by Lisa Fernow
A true asado, as Eduardo explained it, involved grilling nearly every part of the cow including steaks, sausages, tongue, liver, and sweetbreads, and serving it all with a chimichurri sauce of garlic, parsley, lemon juice, olive oil, and other closely guarded ingredients. This would be served to an assembly of family and friends with a simple green salad, crusty bread, and a tannic Argentine Malbec to wash it down. The event would normally take several hours. Not unlike a North Carolina pig roast.
Bobby brought up two bottles of cabernet from his cellar and poured his houseguest and himself a glass each before loading the charcoal into the chimney and firing up the grill. When the heat had gotten to the two-Mississippi stage he seasoned the sirloins simply with salt, per the Argentine’s instructions, and placed them over the coals. It was still warm enough to sit outside although they wouldn’t be able to linger as the sun was starting to set.
“Tell me, Roberto,” Eduardo said as he chopped parsley for the chimichurri sauce, “what do you think Detective Morrow was looking for when he asked you and Roland about the Colombian emerald?”
The very subject that had been bothering him: the stone and, more importantly, the invoice. “You mentioned you had heard of Klement Antiquedades. Would you happen to know the people who run it? Personally, I mean?”
“I have not done business with them, no. Why do you ask?”
Bobby prodded the nearest steak with his forefinger. “I know Klement. Or at least I recognize the name. Or perhaps, more accurately, its significance. Ricardo Klement was an alias for Adolf Eichmann.”
“The Nazi?”
“Eichmann came to Argentina in 1952. Aside from his role in exterminating Jews he is believed to have financed the entry of other fugitive Nazis and collaborators into Argentina. Of course you must know this. I’m lecturing. Bad habit.”
Eduardo reached for the garlic bulb and pried off several cloves. “It can’t be the same man. Eichmann was hanged.”
“It could be a relative. He had four children.”
Eduardo smashed a clove of garlic with the blade of the chef’s knife and began to peel off the skin. “How did you learn about this connection?”
“Any Jew would know. And it’s sort of a pursuit of mine. Some people track down stolen works of art to restore them to their rightful owners. I used to help track down stolen works of art to find the people who took them.”
“Escaping Nazis financing their new lives with property stolen from the Jews? And you brought them to justice?”
“I didn’t go after them myself, naturally.” Bobby took the steaks off the fire and laid them to rest on a platter, tearing off a sheet of aluminum foil and covering the meat. “Just did the research. Nearly all of them are dead now, of course. Today it’s mainly lost and found.”
“But the past is never dead, is it? You are still doing what you can to repair the damage of your war.”
Bobby hadn’t really thought about it in quite those terms but on reflection the statement fit. “I suppose that’s true.”
“I do, as well. I counsel victims of our Dirty War—the direct survivors and the many who lost someone they loved.”
Bobby wanted to ask Eduardo if he had a personal connection to the Dirty War but didn’t know how to put the question without potentially opening up old wounds.
“You seem to be very close to Barbara.” Eduardo rolled her name off his tongue, Baar baar raaaah, making it sound very exotic.
Bobby picked up his wine glass and swirled its contents.
“She is passionate. Such fire! Have you ever considered her as a possibility for you?”
Bobby felt the back of his neck redden.
Eduardo chuckled. “I see you have. What is there to be embarrassed about?”
“I’m too old for her.”
“Nonsense. A young woman appreciates an older man’s sophistication. How do you feel about her?”
“What do I think?”
“No, Roberto, I asked you how you feel.”
The sun had nearly set. He could hear a chorus of Pseudocris crucifers trilling for their mates. If you kissed a frog it turned into a prince. “She told me Roland seduced her and let her down. I’d like to ... ” Bobby took a gulp of his wine, a little more than he meant to.
“Do what? Beat him? Kill him?”
What an idea, Bobby thought. “That’s a bit extreme.”
“The action, certainly. The feeling would be quite natural.”
“Not for me.”
Eduardo refilled Bobby’s glass and topped off his own. “You may well be angry at Roland. Is it possible that you also think Barbara might have had something to do with Nathalie’s death? Perhaps you fear she attacked in a passionate outburst, hoping to cause Roland or Nathalie an injury, and went too far?”
The possibility had to be considered, of course, but until that moment Bobby hadn’t realized just how acutely it had been bothering him. “Unfortunately I’d closed my eyes for the critical period so I can’t honestly say she has a complete alibi.” He watched Eduardo’s face carefully. In the dusk it was difficult to fathom the Argentine’s expression. “Unless you can provide her with one.”
Eduardo reached into his jacket pocket for a nearly empty pack of Dunhills and a lighter. “With your permission?”
“Of course.”
The Argentine tapped out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. “I can assure you, your impetuous friend and I were together through the whole song.”
“You wouldn’t protect her, out of gallantry?”
“I feel much sympathy for Barbara and I have no love for the authorities … but in this case any deception would be unnecessary.”
Bobby felt a rush of relief. “I did something rather foolish. I told Detective Morrow you and Barbara were sitting in the corner when you were really along the middle of the wall. And I placed us in the center of the room when we were really dancing the perimeter.”
