Make that an 1863 Vintage Port autographed by a duke. She quickly snapped two pictures of the label on her Lumix, stuffed the camera back into her purse, grabbed the bottle by the neck, and dashed out.
When she reached the shop, walking as quickly as her stiletto heels would let her, she stopped to catch her breath. Church bells pealed again—twelve-thirty. Some shops closed for an hour-and-a-half lunch period, but the sign on the wine shop door still said “Aberto.” She went in.
Senhor Costa wasn’t at the counter, and the tinkling bell didn’t bring him. The shop was empty. Grasping the bottle, Carla looked around, then froze when she saw the shattered display case. Shards of glass were scattered across the floor, along with small gleaming splinters that shimmered in the light from the street window. The 1812 Manoel Beleza de Andrade Port was gone. Stolen. That much was clear. She was acutely aware of the duke’s bottle she was clutching. A bottle that might be as expensive, if not more. Her mouth felt suddenly dry. What if the thief were still here?
Get a grip! Would he hang around once he had what he came for?
Beyond the end of the counter, a door she hadn’t noticed earlier was wide open.
“Senhor Costa?” she called softly. There was no answer.
She walked over and entered, cautiously scanning the room. Obviously, his office. Magazines were neatly stacked at one corner of a boxy desk to the right. In the center of the desk was a black laptop computer. At one side, a folder stuffed with papers lay next to a stack of envelopes. A scrap of gold shiny paper on the floor caught her eye, a candy wrapper that had missed the wastebasket next to the swivel chair. Senhor Costa must have a sweet tooth. Absently, Carla picked the wrapper up, crinkled it into a small ball, and tossed it in the wastebasket. Across from the desk was a side door, and a window next to it looked out on an outdoor corridor between Senhor Costa’s shop and the corner souvenir shop. That explained the wooden gate she’d noticed earlier. She peeped out the window, but there was no sign of Costa. On the other side of the patio-like space, a door that must be to the souvenir shop was closed.
Pursing her lips, she looked back at the desk. Behind it, another door, ajar, opened on stairs that must go down to a wine cellar. For a moment, Carla considered going to the top of the stairs and calling, then hesitated. Senhor Costa could be downstairs, checking on his inventory. Say he had been in the bathroom, wherever that was, when the burglary had happened, and now he wanted to see what else had been taken.
But what if the thief was downstairs, looking for other rare ports? She looked at the bottle in her hand.
Like, say, an 1863 Vintage Port from Quinto do Vezuvio. Autographed by a duke.
She’d be smart to leave the duke’s bottle on the counter with a note to Senhor Costa.
She came through the door to the shop, wondering what to write. The emptiness of the room made her skin prickle as she walked to the counter. Did Costa go for help while the thief was smashing up his display counter? Something didn’t feel right. Setting the bottle on the counter, she fished in her purse for the little notebook she always carried. She leaned forward to write her note. And then she saw it—the proprietor’s crumpled figure behind the counter. He was sprawled on his back, his hands splayed against the floor, as though he had staggered backwards, then tried to break his fall. His eyes stared glassily at the ceiling. An angry, bruised lump swelled above his forehead over his left eyebrow. Something shiny and white protruded from the corner of his mouth. With a start, Carla realized it was his dentures and fought a giddy urge to laugh, as if that might hold off the deeper realization seeping into her mind with numbing chill.
Senhor Costa was quite dead.
Chapter Two - Polícia!
Carla held the bottle against her chest to calm her trembling. She needed to call the police. She could kick herself for not following the advice in Living in Portugal to enter emergency numbers in her mobile phone. Still, what were her chances of being understood over the phone? She should find someone to make the call for her.
Outside, she looked around. Across the street, a dark-haired man whose scruffy jeans hung low on his narrow hips leaned carelessly against the wall beside the café. One hand held a pale sweatshirt draped over his shoulder. A cigarette dangled from his lip. He watched her with interest. Curiosity, Carla supposed uneasily, but something about him was off-putting. Maybe she should go to the corner souvenir shop next door instead and ask for help. At least she knew the words for that: “Ajudem-me!”
