah.” If you already thought your sister was dating a creep it would be hard to swallow that he’d tried to kill somebody.
Miranda’s brain felt fuzzy. She scratched at her hair in frustration and reconsidered trying to get Joca’s records from Gaspar. “Maybe we can dig up some friends of Joca’s. If we can figure out who they are.”
A sly grin spreading across his face, Parker peered down the road to where it sloped toward the gingerbread buildings of the town below. “We already know who one of his friends is.”
Miranda’s lips turned up. “Gretchen.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” No wonder she couldn’t think straight. It was mid afternoon. She was getting over the appetite-stealing shock of this morning, and they hadn’t had anything since the six a.m. Fuba cakes.
“Let’s visit the pub and get something then.”
“Terrific idea.”
As Parker took her hand to escort her down the road to town, Miranda felt a surge of hope.
###
You could take in a lot more detail on foot, Miranda decided, wending her way through the folks on the street. The fare for sale in the little shops. The rumble of passing cars. The odors of students and old men sitting at the wooden tables lining the sidewalk. A winter-like breeze whipped through the streets, but everyone was bundled in jackets and sweaters, determined not to let the weather deter them from their chess game, or their coffee, or a conversation with friends.
But unless she and Parker went table by table, needle-in-a-haystack fashion, none of these folks could help them with this case.
Soon they reached the street with the oval sign reading “Gretchen’s” in the Bavarian-looking script and went inside. The place looked the same as it had when Miranda had caught the proprietress and the soccer player on her phone.
Colorful flower boxes along the walls under faux windows, Tiffany lamps, sparse clientele, and the costumed wait staff. A polka played softly over the intercom.
They found a seat and Parker suggested they try the sausages.
Miranda’s mouth began to water when the server set two steins of dark beer and a big, savory platter of brats ladled over sauerkraut and roasted potatoes in front of them. Parker scooped some onto her plate and she dug in as if she hadn’t eaten in days. She’d count calories later, she decided, savoring the juicy flavors. Besides there was still the walk home.
They ate in silence, taking in the other customers and the rather dead atmosphere. She wondered how Gretchen stayed in business. Maybe things picked up at happy hour, whenever that was around here.
<
br /> As she swallowed the last bite of sausage, chased it with a mouthful of beer, and sank back in her chair, Miranda felt sanity return. She was ready to face Joca’s lady-friend-on-the-side. But as yet, the infamous Gretchen hadn’t made an appearance.
The server came over to collect their plates. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked.
Miranda looked up at him. It was the same young man in lederhosen who’d waited on them yesterday. He had a fair complexion that went with the outfit and he seemed to be about Didi’s age. Tall and lanky, he stood erect with friendly blue eyes, his dark brown hair curling under his green felt cap with the yellow feather.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Yeah. Some information.”
He looked surprised. “What kind of information?”
She glanced at Parker. He gave her a go-get-’em nod.
“What’s it like working for Gretchen Schiffer?”
The young man’s cheeks reddened. “For Gretchen? It is…okay.” He had the typical Brazilian accent, despite his Bavarian attire. “Why do you ask?”
“We were in here yesterday. Same time that soccer player was here?” She gestured toward the bar.
“Oh, yes. I remember you. Did you enjoy your drinks?”
As if they were a perfectly synchronized dance team, Parker picked up the conversation. “We’re private investigators working for a local client. We’re doing a background check on Joca.”
“Nossa, sério?” He took off his silly cap and slid into an opposite chair. “I will help in any way I can. What do you want to know?”
Nice to finally have some cooperation but Miranda wondered why he was so eager.
“We’re looking for people who can attest to Joca’s character,” Parker said.
“His character? What do you mean?”
“We understand he has something of a reputation around town.” Miranda let the boy draw his own conclusions as to what she meant.
But right away he grimaced. “Joca fancies himself a…conquistador. What is the English word? A lady-killer. I do not approve.”
Conquistador, eh? But Miranda forced her face to remain expressionless. “Oh? Why’s that?”
The Watcher (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 4) Page 10
