Recovering her composure, Carla said, “My client wouldn’t want to show off a bottle or anything else. She likes beautiful things for her house, that’s all.”
There was something not right about the turn of conversation. Maybe Vitore didn’t think deal-making was in the picture. He was trying to find out something else. But what?
“An expensive Port like the newspaper mentioned,” he remarked. “It seems a strange mistake. I wonder what happened to it.”
Bingo again. Three puzzle pieces fell into place for Carla: Vitore didn’t know O Lobo was in jail. Sure, a man had been arrested for attacking a woman in a café, but the police wouldn't have publicized who the attacker was. Fernandes wouldn't, anyway. Not yet. That wasn’t how he did things.
O Lobo was holding the stolen bottle for Vitore. And now Vitore's looking for it, wondering why it isn’t in O Lobo’s apartment. The next thought came to her as clearly as if in neon lights: Vitore was the anonymous party Fernandes had mentioned Wednesday—the one who had found out his own bottle was a fake.
“I didn’t realize it was an expensive bottle,” Carla said, giving her eyelashes a little flutter. “This whole thing has been so upsetting.” Feeling she had nothing to lose by her next comment, she added, “Senhor Costa got a phone call when I was in the shop.”
“A phone call?” A tightness had come into Vitore’s voice. She’d bet anything he’d made the call.
“While I was looking around at his wines,” Carla said. “He had a nice selection,” she added, making her tone chatty. "I was tempted to buy the ruby Port as well as the tawny, but—"
Vitore leaned forward, “But he never mentioned this particular bottle to you? The one you were returning? Told you where he got it?”
“Why would he? I was just shopping for a nice Port. I wanted the one I bought from him, not this other bottle.”
Vitore sat back and drummed the table with manicured nails. “And he put it in your bag, and you knew nothing about it,” he mused. "And you weren't curious?"
“Not until I got home,” Carla said. She eyed his spoon lying to one side and gave herself a mental pat on the back for not giving anything away—that she knew the thief was O Lobo, that she knew forgeries were floating around, and that in a few moments she would have new evidence linking Vitore to everything that had happened.
“I took the bottle back right away,” she said, still in the flow of her tale, “but it was too late. When I got to the shop, he was dead.”
Vitore reached over and patted her hand, switching suddenly to her solicitous friend, an earnest look on his face. “Not too late. Think. If you had arrived when the killer was there." He let his puckered brows convey the rest.
Carla nodded solemnly, as if she believed his concern was real. Then she took a sip from her cup and swallowed, closing her eyes to convey she was having an espresso moment, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. She opened them again. In a sugary voice, she said, “They’re certainly right when they boast they have the best coffee.” She purposely kept her gaze on her cup, where a tiny portrait in the ceramic surface matched the one on the torn sugar packet.
“Yes. The coffee is very good.” Vitore drained his cup, dabbed his mouth again, and stood. “I have taken too much of your time. It is a pity we could not come to an arrangement about the paintings, but I have enjoyed the pleasure of your company.” He winked. “Perhaps we will see each other again at another auction.”
“Perhaps.” Carla flashed him a smile. Not if I can help it, buddy! “Thank you for the espresso,” she said.
As soon as he turned and started strolling back up Rua do Souto toward the Arco da Porta Nova, she wrapped her paper napkin around the small spoon he had handled and scooped it into her purse. She took out her notebook with its pen on a string, snapped the purse shut, and hung the strap on the back of her chair again. She massaged her forehead, running the strange conversation through her mind. She needed to write this down, put it in order.
Vitore was involved, for sure. Vittore’s interested in the bottle O Lobo took, she scribbled. He made up lies about what the newspaper said. She wrote that down. He had to be O Lobo’s mysterious employer, the one O Lobo only called from public phones to keep their conversations untraceable. She didn’t write down that last, but she smiled to herself. Vitore wouldn’t be untraceable after she stopped by the police station with the spoon he had handled. If prints on it matched the prints on the wrapper—and Carla was sure they would—Fernandes would have new questions for O Lobo to answer.
