The Lamorna Wink

by Martha Grimes

  Small talk about Italy, about Venice, occupied them for the few moments it took Dick Scroggs to make his way over to the table for orders.

  “Just a sherry,” said Vivian.

  And the count? “Pellegrino.”

  Scroggs asked, “You mean the fizzy stuff? That mineral water, like?”

  Giopinno nodded.

  Scroggs started to move away when Diane said, “And what?”

  “Pardon?” The count’s smile was a trifle supercilious.

  “Pellegrino and what?”

  “Nothing. I always drink water minerale. Good for you.”

  Looking at Diane Demorney’s expression, one might challenge that last statement. Melrose hoped she had not gone into a coma, and that hers was merely like that look of wild surmise that Keats attributed to Cortez, or perhaps that seaward look on the face of Hardy’s heroine, “prospect impressed.”

  For that of course was what “water” meant to Diane-the sea, a river, something to swim in, to boat on, to idle by. One might wash in it, dip one’s pedicured toes in it, give one’s flowers another measure of it. It even had its uses in tea or coffee, which then ceased to be “water.”

  The only thing one didn’t do was drink it. The count contravened that rule, airily pouring the bubbly stuff into the tall glass Dick Scroggs had brought him, and drank it down.

  They all looked at the money on the table.

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  Today was Melrose’s second encounter with Vivian’s intended.

  “Where’s our Viv?” asked Trueblood of Franco Giopinno as they sat round the table in the window of the Jack and Hammer.

  Giopinno’s smile was knowing and proprietary. “Gone to London.” He exhaled a stream of smoke, thin as his smile. “To see about her dress.”

  “Ah,” said Diane. “Then she isn’t going to wear her mother’s?”

  Not only did Giopinno raise a questioning eyebrow, Trueblood and Plant did as well.

  Diane also blew out a dragonlike puff of smoke. “Mad Maud’s.”

  The eyebrows went higher all around the table.

  “Well, surely she told you about her mum.”

  “No. No, she didn’t,” said Giopinno.

  When both Trueblood and Plant seconded this “no,” Diane gave them a blistering look as if she’d seen quicker uptakes. “Don’t tell me you two don’t know about Vivian’s mother.” This was said in such a slow, lesson-for-idiots way that both of them wiped the confusion from their countenances and said, Oh, yes, of course. Sad little story, that.

  “And what might that sad little story be?” asked Giopinno.

  “Oh, it’s just the family, you know, with this strain of madness which only turns up in the women, for some reason,” said Diane, who then quickly, falsely, took Vivian off the hook of this crazy streak in the Rivington ladies. “I don’t mean that Vivian-”

  Pompously, Trueblood put in, “Of course not, no, not Viv-Viv. I certainly wouldn’t say that little episode last year had anything to do with the mother and so forth.”

  “Episode?”

  “Oh, never mind,” said Diane. “It was nothing.”

  “Nothing at all. Hardly worth the mention. I wonder you even bring it up, Diane. I mean, after all, it’s Vivian’s business-”

  “Let’s just drop it,” said Melrose. “It’s nothing, anyway.”

  Franco Giopinno looked from one to the other, chillingly. “There is probably some level of madness in every family. Certainly, there is in mine.” He excused himself and walked over to the bar, where Scroggs was apparently giving him directions to the gents’.

  “Oh, bloody great,” said Trueblood. “Certainlythere-is-in-mine! How condescending, how fatuous.”

  “They both can sit around going crazy together. What a lark.” Melrose watched Giopinno’s elegantly suited figure disappear into the dark environs of Scroggs’s back rooms.

  Diane looked at Melrose “Vivian, darling, is not crazy. God, you two.”

  “A brilliant idea, though, Diane.”

  Trueblood had plucked a stub of pencil and an old envelope from one of his pockets. “We must make a list.” Trueblood loved lists. “A list of anything that might provoke some anxiety in old Drac. Now”-he scrunched down over the bit of paper-“money is notorious in provoking it. I’ll just put that down.” He wrote. Then, “Okay, what else?”

  “Property,” said Melrose.

  Trueblood paused for a beat. “But wouldn’t that be covered by money? It’s part of the estate, after all.”

