“Name’s Jeffery B. Gage,” Bethany said. Is that a sparkle in her eye? “I’ll be driving down to meet with him at the house Wednesday and do a walk through while we go over plans. He’s sent pictures of it. French Provincial now, but he’s thinking Victorian. I already have some ideas.”
Meet with him. Not with them. “Sounds like our new client’s single. A widower?”
“Recently divorced.” Bethany gave a brittle laugh. “I remember what that’s like.” Her own brief marriage had broken up two years ago, and for a while Carla had worried about the hard shell of cynicism Bethany was developing. But lately she had seemed to be coming out of her doldrums, even to the point of exploring online dating.
“Does he have English ancestors or something?” Carla asked. “Why Victorian?”
Bethany shrugged. “Clean sweep thing? Wife liked one look, he’s going for another? You know, either get rid of the memories or move.” Bethany had sold the house and moved into an apartment.
“Do you have a color scheme in mind?”
“I’m thinking wine and ivory, some forest green, some gold touches. Maybe wine velvet for the sofa and wing chairs. Fabric wallpaper in some rooms. Patterned carpets. Lots of moldings. That sort of thing.”
Carla nodded. “Holly can check out fabrics and wallpapers.” Holly was one of their junior designers. “How authentic does he want the furniture? Is he into antiques?”
“I think he’s fine with some reproductions and a few real pieces. What he wants is ‘the look.’ Dark wood in the library, glassed-in shelves for special books. Atrium with a potted fern.”
Carla was curious. “How did he hear of us?”
“He saw the spread last month in Traditional Home. The one on the remodel we did in San Mateo? His receptionist saw it, anyway.”
“So, what does our new and wealthy client do?” He had to be wealthy, remodeling a home in Carmel.
“He’s an oral surgeon.”
“Better keep your smile bright.”
Bethany laughed. “Any big discoveries at your end?”
Big discoveries. Carla tried not to think of Senhor Costa. “I talked to Filomena at the auction house in Porto. Given the budget Mrs. Demming gave us, I’m pretty sure my bid will get the Da Silva Porto paintings Thursday,” she said. “I already made prearrangements to have them picked up Saturday and delivered to Porto Monday. And I’ve made arrangements for the stone cherub to go sea freight. It should be shipped sometime next week. Oh, and I saw a nice gilt-framed mirror today that would look great in Mrs. Demming’s hallway. I’m emailing a picture of it to her. If she likes it, I’ll include it with her paintings and arrange to send them and the statue to Belvedere.”
“Sounds good.” Bethany was jotting things on her notepad. “By the way,” she said, “your blog was a good idea. A Mr. and Mrs. Duarte came across your post about tiles while browsing our website. They own a restaurant in Oakland, but want to revamp their home in the Oakland hills. They’re wondering if we could do their entrance in azulejos. It’s a heritage thing. His grandfather came over from the Azores, I think, and had a creamery in San Leandro.”
“That’s it? Just the entrance?”
“So far.”
“Hmm. See if you can talk them into doing the bathrooms in azulejos, too. That could be stunning. I can check with a few places in Porto that make them.”
Bethany nodded. “I’ll make an appointment to meet with them and arrange for someone to be at Mrs. Demming’s home when things get delivered. Let me know dates.” She looked up from her scribbling. “That it?”
“More or less. I’ll have all the bills sent later this week.”
“So . . .” Bethany leaned in closer to the computer as if they were across a table from each other in the same room. “What’s this research you’re doing?”
“I found a dead man today.”
“Excuse me?” The pen Bethany had been tapping came to a halt. “You found . . . did you say a dead man?”
“In a shop where I was buying a bottle of Port.”
“Oh, my God!”
While Carla recounted what happened. Bethany listened as if riveted to the spot. No one could listen the way Bethany could, which made her Carla’s “go-to” friend after Owen for hashing out concerns. She wished Bethany were closer. Skyping wasn’t the same as talking in person.