O Lobo will have to tell the truth this time. She steepled her fingers, then couldn’t resist letting her toes do a little happy dance under the table. Brushing her hair back with one hand, she took a last sip of espresso and turned to retrieve her handbag and leave a tip for the waitress.
Her handbag was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four – Realizations
For a moment, Carla was too stunned to move. Everything was in her handbag—passport, wallet, credit cards, cash, phone, camera. She looked around wildly, hoping to spot the thief, but the street was busy with tourists walking at cross purposes, some headed for shopping further up Rua do Souto, others walking toward the Praça da República, consulting guidebooks.
A white standard poodle, elegantly groomed, strained at its leash, tugging a breathless brunette in a yellow shift toward the Arco da Porta Nova. Two teen-age boys bantered with a group of giggling girls. A gray-haired couple strolled hand in hand, the man adjusting his straw trilby, the woman in a flowered dress and low-heeled bone pumps. Two other women walked by, arm in arm, their similar faces generational, a mother and daughter. The young woman who had earlier played her violin on Avenida Central was a few doors away, bending to take her instrument out of its case.
No one looked like a thief. But what does a thief look like? They wouldn’t all look like O Lobo.
Someone who knew what they were doing. For a paranoid moment, Carla wondered if Vitore had loitered in a doorway and seen her snatch his spoon. If so, he’d know she suspected him. A chilling thought. But, no, she had watched him walk toward the Arco da Porta Nova, his back to her.
A pickpocket, then. Of all times, why did a pickpocket have to settle on her? Today? At that moment? She should never have hung her purse on the back of her chair. She felt like slapping her head, but then she’d look even more like the idiot she felt.
Instead of cleverly turning in a genuine piece of evidence against Vitore, now she had to report a stolen purse. After that, she’d have to stop by the hotel and get Owen’s key to the apartment. She’d have to go around scaffolding and drop cloths, hoping he wasn’t in the middle of a meeting when she did find him. And then they would have to start making phone calls to change credit cards, not to mention contacting the U. S. embassy to report and replace her passport.
Damn, damn, damn!
Wearily she trudged back to Campo de São Tiago, clutching her little notebook in one hand, the package with her new shoes and purse bumping against her leg, suddenly much too bulky. For once, as she retraced her steps along the slanting sidewalk down to the kiosk in the car-filled plaza, Carla wished she didn’t wear stilettos.
The same officer was in the kiosk.
“I want to report a stolen purse,” Carla told him. No matter that he didn’t speak English. Recognizing her from this morning, he made a quick phone call, and a moment later Agent Rios came walking briskly from one of the far offices.
“Yes, this way, please,” he told her. This time he had decided she deserved a cordial smile. He led her back to the sterile office where she’d returned the candy wrapper this morning. To her surprise, Fernandes was leaning against an office door, chatting with Estela.
“Ah! Senhora Bass,” he said. “How convenient that you have come. I have something I believe you want.” He went through a door in the back and returned a moment later with her handbag. “Someone found this a few minutes ago and turned it in. I hope you will forgive us for opening it to ascertain
who owned it.”
“I was coming to report it,” Carla said slowly, trying to wrap her head around this new development. “Someone stole it. Not more than twenty minutes ago.”
“You are in luck, then. Please take a seat and fill out a report, and we will be happy to return it.” He pulled a chair close to Estela’s desk. “Make sure all your belongings are in it and nothing was taken,” he added. Behind his usual sober expression, Carla could almost swear there was a gleam in his eye.
She sat, awareness of Detetive Fernandes’s steady gaze prickling her neck as she filled out the paper Estela handed her. Before signing, Carla riffled through her purse to check that everything was there. The spoon was gone. Of course. Just another way to say, “Butt out of this case.” No way was he going to give her the satisfaction of turning in a legitimate clue.
“Anything missing?” Fernandes asked. She looked up. In the glance they shared, it was clear that he knew.
“No,” she snapped. “Everything’s in order.” She signed the paper and handed it to him, then slung the strap over her shoulder.
With a polite nod, he said, “Have a good afternoon.”