“You remember where we were sitting?”
“Very clearly.”
Eduardo took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled noisily. “I think we should talk about how you are going to cultivate this romance.”
“I can’t. Really. I’m too old for her.”
“In Argentina age suggests stability and maturity: a man who can take care of a woman. And every man needs someone to take care of.”
“What about yourself?”
Eduardo fell silent for so long Bobby was afraid he had insulted him.
The Argentine turned his face to the sky, as if to find the words he needed there. “I was married once.” His voice caught, and it was obvious he was in the grip of strong emotion.
Bobby looked up too, but the sun had burned out and there was nothing left but its scarlet reflection.
The tip of Eduardo’s cigarette lit up, intermittently, like a firefly. “Graciela and I were very much in love. It was during the Dirty War. Do you know who the Montoneros were?”
“Left-wing terrorists of some sort.”
“I was a Montonero.”
Bobby realized he had just called his guest a terrorist. “I beg your pardon.”
“I was not an active guerilla but I sympathized with their goals. After Perón’s government fell it became very dangerous to be linked to them. Graciela knew about my past. She wanted me to disavow my association or go into exile. But I could not leave my family or my country. We argued about it repeatedly. One night one of my Montonero friends overheard us, and without telling me …” Eduardo’s voice broke. “They killed her. She could identify them if she was ever interrogated, you see.”
“Good God.”
“They rushed to judgment and I failed to stop them. There is nothing I can do to make up for that.”
Bobby nodded.
“For a long time I thought it would be best … not to love again. Then I met Nathalie. She reminded me of Graciela; Mama recognized the resemblance before I did. But Nathali
e turned out to be a worthless imitation. I made a mistake.”
By that point the darkness had crept up on them and all Bobby could make out was Eduardo’s silhouette and the glowing end of his cigarette brightening and dimming.
“Pero, Roberto, this is what I wish to say to you: the bigger mistake would be not to love.”
CHAPTER 48
The Spell’s Wound Up
MORROW ARRIVED AT ANTONIA’S HOUSE promptly at ten to find her waiting on the doorstep. It was the first time he’d ever seen Antonia with her hair down. It framed her face in Pre-Raphaelite waves, the one prematurely white streak only adding to her beauty.
She led him into the house and into her dining room where a pot of tea and a carafe of coffee awaited on a warming tray. Sugar and cream and a store-bought coffee cake had been set out on the table. Shawna brought in a stack of china plates and cups and three place settings complete with cloth napkins. Antonia poured him a cup of coffee and one for herself. Shawna poured herself a cup of herbal tea. None of them touched the coffee cake.
Get on with it, he thought. “I’m going to need your help tomorrow, Shawna. We’re missing a key piece of evidence. We didn’t find it when we searched the guests that night so it’s still in the house. We think the murderer is going to try to remove it before Jackson arrives for the walk-through.”
“I see.” Shawna fell silent for a few moments. “What do you want me to do?”
“Anybody comes, just let them in and keep out of their way. We’ll search them when they leave.”
Antonia said, “Why don’t you let me wait with Shawna? Then we’ll be two against one, and I have martial arts training.”
Morrow knew he was walking a fine line with what he had planned. “Nobody’s going to attack Shawna.”
“Who are you expecting?”
“I can’t say.”
Shawna gingerly tested her tea but it was evidently still too hot. She replaced the cup in its saucer.
He placed his case file on the table. “You have to keep this to yourselves.”
Shawna nodded and Antonia said, “Swear.”
He opened the file, pulled out the first autopsy photo—a close-up of Nathalie LeFebre’s face. The dead woman’s eyes, one green, one brown, stared out at the camera. He passed it over without comment.
Antonia said quietly, “I remember. She’d lost a contact lens.”
“Nathalie LeFebre was pregnant,” he said.
Antonia rocked back and forth in her seat. “I knew it!”
“My God. A baby.” Shawna ripped open a sugar packet and managed to get most of it into her teacup. It was the first time he’d seen her really rattled. “Who was the father? Was it Roland’s?”
“We don’t know, yet.”
Antonia said, “It has to be.”
Shawna Muir shot up from her chair. “I’m sorry. I can’t—do you need me for anything else?”
Morrow said, “No.”
“Please excuse me. I’ll see you later, Ant.”
Shawna gathered her sweater around her and made her way out of the dining room. A few seconds later Morrow heard the front door open and shut.
He and Antonia were silent for a few moments.
She finally said, “Shawna always wanted children.”
What a pity Shawna had ever fallen for Roland Guest, Morrow thought. But she wasn’t the first to love the wrong man and she wouldn’t be the last. His eyes strayed to the scar on Antonia’s cheekbone. How had she gotten her ex to leave town? He knew he had no business asking, especially not now. He passed her a second photograph, an extreme close up of Nathalie LeFebre’s bare back. Two dark gashes stood out.
She grimaced.
“The blow that killed Nathalie penetrated the heart. But, as you can see, there was a shallower cut above it.”
