Owen squeezed Carla’s shoulder. “Sounds like things are pretty much wrapped up, babe. O Lobo’s picked up. They have the bottle. We can celebrate with a trip to Ponte de Lima this weekend.”
“I regret to say things are not wrapped up,” the detetive said.
In the silence that followed, the evening’s fish and chips did a tango in Carla’s stomach. Maybe Fernandes was having the same second thoughts about Geoffrey Walsh that had occurred to her. They had O Lobo. They had the bottle. But did they know who ordered the theft from Pereira? And who had the second forgery examined by experts? She couldn’t imagine the butler would have orchestrated the bottle switch for reasons of his own, but she was sticking with her earlier insight that he could have killed Costa in a fit of rage.
And there’s still the other bottle that was in the case. Maybe he snatched it for Pereira.
Before she could ask anything, Fernandes said, “It is the matter of Paulo Sousa that concerns us.”
“Why?” Carla asked, the word coming out scratchy and breathless. “Hasn’t Paulo . . . Sousa contacted you yet?”
“No.”
That was disappointing news. But then, Paulo hadn’t made any promises.
“I visited his apartment this afternoon,” she said, and saw Fernandes transform from a low-key, close-to-the-vest investigator to an ice sculpture. The warmth in the room turned wintry. His stare grew colder as she struggled through her rationale. “I suggested to him that things might go better for him if he comes forward on his own, now that he didn't have to fear O Lobo.”
“They would,” Fernandes said, “if his story were true. But O Lobo says they have been friends for many years. According to him, they have done many jobs together, and Sousa was eager to do this one.”
“I don’t believe that,” Carla exclaimed. Hadn’t she warned Paulo that O Lobo would put the blame on him? “O Lobo’s lying!”
“Possibly. But we cannot discount his information. At present, we consider Sousa dangerous. You should not have gone to his apartment,” Fernandes said, his pale eyes still chilly. “I remember telling you to concern yourself with your decorating business and not with this case.”
Carla’s face turned hot. Your decorating business! Your fluffy little occupation!
Owen leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Shouldn’t you guys have picked him up for questioning by now?”
“And what about the other bottle?” Carla asked. “The one that was stolen from the case?”
“Eventually we will bring Sousa in for questions,” Fernandes told Owen. “But at present we may learn more from surveillance.”
He turned his gaze on Carla. “As for the Maoel Beleza de Andrade, we have our own ideas where to find it. And I would advise you to stay away from Sousa. You may only have been lucky because he feels you are on his side.” He stood, the purpose of his visit apparently concluded.
After he left, Carla leaned against Owen, glad of his arms around her waist. With the detective’s departure, her defensiveness was replaced by doubt. How could she have been so misled about Paulo? “I probably shouldn’t have gone to Paulo’s apartment,” she admitted in a muffled voice.
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Owen tightened his arms. “I keep telling you, that curiosity of yours—”
Carla drew away. “It wasn’t curiosity,” she tried to explain. “I was trying to help him.”
“I’ll bet anything you also wanted to find out whatever you could.”
This was so true that, guiltily, Carla could think of no reply.
“Do you have to go to that auction tomorrow night?” Owen asked, changing the subject.
“Of course I do! I’m bidding on two paintings for Mrs. Demming. It’s my job to go! It’s my business.” Carla could hear her own querulousness.
Owen put a palm out. “Okay. Okay.”
The troubled look on his face gave Carla a new pang of guilt. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess my nerves are catching up with me.”
“Don’t mind me if I worry,” Owen said softly. “Just the same, I’m going with you.”
“I’m glad,” Carla said. This was her first evening auction, and she had planned to take a cab rather than drive through the rabbit warren of turns that kept cars off the main pedestrianized areas. Now they could walk home together, maybe stop at Café Vianna and enjoy the lights from the fountain on the square. She snuggled her head against his chest. They stood that way for a quiet moment.