  “Yes, but it’s not liquid. There’s her house, probably bring in a million quid on today’s market, but there’s no cash flow there.”

  Trueblood grunted, nodded. “Okay, I have ‘Property’ down under ‘Money’ as a kind of subheading.”

  Diane screwed another cigarette into her ivory holder and said, “Cohorts. Friends and cohorts.”

  Trueblood frowned. “But that’s us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Marshall. I’m talking about anyone around who might be considered unsavory. Tonight, the two of you could begin by taking him to dinner. Somewhere rather awful; that should be easy around here.”

  “You mean the three of us. You too.”

  “Melrose, I have no intention of eating at someplace awful. No, you two must do it. Three of us would be too threatening. Anyway-” She sat tapping her fingernail on her glass. Ordinarily, she only did this when she wanted her glass refilled, so she must have been thinking hard. “We’ll divide it up: You two take, ‘friends and cohorts’ and I’ll take ‘money and property.’ ” She sat up straighter. “Hush. Here he comes.” She whispered. “Remember, dinner tonight, someplace awful.”

  “Awful” was probably the first word that came to mind in describing the Blue Parrot, Trevor Sly’s one or two acres of Mojave or Sahara. The gaudy sign on the main Northampton Road pictured a smoky room, a belly dancer, dark-featured and festooned gentlemen in turbans and golden chains in a scene meant to depict a place such as Tangier. The sign pointed the thirsty traveler down a rutted, narrow road, at the end of which was what one might have taken for a mirage: a bright blue building sitting in a waste of stubble and sandy gravel.

  Leaving behind him the scorching Arabian sun (or so it must have made the count feel) and entering the cooler environs of the pub, Franco Giopinno stood for a while staring at the camel.

  Trueblood gave him a little dig in the ribs. “Clever, that. Sly has so much imagination.”

  “Sly? You confuse me, dear man.”

  “Trevor Sly’s the owner.”

  “And is the owner a foreigner, then?”

  “Only if you consider Todcaster foreign.”

  Said Melrose, “Many do, I’m sure.” He was scanning the menu on the chalkboard set into the papiermâché camel’s middle. It was the same as always. Half a dozen unpronounceable Middle Eastern or Lithuanian dishes. He was familiar with only one, one being enough.

  Trueblood said, “The Blue Parrot is way off the beaten track-”

  The count choked up a derisive laugh. “I can well imagine.”

  “-but it’s Vivian’s favorite place to dine.”

  “That I can’t imagine.”

  Melrose, who had left the camel to make its own way, was standing now at the bar. “Hey! You two!” He was at the bar, waving them forward. “We want to order before he closes the kitchen.”

  Joining Melrose, the count looked at his watch in astonishment, pointing out that it was but six-thirty.

  “Sly is eccentric; he shuts down the food by seven.”

  Again, astonishment from the count. “But that is very early to dine. Does this Sly have to feed the camels?”

  Melrose and Trueblood whooped with laughter. Only “whooping” could describe the breathy, braying noises that came from their throats. It was such staged laughter that Melrose was amazed the man could be taken in.

  Trevor Sly made his angular entrance, his sharp shoulder blades separating the beaded curtain
, which tinkled behind him, his thin gnarled hands washing each other in the insincere supplication Melrose was used to. This tendency toward deference greased all the joints of his tall body. He was a study in seeming submission.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, so honored.” His hands kept washing away. “Mr. Trueblood, Mr. Plant, and-?” Sly raised a quirky eyebrow as he looked at the count, who bowed slightly and tendered his name.

  He pronounced it, thought Melrose, almost as well as Diane, hitting those first two syllables with a hammer so that they came out Gee-yp-peen-o, almost with the unfractured sound of gyp.

  And now, as if the gods looked down for a good laugh, Sly asked, “And how is Miss Rivington? Always enjoy seeing Miss Rivington.”

  For once, Trevor Sly’s trying to convince his listener that everybody in the English-Arab-speaking world loved nothing more than a drink and a meal at the Blue Parrot (“Tony Blair only just missed the turnoff; I’ll have to do something about the placement of my sign”)-for once Melrose welcomed Sly’s name-dropping. They might have dragged Vivian here once, but certainly once had been enough for her. Melrose had never been able to sort out just how Sly managed to keep the place running, for in all the times he’d been here he’d never seen more than one or two other people.

