Nick wisely chose to ignore that and instead busied himself looking through his wife’s telescope at the apartment block opposite.
‘Whay hay hay,’ he said. ‘No wonder you spend so much time looking through this thing. There is a bit of canoodling happening on apartment 8’s balcony.’
‘That can’t be right,’ said La Contessa, unceremoniously bundling him out of the way. ‘Those two never go near each other. Oh Nick, what have you done?’
Nick’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What have I done? Nothing, my Italian ingénue.’
‘Well the husband from apartment number 9 appears to be downstairs kissing the wife from apartment number 8,’ said La Contessa.
Baxter started barking and Nick hopped up and peered over the wall. ‘While their respective partners are out innocently walking their respective dogs.’
He consulted the pile of stolen letters. ‘It seems Charles Turner’s young-gun lawyer, Mark Hutchinson, is cheating on his wife, Amanda, with Turner’s doctor, Emily Chen, behind her husband, Stephen’s, back.’
‘Not so much Love Island,’ observed La Contessa. ‘More Tawdry Towers.’
*
‘Sweetness, have you seen my old Corona typewriter?’ Nick asked as La Contessa staggered past him carrying another pile of boxes.
‘That old thing? I’ve put it out on the clean-up.’
‘What?’ shouted Nick in alarm, jolting to his feet. ‘It’s worth a fortune.’
‘That dusty old thing?’ said La Contessa. ‘Marie Kondo says that if an item does not bring you joy then it has to go.’
‘But it brought me joy,’ said Nick hurrying through the gate as La Contessa looked at him in bewilderment.
Some time later, Nick poked his head around the gate and, seeing the coast was clear, carried his typewriter back in and quickly hid it in the shed. He then went back outside and was carrying in a set of golf clubs and a portable A to Z filing cabinet as La Contessa emerged from the house.
‘Darling, what are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I saw these on the clean-up outside Turner Towers and they brought me joy so I brought them in. We’ve got so much space now there will be no problem storing them.’
La Contessa sank to the garden sofa in despair.
‘Look, they are monogrammed,’ said Nick.
‘Yes, AT, not NM,’ she sighed.
‘Exactly, my San Salvo savant. AT for Alan “The Elephant Whale” Todd.’
‘You mean the famous golfer who designed all of Turner’s golf courses?’ said La Contessa, sitting up suddenly.
‘And this must be his old filing cabinet,’ said Nick.
‘Now that really is treasure,’ said La Contessa.
Nick quickly started to look through the documents. ‘Look at this: a letter from Charles Turner to his old golfing buddy, The Elephant Whale.’
‘Why do they call him The Elephant Whale?’ asked La Contessa.
‘Because he is no Greg Norman,’ said Nick. ‘Norman is The Shark because he is a killer on the course; portly Alan Todd was just on the course.’
La Contessa took the letter and started reading: ‘Dear Alan, I am delighted you have accepted my gift of an apartment in Turner Towers. The only condition is that you live in it for a year. Perhaps I am getting sentimental, but I have decided to gather everyone I love around me in one place.’
‘That sounds absolutely hideous,’ said Nick.
‘I don’t know,’ said La Contessa wistfully. ‘I have always thought it would be nice to have my mother here with us.’
Nick shuddered. ‘At least it explains why every single person we look at is closely linked to Charles Turner.’
‘Yes, and what a beastly bunch. Especially his lawyer, having an affair with his doctor. I actually feel sorry for poor Rose Turner having to move in with that lot,’ said La Contessa.
‘It certainly gives us a long list of suspects who might have pushed her off the top of the building,’ said Nick.
The following morning La Contessa complained about her broken night’s sleep. ‘Gosh, did you hear the noise the recycling bins made in the early hours of the morning?’ she said. ‘It’s like closing time at the pub right along the street.’
‘I heard the shout from the bin man outside our gate,’ said Nick.
‘I think he threw his back out trying to lift our yellow bin,’ said La Contessa. ‘It’s ridiculous to suggest drinking has gone up just because bottle shops are selling more.’
‘Exactly, my Latina lush, I have not been to Rockpool, the Roosevelt, Smoke, the pub – in fact anywhere at all in weeks. My drinking is sinking.’