“By the way,” he said, “Maria called while you were asleep. She wanted you to know she’ll be busy the rest of this week. Her cousins are flying in from New York and Miami for the funeral Friday. They’ll be with her aunt, and her parents are coming for a few days. We can start language lessons on Tuesday evening. I think that’s the whole message. She suggested Monday, but I told her you have Skype meetings on Mondays.”
“Language lessons?” Her head still cradled against his chest, Carla ran that through her mind. Maria hadn’t washed her hands of language lessons after all.
That thought was followed by another: She should probably warn Maria that Detetive Fernandes considered Paulo dangerous. Carla chewed her lip.
How, exactly, did one start a conversation like that?
Chapter Sixteen - A New Friend
At breakfast, Carla decided against calling Maria. After the argument in Museu da Imagem, it wasn’t likely she’d contact Paulo soon. Even if she did, she was probably safe. Carla brushed aside her initial opinion that Paulo was dumping Maria. He was in love with Maria. He was trying to protect her from O Lobo when he warned her to stay away. Her safety mattered to him.
Buttering a piece of toast and watching Owen sip his cafezinho, Carla kept her thoughts private. After he left for the hotel, she made her usual second cup and stood at the French windows, mulling over O Lobo’s claims that he and Paulo had worked together before.
Liar! O Lobo had a calculating mind. He had crossed the street Monday, pretending to help, and then snatched the duke's bottle from her. He had followed her into the café yesterday, threatening to kill her. He exuded nothing but menace. Paulo exuded despair.
As for scary Mr. Walsh, maybe Fernandes was right that the butler had no history of violence, but Walsh and his employer wanted the duke’s bottle as much as O Lobo and his employer did. Either one of them, Walsh or O Lobo, could have entered Costa’s shop through the passageway between buildings.
So, how can someone get in if they don’t have a key to one of the gates? If it were O Lobo, he'd know how to pick locks for sure. But a dignified English butler with a heritage of serving the Pereira family? Maybe. Maybe not.
Ah! The souvenir shop opened onto the same corridor, she reminded herself. Say the shop owner went to check on back stock. Walsh could walk in and go right through to the outside space, then go into Costa’s office. Costa probably didn’t keep his office door locked during business hours. He wouldn't need to if the street gates were locked. “Walk with purpose,” Paulo had said. Most of the customers in the souvenir shop would be tourists. They'd think Walsh worked there if they even noticed him walking out onto the corridor.
And how would he get away again, unseen, carrying a three-thousand-euro bottle of rare Port from the smashed case? He’d return through the souvenir shop. In the wine shop, he could put the bottle in a bag and wait for the right moment to stroll through the gift shop again, this time looking like a tourist.
Carla nodded. It could work. Fernandes's scolding and her promise to Owen hummed in her mind like mosquitoes. She shooed them away. It was worth a little visit to the souvenir shop to see how easy it was to get into the corridor. Maybe O Lobo had paid Paulo a hefty sum to steal the duke’s bottle, but Paulo didn’t seem like the murderous type. She might find an overlooked clue that could keep him from going to prison for a murder he didn’t commit.
The police are thorough, but they see what they want to see.
She was about to take her cup into the kitchen, when Natália Freitas came out
on her balcony across the way and took a cigarette pack from a pocket in her flowered apron. She tapped out a cigarette, lit it, the metallic lighter flashing in the morning sun, and inhaled with such obvious satisfaction Carla could almost feel it. Then she leaned one elbow on the ornate scrollwork of the wrought-iron rail. Spying Carla, she waved with her cigarette.
On impulse, Carla set her cup on the dining table, opened the French windows and stepped out. “Would you like a cafezinho?” she called. “I grind the beans myself.”
“Nice! I will come!”
“Finish your smoke,” Carla called, seeing Natália glance at her cigarette. “That’ll give me time to make a new pot.”
In the kitchen, Carla measured sugar and fresh water into a saucepan and let them come to a boil while she ground new coffee beans. She had just put the grounds into the pot and removed it from the burner when a blat from the intercom announced her neighbor’s arrival. Carla buzzed her in and waited at the apartment door as Natália came up the stairs holding a loaf wrapped in a dishtowel. It was the first time Carla had seen her without an apron, and she had to admire the woman’s taste: black capris, white three-quarter-sleeved blouse, red wedge sandals. Her bright red fingernails matched her bright red toenail polish. Stylish!