  “You’ve not run out of the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi, now?” said Melrose, turning to the count. “You must have that,” he said, clamping his hand on Giopinno’s shoulder. He and Trueblood had been doing a lot of clamping, punching, and shaking of the count.

  Trevor Sly had drawn their beer-a Cairo Flame for the count-despite the man’s preference for Pellegrino. Trueblood insisted. “Good lord, you don’t expect our old drinking buddy Vivian to quaff mineral water!”

  Sly had helped himself to a tot of cognac after Melrose told him to have a drink on them and was sitting on his high stool, legs wound round its legs like ivy. Now he said, “There’s been a real run on that today, Mr. Plant.” To the count, he said, “You see, it’s my specialty-of-the-house-”

  If no one was ever in the house, how could the kitchen have had a run on anything?

  “-but I’m sure I can eke out one order of Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi, seeing it’s you, Mr. Giopinno.” Sly had it rhyming with Geronimo.

  “Eke-ing out” was about all the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi could do.

  Mr. Giopinno said he would gladly give up the order to Mr. Plant or Mr. Trueblood, Mr. Plant and Mr. Trueblood waved away his most generous offer.

  “No, no,” said Trueblood. “You must have it; that dish is Vivian’s favorite and she makes it now herself, having got the recipe from Trevor here.”

  Trevor looked about to interrupt, and Trueblood hurried on.

  “Miss Rivington is soon to be married, Mr. Sly, and this is the lucky man!” He punched Giopinno’s shoulder.

  Sly was all astonishment. “Well, I never… well, that’s good news, isn’t it, gentlemen? And when’s the happy event to be?”

  “Next month,” said Trueblood. “October… tenth? Is that it?”

  Giopinno seemed a bit reluctant to confirm this. “We were thinking of the fifteenth. There has been some little problem with the invitations.” His smile was a trifle weak.

  Sly said, “You’ll be living in Italy, I expect? How romantic.” Back on his stool after pouring himself-at Plant’s suggestion-another slug of cognac, he said, “And where is the reception to be?”

  Melrose said, “Why not here, Mr. Sly? They could come by camel.”

  Before the count could clarify their intention to live in Italy, Melrose said, “Not in Italy altogether, no. Much of the time they’ll be living right here!” He pounded the bar as if “right here” really did mean “right here.”

  Unfortunately for him, the count had just taken a mouthful of Sly’s Cairo Flame and choked on it. The beer was hellish all by itself; coupled with the announcement that he would always have access to it by living “here”-that was hell indeed.

  “So they’ll be in Italy only part of the year,” Melrose said. This was, actually, what Vivian had told them. The truth was so relaxing, he reflected. One didn’t have constantly to be keeping track; one could always revert to it with confidence and a clear conscience. Melrose raised his glass and Trueblood followed suit. “So drink up! Mr. Sly, bring on the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi.”

  “And another Cairo Flame for Franco, here!” Melrose clapped him again on the shoulder.

  66

  To her credit, Diane Demorney was not, for once, looking out for number one. She had no designs on Franco Giopinno. Had she at first been a little smitten, that went out the window with San Pellegrino. He was certainly handsome, but not really awfully amusing. Indeed he seemed a bit dry, a bit too literal, and (Diane was certain) a bit too poor.

  It was plain as the nose on his well-chiseled face that the man was a fortune hunter, a type of which Diane could hardly disapprove, having been one herself for so long and having been amply rewarded for her troubles by her three wealthy ex-husbands.

  Yes, she knew the signs because she knew herself: cool reserve, an excessive desire to please, masked by a certain hauteur (for one couldn’t be seen as a pushover, could one?), but more than anything else-tenacity. And God only knew, Giopinno was tenacious. No man could put up with the ambivalence of Vivian Rivington (who definitely needed to be taken in hand) unless he knew he would be rewarded handsomely.