She traced the wounds on the photograph with her forefinger then twisted around to feel for the same places on her own back. “So Nathalie was definitely the one he wanted. Nobody gets stabbed twice by accident.”
“That’s one implication.”
“What other implication could there be?” Antonia picked up her dinner knife and held it as if she was going to stab someone. “I don’t get it. How could anybody have possibly stabbed Nathalie twice without being seen?” She hacked at the air. “It would be awfully obvious. Are you sure the second cut was made by the same knife?”
“We think not, actually. The kitchen knife had a serrated edge. Looks like the shallow cut was made by a short, straight-edged blade.”
“Is that why you asked Shawna about ninja stars? The murderer misses once and tries again with another weapon?”
He waited. He’d developed a healthy appreciation for her instincts.
She looked more closely at the photographs. “I guess it’s too much to imagine two separate people trying to kill Nathalie on the same night.” She hacked at the air a second time and replaced the dinner knife on the table. She frowned. “If there’s a second weapon it must have prints on it. Nobody at the party wore gloves.”
“Unless the murderer wiped them off.”
Antonia said, “I have to believe someone would have noticed that.”
“Not necessarily. With enough nerve the murderer could have done it under your very noses without anyone noticing.”
“How?”
“By covering their actions with a behavior that would look normal in that situation.”
“Like drying dishes. Of course. Roland going to the freezer for ice.” Antonia unfolded her napkin and pretended to dry the knife in it. “But in that case the dish towel would show traces of blood.”
He nodded.
Antonia said, “You don’t really believe the murderer was able to wipe off the small knife, do you?”
“It’s possible the prints are still on it.”
“I honestly have a hard time imagining why Roland would kill Nathalie. It’s not like she could have forced him to marry her. Nobody cares about out-of-wedlock pregnancy nowadays.”
Possibly not, Morrow thought, but if he was right Nathalie LeFebre had much better ammo. “Don’t worry about motive, think about means and opportunity. How and when it could have been done.”
Antonia made a face as if trying to contain her impatience. “We went over this before when we thought we were dealing with a kitchen knife but Roland could have hidden a small blade between his fingers, I guess. It would have to have been in his right hand as he’d have held her hand in his left while they were dancing. He could have jabbed her with something sharp to get her off the dance floor, I guess. Then he could have used the kitchen knife while he was sitting with her. For that to work he’d have to have had it ready nearby, maybe stashed under his chair.” She shook her head and the white lock of hair fell over her eye again. “If Roland wanted to kill Nathalie he’d have been better off doing it at his house. Make it look accidental—knock a hair dryer into the Jacuzzi.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
She smiled. “That’s right.”
“What about the others?”
“Barbara. She could have used Shawna’s puñal.”
“Nope. It was clean.”
“Could there have been a pair of daggers? Maybe she wore one on each leg. No, that won’t work, I helped her with her garters that night and there was just the one. Don’t raise your eyebrows at me like that; it’s not impossible there could be two of the same thing. Okay. Barbara was sitting out and her hands would have been free. But nobody saw her go near the dance floor. If Barbara did it, she used something from the house, and it was on the spur of the moment.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she didn’t know about Nathalie and Roland getting engaged until that night.” Antonia grinned. “She was so pissed. I could see her killing either one of them out of pure rage.”
“Means and opportunity.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Okay. Argentines traditionally carried knives with them. Maybe Eduardo had
one and took a swipe at Nathalie while he was sitting in the dining room then noticed the kitchen knife and decided to use it for the fatal blow. If he used his own knife for the first cut why bother switching to the kitchen knife? And what did he do with the one he brought? How could he hide it where the police couldn’t find it in a regular search? He’d never been to the house before.” She came up for air. “He suspected Nathalie was unfaithful. Did he want to kill the woman who’d humiliated him?”
“Means and opportunity.”
Antonia pushed her chair away from the table. “I can’t see how anyone could have done it. There were too many witnesses.”
The first weapon had to be still at the scene, Morrow knew. But where? With the exception of the library Shawna Muir’s house was fairly uncluttered.
“… or Bobby sharpened the flaps in his ice tray and used it to attack Roland for seducing Barbara because he has a thing for her except his eyesight was so bad he nailed Nathalie instead. Are you listening to me?”
“Of course.”
“The weapon must identify the murderer in some way. It could have prints on it or it could be someone’s personal belonging. You think the murderer can’t afford to leave it there and will try to get rid of it, don’t you?”
“Exactly.”
“I have a very bad feeling about this.” Antonia clutched her stomach as if it had gone into a spasm. “What do you want me to do?”
He knew what he was about to say would drive her crazy.
“Wait.”
CHAPTER 49
Esperar
To wait, hope for, or expect
ALMOST SIX FIFTEEN. Darkness had fallen.
The trees in front of Shawna’s house had long ago lost their leaves. The yellow Do Not Cross police tape across the entrance to the screen porch glowed with reflected light from a nearby street lamp. The bungalow was dark. No sign of life.
Antonia backed her Audi into the driveway of the house across the street. The drive was one of the old-fashioned kind with two parallel tracks of rutted Georgia clay.