“I’d still like to know who was after him,” Carla said. “He switched bottles, right? He knew someone was coming. Probably the guy that stole it from me after disposing of the other bottle.”
“Let the police handle it, honey,” Bethany said.
“Who says I’m not?” Carla said.
“You have a gleam in your eye. And you said you were doing research.”
“What harm can a little investigating do?”
“On a man who’s just been killed? And his niece wants to talk to you without the police knowing? Not good, Carla.”
“Wouldn’t you want to know why?”
“No. I wouldn’t. Not with a killer on the loose. Keep out of it, honey. You’re in a strange land. You don’t even know the language.”
“All the more reason to let Maria give me language lessons. Besides,” Carla added, “it seems I’m a person of interest.”
“A person of interest!”
“Yeah. A suspect.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Hey, they asked me not to leave the country until the case is solved.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“‘Fraid not.” Carla waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just procedure,” she said, hoping Fernandes meant what he said. “Our dauntless detective must follow procedures.”
Bethany’s own curiosity seemed to get the best of her. “You say one bottle was taken that was worth three thousand euros?” Carla nodded. “And the other, the one taken from you, was signed by a duke?” Carla nodded again. “That’s probably worth thirty thousand at least, don’t you think?”
“A lot, anyway,” Carla pressed her lips together. Enough to kill for? “I have pictures of both bottles,” she said. “And the shop. Oh. And the mirror I told you about? Hang on, I’ll show them to you.” She opened her photo album again, clicked “share,” then showed Bethany the photos, one by one.
Bethany whistled. “They don’t even look like normal bottles, do they! Exquisite labels, I have to say. And the tile over the doorway is gorgeous.”
“I was thinking of posting it on our website,” Carla said. “But now I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right, after what’s happened.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Mrs. Demming will love the mirror, though.”
“I think so.” Carla looked at the menu bar again and saw the time. “Oops, I’d better go. Gotta finish cooking dinner. This dish is a little complicated.”
“I hope when you guys come back you remember normal eating hours. I don’t see how you can eat so late.”
“If you took a long weekend and visited us, you’d understand.”
“Ha-ha. You know me and flying. New York, I can do. Anything over the big ocean? No way. That’s why you get Europe, right?”
“I thought it was because Owen had a hotel assignment,” Carla teased. She had actually made several trips in the past to Paris for French antiques. “Okay, talk again, Friday?”
A furrow appeared between Bethany’s eyebrows. “Be careful, honey.”
“Of course, I’ll be careful. There’s nothing to worry about.” Later Carla was to remember how easily she said that.
After they hung up, she e-mailed Mrs. Demming the mirror picture, then tried Maria’s phone.
“Olá,” Carla said in Portuguese when Maria answered, pretending to herself this was about language lessons and not about Maria’s cloak-and-dagger behavior.
“Oh, it is you, senhora.” Maria’s voice was low, confidential, as if she didn’t want someone to hear. “I will meet you tomorrow morning at the Jardim de Santa Bárbara, yes? Ten o’clock, before I go to class.
You can come, yes?”
“Well, I . . . I,” Carla stammered, taken aback by how take-charge Maria seemed. “I suppose so.”
“Very good. You know where it is?”
“It’s not far from where I live,” Carla said. Five streets away, the 17th-century gardens tucked behind the former Archbishop’s Court were a major tourist attraction, with various blooms in season planted among roses and sculpted boxwoods.
“Good. Thank you, senhora. Obrigada.” Maria’s voice turned surprisingly cheery. “I see you at ten.” She hung up.
“Well,” Carla murmured in the empty apartment. “What was that all about?” Feeling a little shiver of adventure, she went into the tiled kitchen and began cubing the pork.
Chapter Six – In the Jardim de Santa Bárbara
The next morning, Carla stared out the French doors that led to the balcony from the sala de estar—literally, the “being room” in Portuguese. She sipped her second cup of coffee, mulling over the coming meeting. It irked her that Maria Santos had so easily manipulated the time and place. Normally she was the one who took charge with clients. Okay, so I called her, not vice versa. She guessed that put her in client mode. And it wasn’t really about language lessons. Snoop that she was, Carla couldn’t resist finding out what Maria had to say about Costa.