On the way home, walking along Avenida Central, Carla fumed with every step. Fernandes had said she wasn’t being followed, but, obviously, she was. Her new shadow had seen her take the spoon—evidence—and immediately took it to Fernandes. The tail who’s been following me, not for protection, but because I’m a suspect.
Unless . . .. Her steps slowed.
Unless Vitore was the one being followed. Carla stood stock still.
Fernandes must have suspected Vitore even before she called this morning. But he wouldn’t let her know that. He isn’t going to let anyone know anything. Now she wished she hadn’t been so quick to leave the station. Maybe she should have told him about Vitore’s questions. Whoever took her purse and the spoon wasn’t privy to their conversation unless they had incredibly good ears. Should she call Fernandes?
Uh-uh. The candy wrapper had only earned her a scolding. Now that Fernandes had the spoon, it was up to him. If he wanted to know what Vitore said to her, he could ask Vitore. She was through volunteering anything.
At least they can match prints on the spoon against those on the wrapper. Maybe Vitore wasn’t in the system, but if the ones on the spoon matched the ones on the wrapper, it would prove he had been lurking around Costa's shop for some reason. The case might be solved. She could get back to her life.
Church bells tolled the half-hour. Carla checked her watch— five-thirty. Her Skype conference with Bethany was in thirty minutes.
“The Duartes want more information on the price of azulejo tiles,” Bethany told her as soon as Carla updated her about shipments of the paintings and mirror. “Can you come up with a price list?”
“It’s not that simple. I’d have to know what patterns they have in mind. These are hand-painted. They come in different styles and colors; mostly blue and white and yellow, but other colors, too. Some are geometrical, some meant to create scenes. Some of them take months to paint, fire, and deliver.” Carla said. “Have they mentioned a budget? Do they have a color scheme?”
“They like the blue and white ones you’ve shown in posts,” Bethany said.
“Okay. Traditional.”
“I asked them about tiling the baths. They like that. Also, now they’re talking about having a fountain in the back patio and tiling it in azulejos. But they also want something economical.”
“Economical these aren’t. I can send catalogues from various companies, but the Duartes may be a lost cause if that’s a serious issue.”
“Okay. But we have another new client.”
“A desirable one, from the look on your face.”
“Another wealthy widow. Mrs. Weatherby in Atherton. She has Portuguese and French ancestry, but her husband’s heritage was English.” Bethany twirled a lock of short hair. “She lives in a mansion. I took a side trip to meet her in Atherton on the way to Carmel.”
“Ah. Carmel. How’s our orthodontist coming along?”
“I think he’s satisfied with the suggestions I made. The walk-through went well, and he likes the material and wallpaper samples I took.” Bethany glanced away, a private smile playing about her mouth. “There’s some wall changes that have to be made,” she said, looking at Carla again. “I’ve contacted an architect in the area.”
“Sounds good. So, tell me more about our Mrs. Weatherby. What’s her house like? And what’s she looking for?”
“They went for the English Country look when her husband was alive. A lot of Chintz. White ceilings all through. Intricate moldings She wants to keep those. The rest is pretty traditional. But now she wants to go with her own heritage in a remodel. She was clicking around the Internet, and our website came up with your photos of the azulejo tiles in the Old Archbishop's Palace that you wrote about last month. She can afford them, too, from what I’ve seen. Looks like we could end up with lots of Portuguese-heritage clients in the future, the way things are going.”
“Hmm. French and Portuguese. And she likes the white ceilings. We could go French country, since she likes flowered furniture. Even French classic. Tiles could work with either one if she’s keeping the white ceilings. We could tile the entry hall and baths. And frame any fireplaces,” Carla said. “Those are perfect places to show azulejo tiles off. How many bathrooms?”
“Four.”
“That might be overkill, unless we just use the tiles as accent pieces in one or two of the baths.”
“She wants to meet you. Should I ask Jessica to set up an appointment with her and then book a flight for you in a couple of weeks?”
“I wish!” Carla felt the familiar excitement of a new project. This one was appealing for its blend of cultures combined in old-world elegance. Not to mention getting miles away from dead bodies, shady vintners, snooty detectives . . .. “I can’t, though.” Hadn’t Fernandes told her not to leave Portugal until the case was solved?