The man straightened, tossed his cigarette to the pavement, and crossed the street, the sweatshirt in his hand. “Why you are upset, senhora?” he asked.
Relief that he spoke English mingled with suspicion. There was a jackal-like quality to his posture, as if waiting. A faint scar on his upper lip and another in the middle of his left eyebrow must have come from fights. He ran a hand over his dark, slicked-back hair.
“Maybe I help you.” He eyed the bottle in her hand.
Despite her misgivings, Carla said, “Call the police. It’s urgent.”
“Why you want police?” he asked in a soothing tone that was almost hypnotic.
“A man is dead!”
“Dead?” He stepped closer. Instinctively she stepped back. “Where?” he asked.
“Inside. There’s been a burglary, too. The thief might still be in there.” Carla shuddered, remembering the wine-seller’s sightless stare and the way his dentures jutted at such an odd angle.
“Maybe you are thief, eh?” The man nodded at the bottle she was holding.
Carla squared her shoulders. “I was trying to return this! He gave me it to me by mis—”
Before she could finish, he’d snatched the bottle out of her hands and took off running down the street, the soles of his trainers flashing. He nearly bumped into an old man who turned and shouted something, shaking his walking stick.
“Stop! Thief!” Carla screamed the only emergency word she could remember, “Ladrão,” hoping she pronounced it right.
The thief dashed across the street and kept running past linden trees, past the pharmacy in the next street with its overhead green-cross logo, and disappeared around a far corner. She had an urge to run after him, but the thought of her stiletto heels and Senhor Costa lying on the floor brought her to her senses. She flagged the old man with the walking stick as he approached. He paused, politely, and adjusted the flat cap on his head, as she fumbled in her purse for her dictionary.
“Por favor . . . I mean . . . faz favor . . .” Seeing the map of wrinkles on his face, she wondered if such an old man would even have a cell phone. But he might at least know the number and be able to call on hers.
A young woman appeared at her elbow. A student, maybe. She wore jeans and had a book bag slung over her shoulder.
“Senhora, I saw that man steal your bottle. I speak English. I will call the police for you.” She took a cell phone from her bag and tapped in the number. In a moment, she said, “Olá,” and began speaking rapidly in Portuguese.
“Tell them a man inside the shop has been killed,” Carla said. “The owner.”
The young woman’s face went ashen. “A man is killed?” At Carla’s nod, she burst into a flood of Portuguese and Carla caught the words, “morto,” then the address, and then, “Obrigada.” When she hung up, she bowed her head, pressing the back of her hand against her forehead. In seconds, tears were streaming down her face.
“Did you know him?” Carla asked softly.
“He is my uncle.”
“I’m so sorry.” Carla looked away. “He was a nice man,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say. His image flashed before her, hands behind his back, head cocked, while awaiting her verdict on the ruby Port.
The woman took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes and nose. “He was good to me,” she said after a pause.
Pondering that, Carla called Owen, having to dial a second time because her fingers seemed to have become thumbs.
“Where are you?” he ask
ed.
Suddenly the phone was shaking in Carla’s hand. “I’m at the wine shop,” she said, hearing the quaver in her voice. “I have to wait here for the police.”
“The police!”
“A man’s been killed. Can you come right away?” For the second time that day, she said, “I’ll explain later.” She gave him the address, adding, “It’s the little cobbled street just off Rua dos Chãos. Just a street up from the bank and the hotel; it runs behind them, actually.” The proximity gave her a sudden sense of calm. “There’s a souvenir shop on the corner,” she said. “The odd-shaped pie-wedge corner. The wine shop is right next door.” She hung up to wait with Senhor Costa’s niece, then introduced herself.
“Maria Santos,” the niece said. Swiping her tears away, she added, “I must go see him,” and started for the door.