She took a new sip of her cafezinho, a dark, rich coffee fixed the Brazilian way. Owen had left for work an hour ago. She’d already received Mrs. Demming’s e-mail saying she wanted the mirror. So that was one matter taken care of.
Across the street, a woman at the balcony above the barber shop was watering her pink geraniums again. She wore a bright yellow, bibbed apron embroidered with red flowers, the kind of apron Nana would have loved, if she were still alive. Carla’s grandmother had raised her after her parents died in a car crash when she was fourteen. Even now, Carla felt herself easing carefully around a pain that throbbed when she remembered the moment she'd been called to the principal’s office, wondering if she were in trouble. Instead, Nana had been waiting, her eyes red from crying. She put her arms around Carla as she broke the news that Mom and Dad were gone. The small Victorian house Carla had grown up in on Potrero Hill in San Francisco was sold soon after, and she went to live in her grandmother's antique-filled brown-shingled home in Berkeley. Nana had always been a doting grandmother, but after the accident she became a friend as well, helping Carla navigate her grief and adjust to a new future.
How Nana would have loved Braga!
She blinked regret away and waved at her neighbor across the way. The woman waved back before going inside, and Carla made a mental note to go over one day and get acquainted. Better yet, invite her over for coffee.
If she speaks English. “Bom dia” only went so far.
A young man sauntered from the direction of Igreja de São Victor a street away. There were so many churches in the historic section, Carla had started using them as location markers. She studied his slight frame. A teenager on his way to school. His lightweight, beige hoodie hid his face. She watched him continue past the barber shop and cross the next street, head bobbing up and down as if in time to music—no doubt from ear buds under his hood. From time to time, he peered at buildings, as if looking for an address. House numbers were visible enough on doorways, but street names were on metal plaques or carved in stone plaques, and not always at street corners. Maybe he was looking for a new girlfriend’s address. Maybe he wasn’t on his way to school but skipping class.
She shrugged, took her cup into the kitchen and rinsed it out, then set it in the wire rack on the granite counter. Through the window, she could hear church bells echoing each other, reminding her to leave soon if she didn’t want to be late.
On her way to the door, the cell phone on the hall table warbled. Probably Owen wanting her to bring by something he forgot. Instead it was Detective Fernandes.
“Senhora Bass?” he asked, his voice quiet and polite.
Carla put a fist on her hip. Sound as courteous as you want, buddy. After his don’t-leave-the-country gambit yesterday, she didn’t trust him.
“Yes?” she said, matching his polite tone.
“Senhora, I am Detetive Fernandes.”
“I recognized your voice.”
“Detective Fernandes, if that is easier for you,” he continued smoothly.
Maybe she was being too harsh. Besides, he might have good news. “Have you found out who killed Senhor Costa?”
“I would like to speak with you.” So, probably not. “It may take some time. Do you wish to come to the station, or shall I come to your home?”
Carla hesitated. She could probably call Maria and change their meeting time. But since she didn’t know what this was about, she’d prefer Owen to be present. “I’m late for an appointment,” she said. “Can you come to our apartment this evening?”
Detective Fernandes was silent a moment before asking, “What is a good time for you?”
Owen would be home around six-forty-five. They could have leftovers after Fernandes left. “How about seven this evening?”
“Very good. Seven.” The detective hung up. A focused man, obviously, who didn’t waste time on niceties.
Carla slipped on her blazer, put her phone in her handbag and left. As she turned from locking the street door, she saw the woman across was on her balcony again, enjoying a smoke. Sunlight glinted on her shoulder-length, wavy hair, bringing out its auburn tones. Smiling, she called to Carla in a thick accent, “Good morning. You are English, yes?”