Carla jutted her chin, a flare of rebellion stirring inside. But she’d have to abide by the order. Owen had the hotel project to finish. That was why they were here in the first place. She couldn’t do anything to put him in a bad light with this employer.
“Can you handle it?” she asked Bethany. “I can send you the catalogues for starters.”
“Honey, you know I can, but it’s your post that caught her attention. This should be your baby. You should have seen your face light up at the prospect.”
“This stupid case isn’t solved yet.”
“Don’t tell me!” Bethany sat back. “You’re still—”
“A suspect, yeah,” Carla made a face, remembering how clearly Fernandes had spelled that out for her. “I think they’re close to solving the case. Just not close enough for me to make any plans.”
“Jeez.” Bethany’s face grew grave.
“They caught someone involved, and they’re watching people, but they’re still searching for the killer. I may even have had coffee with him today,” Carla couldn’t help adding.
Bethany’s swallowed several times as Carla told her about seeing Vitore while she photographed the shop Monday, then his behavior at the auction, and again today when they had coffee.
“Have you told the police?”
“They know,” Carla said sourly. She told Bethany about the candy wrapper and the spoon.
“You went into this shop next door and pretended to be writing an article?” Bethany snorted, then shook her head. “Portugal is having quite an effect on you. What’s this article supposed to be about?”
“Old buildings. I’m really going to write it on my blog.”
“Oh. Yeah. I can see that. Good idea.”
“My neighbor’s idea. But it worked. We found the wrapper I told you about.”
“Detective what’s-his-name should be shaking your hand,” Bethany said.
“He isn’t.”
“I read recently where they caught a teen-age robber becau
se of a candy-wrapper.”
“That’s good news,” Carla said, “although his prints probably were already in the system.”
“Ooh, you sound so private investigator-ish.” Bethany cocked her head. “That must come from hanging out with your detective friend.”
“I don’t hang out with him, and he’s not my friend. He hates me,” Carla said.
“So, has your candy wrapper man been arrested?”
“Not yet.”
“Does he think you suspect him?”
“I hope not.”
“Be careful, honey. He doesn’t sound like someone to take lightly.”
“He’s not the only one,” Carla said. She told Bethany about O Lobo’s attack on her. Her friend’s look of horror made her wish she had left that incident out.
“Carla, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“He’s locked up,” Carla assured her. “He won’t be running off with stolen bottles anytime soon.”
“Stamping on his foot!” Bethany smiled wryly. “I’ll have to remember that if someone tries to mug me in a parking lot.” Still, she looked worried.
“You don’t wear stilettos, so it might not work,” Carla said, then narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“Just a thought that came to me. About shoes. It’s probably irrelevant.” Having coffee with Vitore and fielding his questions had made her forget her conversation with Rosa.
“What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“What kind of nothing?” Bethany leaned forward.
Carla rolled her eyes. “You worry too much. Instead, why don’t you find out if Mrs. Weatherby is on Skype. If so, send me an e-mail address, and then we can meet online.”
“Okay, but honey, this isn’t one of your mystery novels. It’s real life. Stay out of it.”
Bethany’s warning hung in the air after they hung up.
Carla’s fingernails made a rat-a-tat-tat against the desk’s chestnut finish. She really should stay out of it. The police had O Lobo. Now they had evidence that Vitore was involved. Paulo was the chump in this picture. She was sure Vitore had planned the bottle switch. His thug, O Lobo, had found Paulo to carry out the switch. Vitore or O Lobo had killed Costa. A few moments ago, she might have put her money on Vitore, but actually O Lobo seemed more likely. She could imagine Vitore making threats—the phone call to Costa, for instance. Vitore could have sent O Lobo to scare Costa into telling where the duke’s bottle was. Maybe even telling him to rough Costa up if necessary. And O Lobo lost control, because he’s probably that kind of guy. Vitore might have come back later to see if O Lobo had left anything that could incriminate him. And left the candy wrapper.
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