“Whoever did it could still be in there,” Carla warned, even though it was more likely she had just seen him run off with the duke’s bottle. She told Maria about the other bottle stolen from the smashed case. “Did you see anyone go in and come out again?” she asked hopefully.
Maria averted her eyes. “I had just went for café across the street. I do that when I come for shopping. Then I come to say hello to my uncle. But I was reading a book. Then I saw you go in just now. Before that, I saw the man who stole your bottle go in and come out again. I thought he went away. He must have crossed the street only.”
“He probably killed your uncle.” Carla whispered. And then stuck around to wait for the discovery. Like criminals do. Or did in some of the mysteries she read. She fought the wave of nausea that was trying to well up from her stomach as she remembered his menacing face. I came that close to a killer!
A blue-and-white striped PSP car—Polícia de Segurança Pública— pulled up and parked. Two men in navy blue uniforms got out and approached Carla and Maria. Now that the police had arrived, the old man lingered at one side of the shop door, leaning on his walking stick, his face eager for gossip.
“Chefe de Polícia Esteves,” the taller of the two introduced himself. A dark mustache draped across his upper lip like a furry caterpillar. Nodding toward his shorter, boxier companion, he added, “Agente Cunha.” Agent Cunha hung his thumbs in his pockets and looked around, scanning the street in both directions. Across the street, in the café doorway, an older, rather dumpy woman stood watching.
“Who has found the body?” asked Chief Esteves. He repeated it in Portuguese.
“I did,” Carla said. She explained how she had come back to return Senhor Costa’s Port and found him dead. With a shudder, she said, “He’s on the floor, behind the counter.”
Maria stifled a sob.
“Show me,” commanded Esteves, his hand on his Beretta as he accompanied the two women inside. Agent Cunha stayed outside to hold back onlookers who were starting to gather.
Chief Esteves looked at the glass on the floor from the broken case, rounded the end of the counter, and shook his head. He cautioned the women to stay where they were and went into the office. A moment later his steps sounded on the stairs to the cellar.
When he returned, he took a handkerchief from his pocket. Crouching beside Senhor Costa’s inert form, he moved the dead man’s head slightly to the right, revealing a wound with very little blood. “He hit his head behind. And then something has hit him hard on forehead.” Looking up at Carla, he asked, “What time do you find him?”
“A few minutes ago, when I brought the bottle of Port back.”
He rose, frowning. “And when were you here the first time?”
“It was a few minutes to twelve when I left.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes. The church bells started ringing on my way home. Twelve times. I wanted to take the Port home before meeting my husband for lunch and thought I had just enough time.”
“But it was the wrong bottle, you say.”
“Yes.”
“And a stranger stole it from you.”
“Yes,” Carla repeated nervously. No doubt he had to ask these questions, but did he have to sound so . . . suspicious?
“I saw the man steal her bottle,” Maria assured him, then said something in Portuguese. At his next question, she inclined her head toward her dead uncle and said sadly, “Ele é meu tio.”
Esteves’s face softened, and he murmured what must be the equivalent of “I’m sorry.”
To Carla, he said, “Do you know what was in that shelf?” He nodded at the broken case next to the shelves of wine. Carla felt herself flush when his gaze rested on her unfinished glass of tawny Port at one side.
“Another very old bottle of Port.”
“You can describe it?”
Brightening, Carla said, “I took a photograph of it.” She took her camera from her handbag, removed it from the case and turned it on. His eyes narrowed as he clicked through the pictures.
“You take a lot of pictures. Of this shop. Of the street. Of the bottle in the case. Of the other bottle. Why?”
“I’m an interior designer. I decorate homes,” Carla explained, although her work was far more complex than that. “Photos can suggest atmosphere,” she said, and then thought that sounded lame.
“Hmm. Assinado por um duque,” he murmured.
“Signed by a duke? My uncle had a bottle of Port signed by a duke?” Maria peered over his arm. “Strange,” she murmured. She knit her brows, turning a pensive gaze on Carla.
“Carla?” Carla was relieved to see Owen’s tall, lanky frame looming in the doorway. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Espera!” Agent Cunha said, appearing at his shoulder. “You must wait outside.”