“American,” Carla called.
“How you like our city?”
“I love it.”
“It is beautiful place, yes?”
Carla nodded. When bodies aren’t lying around in wine shops.
“What is your name? We must get to know each other. I am Natália. Natália Freitas.”
“Carla Bass. I’d love that. But right now,” Carla tapped her watch, “I have an appointment. Later this week, maybe?”
“Very good.”
Walking briskly to the bank next to Owen’s hotel, Carla was pleased. In her and Owen's Piedmont home, she knew all her neighbors. It was one aspect of being away from home that she missed. It would be nice to have a local friend in Braga. Someone to have coffee with, gossip with.
She crossed Rua da Chãos, which teemed with buses and delivery vans. From there it was a short zigzag to the Santa Bárbara gardens, which were actually a group of four manicured squares defined by boxwood hedges and topiaries and filled with rose bushes. Beds of purple and yellow pansies edged each section. Wide paths led to a central fountain topped by the gray stone statue of Santa Bárbara whose face tilted slightly up, as if in supplication.
At the end of one path, on a stone bench near the fountain, Maria Santos sat slump-shouldered, staring into space, a newspaper spread on her lap, her book bag at her side. Carla made her way down the path and sat beside her.
“Sorry I’m late. Have you been here long?”
Maria smiled wanly. Her wavy dark hair fell around her face. She wore a long-sleeved tee and blue jeans. A scarf was knotted at her throat, making her look casually fashionable. She indicated the newspaper. “I was reading . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Is that today’s paper?” At Maria’s nod, Carla asked, “What does it say?”
“Only a little.” Maria showed her the page with its photo of a younger Senhor Costa, looking devilishly handsome. There was also a picture of the 1812, three-thousand-euro Port in the case—my photo, Carla noted—and another photo of the empty smashed case.
“Uh, since I don’t read Portuguese . . ..”
“Oh. I am sorry. It says a customer comes into the shop and found my uncle dead, and this rare bottle of Port is stolen. They investigate. He is well-liked by other business owners in the neighborhood. The police contact . . . are contacting his family.”
“They didn’t mention who the customer was who discovered him?”
“No.”
A
nd why would they? “They didn't mention a second bottle was stolen?”
“No.”
Carla thought of the men she’d seen going in and out of the shop yesterday. “Nothing about two other men who went into the shop?”
Maria shook her head.
Maybe the police don’t want suspects to realize they’re suspects.
Curious, she asked, “Did you see those men?”
“Customers always go into the shop,” Maria said. “I didn’t notice anyone except . . ..” She fell silent.
Except who? Carla’s curiosity tingled. “You must be so upset about your uncle,” she prompted.
“Yes. I have phoned my mother last night. He was her brother. I have also called his wife, because she will arrange the funeral. It will be here in Braga.” Maria folded the newspaper and tucked it into her book bag.
“She must be terribly upset, too.”
“Not really.” Maria made a little moue. “They did not live together for many years. They did not get along. She will only be interested how much money he leaves.”
“I see,” Carla murmured, thinking she probably didn’t. Portugal was a very Catholic country and Braga one of its most conservative cities. “I suppose divorce was out of the question.”
“She did not want to be divorced, even though they make . . . made each other unhappy.”
With a surge of sympathy for Senhor Costa, Carla said, “He must have had a lonely life.”
Maria said in a tight voice. “He had another woman.”
“Oh.” In Portuguese, the word for “woman” was also a word for “wife.” Was Senhor Costa a bigamist? Carla decided not. Another wife would probably have to live in another town. His other woman must be his mistress.
“Senhora Bass . . ..”
“Call me Carla.”
“I cannot. It is not polite. You are older.”
“Not that much older,” Carla protested. “I’m only thirty-six.” When Maria still looked hesitant, she said, “I insist.”
“Very well.” Maria folded her hands. “Carla.” She sent Carla a shy glance. “Thirty-six? Do you have children?”
Deadly Vintage Page 4