‘At least I don’t ever have FOMO any more,’ said La Contessa, ‘because no one else is doing anything. Have you seen Baxter? I can’t find him anywhere and I think it’s time for you boys to go for a walk. Baxter!’
She headed off into the house and Nick took the opportunity to finish mixing his pre-walk martini as she called out the dog’s name. Moments later she was back.
‘I can’t find him anywhere. It’s not like him to wander off.’
Nick sprang to his feet and quickly checked the garden gate, which was firmly shut. Baxter’s blanket was balled on the floor and his water bowl was overturned. Bending down, Nick saw scratch marks in the paving.
‘First his kennel is set on fire and now he goes missing. Why would he wander off?’ asked La Contessa, bursting into tears.
‘I’m afraid our questions about the murder of young Rose means someone from Turner Towers has decided to send us another warning,’ said Nick. ‘Baxter has been dognapped.’
CHAPTER 5
Dognapped!
‘Darling, I was just talking to Emily in Queensland and she is allowed to go shopping again. I am almost glad we can’t, as I don’t know how I could shop with poor Baxter missing,’ said La Contessa as the doorbell rang.
Nick staggered back with a large stack of boxes from The Iconic, which he added to the pile that had arrived earlier from David Jones.
‘I can see your dilemma,’ he observed. ‘What exactly is in all these packages?’
‘Wedding outfits, silly. We are going to the wedding to sniff around for clues to Rose Turner’s murder,’ said La Contessa.
‘It’s a Zoom wedding,’ said Nick. ‘And what’s more you don’t know anyone there so you could easily wear one of the many dresses you already have in the wardrobe.’
La Contessa looked perplexed. ‘Sometimes, darling, I can see you speaking but the words just don’t make any sense. Besides, I needed to take my mind off poor missing Baxter.’
‘Our lovable little beagle is not missing, my Imperian idealist: he has been dognapped by some dastardly villain,’ said Nick.
At this, La Contessa let out a wail and dashed into the house, returning moments later to collapse sobbing into Nick’s arms.
‘When you said that, I thought of that scene with the horse’s head in The Godfather and had to quickly check the bed,’ she said through tears.
‘Oh no,’ said Nick. ‘Baxter?’
‘No, he wasn’t there,’ she replied as an ashen-faced Nick sat down with a bump. ‘But Nicky, I want you to employ all your detective skills and get our boy home. And in the meantime I suppose we had better get ready for the Zoom wedding. Even if we don’t feel like it.’
‘I can think of something that might put us in the mood,’ said Nick.
The Champagne cork popped and Nick brought two freshly poured flutes over to La Contessa, who was sitting in front of the laptop in a new Steven Khalil dress.
‘Darling, there are pages and pages of people Zoomed into this wedding,’ said La Contessa. ‘And they all seem to be trying to speak at once.’
‘Have you found all the people who we know live in the apartment block opposite?’ asked Nick.
‘Yes, look, here is the mistress, the widow, the cheating lawyer, who keeps trying to get the attention of his lover, the doctor . . .’
‘Stop!’ said Nick urgently. ‘Go
back a page. Look, there in the background.’
‘It’s Baxter!’ cried La Contessa. ‘It says apartment 6 on the name thingy. Do you think?’
Nick was already flicking through the stolen mail for apartment 6. ‘Stylist Brice Jauffret, apartment 6, that looks like our boy,’ said Nick, picking up their empty pizza box from the night before and striding out of the gate.
La Contessa watched as Baxter started barking in the apartment and the French hair stylist got up to answer the door. The sound was drowned out by the wedding but she saw a familiar pizza box appear in the doorway and then a fist sent Monsieur Jauffret flying across the room with a bloody nose.
‘Baxter,’ cried La Contessa after Nick reappeared with him minutes later. ‘Our family is reunited again.’
Wagging his tail, Baxter eventually extricated himself from the hugs and kisses and retreated to his blanket.
‘Now l can really concentrate on looking for clues at this wedding,’ said La Contessa.
*
‘And this one too,’ said La Contessa, adding another package to the pile Nick was struggling to balance.