  It was the following morning and the two-Diane Demorney and Franco Giopinno-sat in the little café annexed to the library. Marshall Trueblood’s idea of introducing “Latte at the Library” had been a howling success and had saved the librarian’s goose. Otherwise, the place might just have been closed down for lack of custom, whereas now it was quite abuzz with the stuff.

  Two tables away sat Plant and Trueblood; Diane had insisted (out of the count’s hearing, of course), “Leave, or sit by yourselves! Too many of us would look like harassment!” They sat at the corner table, pretending to read a couple of library books.

  Diane had made small arrangements herself. One of these had just walked in: Theo Wrenn Browne, the owner of the local bookstore (who’d been behind trying to get rid of the library). When Diane had first settled in Long Piddleton, she’d found Theo Wrenn Browne rather amusing, with his conniving, acerbic temper and relentless attacks on other Piddletonians. But he had fast become rather a bore, for there was no acerbic wit to match the acerbic temperament.

  Now, Theo stood in the doorway of the café, looking around in that self-important way of his, as if he couldn’t make out where Diane and Giopinno were sitting (although there were only six tables). Theo was waiting for her to see him. It helped his flailing ego to have her raise her hand and motion him over. She did, he went.

  Theo had been told that the count was looking for a solid business investment and was especially interested in books. “A bookshop such as-oh, what is it-Waterstone’s? One of those discount stores.” The count had said this, he had said precisely this, with no further augmentation of the subject by way of his wanting to own a bookstore. They had been talking about reading. Diane avoided it and so (she thought) did he. That was because he talked about it so much. To quiet him, she brought up Henry James. She brought up The Portrait of a Lady. “You remember”-of course he didn’t-“that awful clash of cultures? How the sweet young heiress falls into the clutches of the corrupt Europeans?” Diane truly warmed to this subject. “And that absolutely dreadful husband of hers? They lived in Venice, coincidentally.”

  This was the sum and substance of Diane’s knowledge of the Henry James novel. And of the entire James oeuvre. It was simply one of the bits of knowledge she gleaned from reading just a little so she’d never have to read a lot.

  Oh! But Franco Giopinno had gone more than a little white when she’d brought that up! Indeed, she considered reading more of this author’s work; James just might be amusing if he could call up such a look of trepidation on Giopinno’s face.

  Theo was at the counter getting himself a latte, and Diane called to him
to get Count Giopinno another espresso. Looking disgruntled, Theo gave the order. Espresso (she thought) was probably the only thing the count had enjoyed in the last twelve or sixteen hours.

  Theo set the little cup before the count; Diane performed the introductions, the count gave his little seated bow and a grazzi, and Theo started in immediately talking about his bookshop. Theo was about as soigné as a skunk, Diane thought, which was the reason for choosing him.

  “So, Mr. Giopinno, excuse me, Signore Giopinno, you’re interested in books? I have, you know, the local bookshop called The Wrenn’s Nest-bit of a pun there, you know?-anyway, it’s done extremely well, had a gross of-oh, one hundred fifty thousand pounds this past year, looking to do even better by the end of this year…”

  And on and on, with Giopinno looking-well, bemused, at best. He did, however, have silky manners and would never in the world have presented a bored countenance.

  Diane, tuning Theo out, glanced at Melrose and Marshall, who had given up all pretense of reading and were leaning as far as they could toward her table, trying to hear. She made a lightning-quick run with her finger across her neck. Immediately they went back to their books. Marshall, she noticed, was reading his upside-down. God.

  “… that the area could easily support one of your chain bookshops-not that I’m suggesting we get a Dillon’s, God, no; an independently run big bookstore, that’s the ticket!”

  While Theo droned on, Diane waited for Agatha to appear. Diane had told Agatha that the count was interested in investing in real estate; she had suggested using Vivian’s house as an example.

  “Why? Vivian’s living in it.”

  “Oh, but of course she’ll want to sell it when she moves to Venice.”

  Agatha now stood in the cafe’s doorway, and that woman was with her, that estate agent from Cornwall. All the better. Diane waved and smiled.

  Theo Wrenn Browne excused himself and took his empty cup up for a refill. He detested Agatha except on the occasions she was useful to his cause. His biggest cause was getting rid of Miss Ada Crisp so he could expand his quaint little bookshop.