But Owen strode into the shop and put his arm around Carla.
“He’s my husband,” she said, wishing she could lean against Owen forever and not let go.
Esteves nodded. “Okay. So. Senhora, you will come with me to the station. Your husband can come with you.”
“What’s going on?” Owen repeated. He peered over the counter. “Oh.” In his take-charge hotel coordinator voice, he asked, “Why does my wife have to go to the station? This is a traumatic experience for her. I’d like to take her home.”
“She found the body. We must take a statement.”
“You can’t take a statement here?”
“We must also download her pictures,” Esteves said, still waggling the camera in his hand, so that Carla felt like snatching it back.
Reluctantly she gave him the camera bag as well. “Here, please put it in this. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“We know how to download pictures,” Esteves said. “You will ride with me.” He turned to Maria and said something in Portuguese.
Maria took a notepad from her shoulder bag and began writing furiously. To Carla, she said, “They want that I go to the station to tell them more about my uncle. Please call me. I will give you language lessons.” She said the last sentence loudly, with emphasis on "language."
“That’s so kind of you,” Carla said, “but you mustn’t trouble yourself at a time like this. I’m so sorry about your . . .” she began, then stopped as she read the note.
Below the phone number, Maria had scribbled, “Please call me, I must talk with you about my uncle.”
“I do need lessons,” Carla said, looking up, seeing the intensity in Maria’s eyes. She put the paper in her pocket. “I was thinking of going to a language institute, but one-on-one would be so much better,” She was aware she was babbling. Not that it mattered. Chief Esteves was at the door, speaking to Cunha and into his cell phone by turns. Finished, he took Maria gently by the elbow and nodded to Owen to accompany Carla.
“Do not worry, senhora,” Esteves said, when she hesitated. “Only a statement. Nothing more.”
In the police car, Carla and Maria sat in the back seat. Owen rode shotgun next to the police chief. Agent Cunha had remained at the shop door—closed now—waiting for the ambulance and more police to arrive. Chief Esteves was silen
t. But then, Carla had hardly expected him to be chatty.
Owen craned his neck around, his gray eyes clouded with concern. “I moved my meeting up to four,” he told her. “I can cancel it if you want. We can talk at lunch.”
“I could use a glass of wine,” Carla said. The pleasant buzz from the Port Senhor Costa gave her had long since vanished, along with any desire for food.
She glanced over at Maria who stared stonily ahead.
“About your uncle,” Carla began. But Maria gave a quick shake of the head. Despite the shock of finding Costa’s corpse, Carla’s interest was piqued.
A yellow ambulance with a shrieking horn zigzagged around cars and whizzed past. The huge blue letters—INEM (for Institute de Emergȇncia Médica, according to Living in Portugal)—took up nearly half a panel. Not that it matters. Carla massaged the space between her eyebrows tiredly.
A second police car followed, its two-note siren blaring high and low, as if from an old, World War II movie. No doubt both vehicles were on their way to the shop. Carla felt her eyes get teary. She was being taken to a police station to give a statement because a nice old man who had toasted her health less than two hours ago now lay dead behind his counter.
She glanced again at her seat mate. Why did Maria want to talk about her uncle to Carla of all people? And why didn’t she want the police to know?
Chapter Three - Only a Statement, Nothing More
Chief Esteves drove them down a sloping street to the station’s parking area below, a plaza bordered by small buildings. An officer inside a kiosk in the center waved at him. They walked past parked police cars, slender orange trees in planters, and a row of weeping willows, which struck Carla as fitting for a police station. Probably a number of people cry their eyes out here.
The police chief led them inside a small building jutting out at the far left, and introduced Carla and Owen to Detetive Veríssimo Fernandes, a slim, dapper man with thinning hair and a pencil mustache that looked like it had been sketched on his long, melancholy face. After giving him Carla’s camera, Esteves motioned Maria to follow him down a hall to another office.
Deadly Vintage Page 2