‘What I don’t understand is why you need to order so many outfits only to send them all back, my little Perugian purchaser?’ said Nick from behind the mountain of resealed parcels.
‘Darling, I wanted to be sure I looked my best during the Zoom wedding.’
The pile of packages toppled to the floor with a crash that sent Baxter flying into the air in alarm from his blanket.
‘Poor Baxter is a nervous wreck since that awful French hair stylist dognapped him,’ said La Contessa. ‘Why on earth did he do it?’
‘I think Brice may have been instructed to take him and was going to do something terrible to poor Baxter as a warning to us to back off,’ said Nick.
‘You were so marvellous in getting him back, darling,’ purred La Contessa, running her hands through Nick’s hair.
‘That’s a very good point, my Modena Muse,’ said Nick suddenly. ‘Our dognapping hair stylist is the best lead we have to find out who is orchestrating the efforts to stymie our investigation.’
‘What are you thinking?’ asked La Contessa, bending over to pick up the fallen packages and beginning to re-pile them into Nick’s arms.
‘I think it’s time I pay a visit to one of our essential service providers, Monsieur Jauffret, and get myself a haircut,’ said Nick.
He returned much quicker than expected.
‘Missing! What do you mean he is missing?’ demanded La Contessa. ‘That horrible little man was our best lead in hunting down the killer.’
‘I know, my fantastic Firenze fireball, but when I went to his salon, the girl behind the counter said he had not turned up for work and they could not raise him on the phone.’
‘Have you spoken to Cleaver?’
‘Yes, the Detective Inspector has made a couple of discreet enquiries on our behalf. It seems Monsieur Jauffret’s phone is in his apartment, which is empty, and his car is still in the carport.’
‘You mean Baxter’s dognapper has simply vanished into thin air?’
‘I am afraid so: sadly a case of Frog-gone it,’ said Nick. ‘And with him goes our best chance of finding out who ordered Baxter’s dognapping and Rose Turner’s murder.’
‘Oh dear,’ said La Contessa, sinking onto the sofa and rubbing her head. ‘I’m not sure Cleaver and his bulldog, Brian, were the best people with whom to celebrate the easing of social distancing.’
Nick’s tired gaze rested on the large collection of empty Champagne bottles.
‘Something Cleaver said last night did tally up with the clue left by Jauffret’s disappearance,’ he said. ‘That there is always a mastermind behind really big crimes and that they sometimes leave clues because they are being too careful.’
‘Ah yes,’ said La Contessa, perking up. ‘Monsieur Jauffret would never have gone off on his own during a pandemic, when borders are closed and there is nowhere to go.’
‘Exactly. Which tells us that we are getting closer to the killer,’ said Nick.
*
‘Darling, what on earth’s the matter?’ asked La Contessa in alarm. ‘Do you have the Wuhan wobblies?’
Nick remained on the sofa and groaned, holding his stomach. ‘I had a few martinis after you went to bed and then ate some of that hummus you had in the fridge,’ he said. ‘I feel terrible.’
‘No wonder! That’s my yeast starter for homemade sourdough bread. You’ve got a yeast injection,’ said La Contessa. ‘Making your own bread is the big thing in isolation.’
‘My stomach is the biggest thing in isolation around here,’ said Nick, rolling onto his back.
‘Oh, it is rather . . . bulbous,’ said La Contessa. ‘I hope you didn’t eat all of the yeast – it takes time to get the starter working.’
‘Your concern is touching,’ said Nick. ‘At least while I have been lying here staring at Turner Towers a thought struck me.’
‘A thought!’ said La Contessa. ‘I so love it when those cogs start turning. And all along I thought you were just lounging around.’
Nick carried on. ‘You know we have never seen or heard from anyone in apartment number 7.’
‘You are right, darling,’ said La Contessa, ducking back to the telescope concealed under the orange tree. ‘There is a shadowy figure moving around in there but whoever it is never comes out onto the balcony.’
Nick reached across to the pile of stolen letters and tore one open. ‘It’s a letter asking a Mr Hu to attend a skin clinic,’ said Nick. ‘I think our mystery man is a Chinese albino.’