“Bem-vinda,” Carla said, hoping she’d pronounced the word for welcome right. “It’s nice to get a chance to know you.”
“I have brought some bread,” Natália said. “You like broa?”
“I love broa! Come on into the kitchen.”
In the kitchen, Natália unwrapped the loaf and sliced it with the serrated knife Carla gave her, placing slabs on a plate, while Carla poured scalding coffee through the filter into small ceramic cups and brought them to the table. They slathered butter on the dense, yeasty cornbread, sipping their cafezinhos. In no time at all, despite language hitches, Carla felt she had made a friend. An older friend, true—maybe forty-five—but Natália’s red shoes and nails said she had lots of spirit. She and her husband, Manuel, the barber, had two married daughters. One lived in Porto and one in Lisbon, which Natália called Lisboa.
“You have been to Lisboa?” she asked. At Carla’s head shake, she lifted her hands as if incredulous. “You must go! Is beautiful city. Is birthplace of Fado. You have heard Fado?”
“I’ve heard of it. I haven’t heard it.”
“Não! I will do something about that. I have CDs. You have player, yes? I will bring you some. Let’s see . . . You must hear Amália first. The greatest fadista.” Natália finished her slice of bread and buttered a second piece. “But I do all the talking. Now you must tell me about yourself.”
She listened as if entranced while Carla explained her interior design business and Owen’s role as coordinator of the hotel renovation for the hotel chain start-up.
“But why he comes to Portugal? Why not a big city in America?”
“His employer already has a small chain in California,” Carla explained. “He wants to start an international chain, and he’s starting with Portugal because his heritage is Portuguese. A grandmother or great-grandmother, I can’t remember which.”
Natália pursed her lips, considering it. “Why Braga?”
“He wanted a big city, but not as big as Porto or Lisbon . . . Lisboa,” Carla corrected. “Braga has a unique charm. Especially in the historic center.”
“Yes, Braga has much charm,” Natália agreed, then sighed. “Is exciting time for you both,” Natália said. “My job is not so exciting. But I like it much.”
“What do you do?’
“I am bookkeeper three days each week at Casa Stop. Is very nice shop with things for your home. Towels. Yarn. Aprons. Thread.” Natália moved her hands in the air like an orchestra conductor. “A little of everything.”
Carla smiled. “I’ll have to stop by one day and look for an apron. What days do you work there?”
“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. But you will not see me. I am always in office in back room. But . . .” Natália shrugged, “is perfect job for me. I have time for myself and for Manuel. I can come home for lunch. On days I don’t work, I watch my programs.” She leaned forward. “RTP2 is good station. They have music programs and telenovas. SIC also has.”
“Telenovelas?” Carla asked. The word sounded like television novels.
“Like your soap operas,” Natália said. “Manuel complains I watch too much, but he always reads newspaper after he close shop.” Natália waved a shiny red fingernail at Carla. “You should watch. Is good way to learn Portuguese. I see you have learn some words already.”
“I don’t think I have time,” Carla hedged. Soap operas had never appealed to her. To change the subject, she said, “You must miss your daughters.”
Natália sighed. “I miss Catarina too much, yes. Lisboa is so far away. I am lucky Porto is close. I can see Fátima and Miguel and our grandson more often.” A pensive look came over her face and she fell silent.
Just when Carla was thinking they had run out of conversation, Natália cleared her throat. “Something I am wondering,” she said, then stopped, as if embarrassed to ask.
“Yes?” Carla stiffened, expecting to field questions about children—How many you have? You don't have? Is problem?
Instead, Natália said, “Yesterday Manuel see policeman drive you home. Everything is all right?” Natália’s brown eyes welled with concern.
Carla quickly swallowed the last sip of her coffee, then traced the cup’s ceramic rim with a finger, studying the dregs of her coffee.