*
‘Baxter, whatever is the matter?’ said La Contessa as the furious beagle alternated between barking and growling at the garden gate.
‘Your mother’s in lockdown so I expect it’s the wine delivery from Vinomofo,’ said Nick, opening the gate to let Baxter go hurtling out. A black-clad figure took flight along the pavement with Baxter hot on his heels.
‘Looks like someone was desperate for a drink,’ said Nick, carrying in the box, which had been opened; one of the bottles inside had been uncapped and was partly empty.
‘Gosh, I know times are tough but if anyone is that desperate they just need to knock on the gate and we could whip them up a martini,’ said La Contessa as Baxter proudly padded back through the gate.
‘Good boy, killer,’ said Nick. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your mouth?’ He took what appeared to be an empty plastic test tube from Baxter’s mouth and patted his head thoughtfully.
‘What is it, darling?’ asked La Contessa, screwing the cap back on the open wine bottle.
‘You may want to throw that one away,’ said Nick, sniffing the empty test tube. ‘Just as I thought, no odour at all. It’s old school, but effective.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The traces of white powder in this tube are arsenic trioxide: no taste at all, especially when poured into a bottle of McLaren Vale shiraz.’
‘Arsenic? You mean that Baxter caught someone putting arsenic in our wine delivery?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mariabella. Someone is trying to kill us.’
‘Well, have you downloaded the government’s COVIDSafe app, darling?’ asked La Contessa, making one of her customary mental leaps. ‘If someone is trying to kill us I want to be able to find you.’
‘I don’t think it works like that, my Bergamo beauty,’ said Nick before adding ‘thank goodness’ under his breath.
‘But why would someone want to kill us and, more to the point, spoil a perfectly good bottle of shiraz with some horrible old arsenic?’ asked La Contessa.
‘Unsurprisingly, I have been giving that some considerable thought since Baxter gave chase to the poisoner,’ said Nick. Baxter’s tail thumped at the sound of his name. ‘I think the poisoner may be the same as the Molotov cocktail thrower who torched Baxter’s kennel. But he is just another of the henchmen. The real brains behind this is someone with a bit m
ore subtlety.’
‘If you ask me, poisoning your neighbour is not very subtle,’ said La Contessa, throwing an angry glance at Turner Towers. ‘I just want to find whoever it is and give poor Rose Turner some justice.’
Nick nodded thoughtfully. ‘If only I had a martini in my hand I think I would have the answer.’
La Contessa harrumphed at that but set about producing the magical, thought-provoking elixir.
‘Perfect,’ said Nick appreciatively after taking a sip. ‘My saucy Syracuse siren, I think we have uncovered rather more than we bargained for. This poisoning attempt tells me that we have not one but two murder victims.’
‘Another victim!’ exploded La Contessa. ‘Tell me who?’
‘In the fullness of time,’ said Nick, retreating to the fridge for the martini ingredients. He was sipping a new one when La Contessa reappeared, asking for his help.
‘Come on, darling, just tug it a little harder,’ said La Contessa, holding her breath as Nick wrestled with the zip of her turquoise satin gown.
‘Why on earth do you have to wear this to walk Baxter?’ asked Nick as the zip finally ground into place.
‘Gowns and Hounds, darling: it’s the new isolation thing. Dress up to walk your dog. You should wear your dinner suit.’
‘And pick up his poops on a silver platter? I will look like Little Lord Baxter’s butler. No thanks,’ said Nick. ‘Although I could wear it to visit your mother tomorrow.’
‘You still haven’t told me who the second murder victim is,’ said La Contessa, clipping Baxter’s lead on. ‘First someone tries to poison our wine with arsenic and now you go around keeping secrets.’
‘He’s not the second murder victim – he is the first murder victim,’ said Nick, dragging out the suspense.
La Contessa stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Nicky!’
‘OK. I believe billionaire Charles Turner was murdered before his daughter was pushed off the top of the building.’
‘No, that can’t be right,’ said La Contessa. ‘Wasn’t he one of the first victims of the coronavirus?’
The Dying Diplomats Club Page 20