Natália said, “I should not ask about such a thing.” After only a slight pause, she added, “But you know? Sometimes is good to talk to someone.”
Carla nodded slowly. Bethany was an ocean and a continent away; it was hard to have heart-to-hearts on Skype; their talk on Mondays and Fridays had become mainly biz talk. She could hardly unload to Maria. Too young, and too much a wild card. Owen would worry all over again if she tried to discuss her latest thoughts with him. Besides, even though he never complained about his work, Carla could tell he had his own pressures at the hotel.
“Maybe is too personal, I am sorry to ask,” Natália said. Her voice was subdued, apologetic, while the radar of her curiosity pulsated in the air.
“It’s a long story,” Carla told her. “Are you in a hurry? Would you like another cafezinho?”
“Yes. Please.” Natália propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on the backs of her interlaced fingers.
Carla poured two new cups and put them in the microwave. When they were ready, she brought them to the table.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “Monday I found a wine-seller dead in his shop.”
“So! You are who finds the body! The owner of Adega do Costa! I read in the newspaper.”
“Yeah, well there’s a lot the article didn’t mention,” Carla said, and everything came pouring out.
Natália’s brown eyes had grown wider and wider. “Mãe de Deus!” she said, when Carla got to O Lobo’s mugging in the café hallway. She fumbled in her slacks pockets and brought out her pack of cigarettes, then promptly shoved it back.
“That’s okay,” Carla said. “We can go out on the balcony.”
On the balcony, she finished her story.
“So that is why the purple on your cheek.”
“Does it show again? I thought I did a good job of covering it with make-up.”
“Just a leetle. But I wonder about it earlier.” Natália lit another cigarette and peered at Carla’s black and turquoise stilettos around a curling wisp of smoke. “These are the shoes?”
“They are.”
Natália regarded them a moment, took another puff, and then made a tsk-ing sound. “Is sad this O Lobo get Maria’s chico in so much trouble.”
Carla glanced over in surprise. For a mother with two daughters, Natália seemed a bit laid back about Paulo’s foibles. “Do you know Paulo?”
“I do not. Still. He is young. He has make mistake. He stealed a
bottle. This is bad. But I don’t think he is killer.”
“I don’t either,” Carla said, relieved to hear Natália express her own thoughts. “Detetive Fernandes and my husband both think I’m naïve. From what I’ve seen of Paulo, though, he’s just a mixed-up guy who made a dumb decision.”
Natália nodded. “Yes. Is unfair. We must help him.”
“Excuse me?”
“We must find who killed Senhor Costa.”
Carla looked away, covering her mouth with her palm to hide her smile. I have a sleuth partner? Turning to Natália, she asked, “Who do you think did it?”
“Maybe this O Lobo person. Or maybe this person who hires O Lobo.”
“His employer. Yes,” Carla said. “But why?”
“Because he thinks Senhor Costa, how you say, double-cross him?”
“I didn’t think of Costa double-crossing him.” But if he cheated people, why wouldn’t he double-cross them if he had the chance?
“How to be sure?” Natália mused.
Carla eyed her neighbor thoughtfully. Maybe Natália just wanted to help a guy down on his luck. Maybe she fancied herself in the middle of a soap opera. A telenovela about star-crossed lovers. Or maybe Natália had a morbid interest in how crime stories in the newspaper played out. What did she really know about Natália?
She decided to go with the I-just-want-to-help-poor-Paulo scenario. “There’s an outdoor corridor between Senhor Costa’s store and the corner souvenir shop,” she told Natália. “It has gates opening onto two different streets. I’m thinking of trying to enter it from inside the souvenir shop.” She saw her neighbor’s eyes light with interest.
Natália had reached the end of the cigarette. Looking around, she spied Owen’s ashtray on the marble-topped table and ground out the stub, giving Carla a perplexed look. “I don’t see you smoke.”
“My husband’s the smoker.”
“Is not good, I know,” Natália shook her head. “Someday I give it up.” In a more energetic tone, suggesting that idea was history, she said, “When do you go to this place? I can come with you.”
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