SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery (4 page)

BOOK: SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery
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“Did she walk in that direction, or in the opposite direction towards Gino’s place?”

“Towards her place. I insisted she let me drive her. Her father would have wanted me to. I mean, she was in no state…but she said the air would do her good.”

“She had no flowers with her at that point?”

“Flowers? No. Just a handbag.”

“Mr. Christiansen, how long have you been driving the
Howes?”

“Eight, nine months.”

“Have you been in London long?”

“Long enough to know my way around.”

“Essential in your line of work, I imagine. Is this your only line of work?”

Christiansen flushed pink beneath his pale skin. “I’m training for the stage. I lived in L.A. for a time doing the valet-acting thing, but I thought I might get further if I came here to study as a Shakespearean actor. I hope to
get into the RSC and perhaps go back to the States later.”

Rex wished him good luck and said he’d make a good Hamlet. The Dane gave the faintest of smiles and got back to his task of sprucing up the limo.

“By the way, do you know where the Italian Ambassador lives?” Rex asked over his shoulder. “It would save me time looking it up.”

Christiansen straightened his lean frame, the polishing cloth dangling from his right hand.
“Of course. He’s a friend of Sir Howes. He was the guest of honour at the club party that night.” He gave Rex the address.

*

Rex waited in line at the coffee house across the street from his borrowed flat. Done out in shades of brown and beige, with a framed floor-to-ceiling mirror behind the polished wood counter, the café exuded a fragrance of French custard and the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. He ordered a latte and two pastries, and took his breakfast into the park.

A solitary
green bench in a corner beckoned among the copper beech, oak, and horse chestnut trees. He sat enjoying the watery sunshine, while drifts of creamy white blossoms ruffled in the breeze at his feet, and savoured the moment along with his breakfast before making his first in-person call of the day.

The previous night after dinner he had spread his notes across the living room table and moved the
angle poise lamp from the small desk. He had worked for a while in the pool of light, making annotations and studying photos of the scene of the accident. Then, chewing on his dry pipe as he contemplated the framed posters on the wall depicting red maple leaves in autumnal Beijing, he had considered likely scenarios relating to the hit-and-run, based on the facts supplied by Mr. Whitmore and on his own information. One stood out. Abruptly he had left his work on the table and gone out on a clandestine mission.

He now watched in distraction while a disheveled old woman, the front buttons on her tweed coat misaligned, rolled a shopping bag made of stiff tartan cloth along the diagonal path through the park. The material bulged with elongated cylindrical shapes. Rex was in no doubt as to what the zipped-up bag contained. Whatever the lady’s alcoholic preference, she appeared eager to get home to consume it and proceeded at a purposeful clip. Would Elise
Howes, with her predilection for drink, have ended up the same way? he wondered.

A sudden gust ripped through the trees sending a new shower of woodsy-scented chestnut blooms onto the grass. Retrieving his black
brolly, he rose from the bench. He discarded the coffee container and pastry box in a corrugated iron bin, and exited the park. On the street he hailed a black cab, giving the driver the Italian Ambassador’s address.

Vittorio
Scalfaro was home, confined to a day bed in the drawing room with a professed migraine, and draped in a silk robe of midnight blue. He was almost comically flabbergasted when the Scotsman told him he had found his silver Ferrari in Giannelli’s “other” garage undergoing a touch-up.

“You found my stolen car?”

Judging by the decor, the ambassador was a man of refined taste, and Rex felt frumpy by comparison. But Scalfaro was not a good liar, at least not for a diplomat.

“Not stolen, Ambassador,” Rex said pointedly.
“Merely temporarily out of commission. Your private club gave me a list of the valet-parked cars for Friday night. Yours was returned to you withoot a scratch shortly before Miss Howes’ accident.”

The man’s clean-shaven face sank into blurred lines. Rex decided to cut him some slack.
Scalfaro appeared to be suffering enough.

“You probably did not see the young woman step out onto the street. A van blocked your visibility, and it was dark. Had the wheel been on the right-hand side, you might have seen her sooner and had a chance to break.”

“Alas, so true!” The ambassador spoke in melodious tones, like Gino’s. “I should have bought a car with British steering, but I planned on driving the Ferrari back to Italy. Signorina Howes leapt out of nowhere! I felt the impact and took off in a blind panic. I didn’t realize at the time that the pedestrian was Sir Howes’ daughter. I thought I should get home right away and seek legal advice. After all, a person in my position… How would it look?”

“Worse now,” Rex informed him. “The police will suspect you of drinking. And charge you with fleeing the scene of an accident.”

Scalfaro raised his hands in supplication. “A gin and tonic and two glasses of wine with dinner. It is conceivable I was going too fast—one always does in Ferraris, but traffic was light. I am filled with remorse. But, what can be proved?”

Not a lot, Rex thought; except that the man was a coward. To top it all, he had diplomatic immunity from prosecution. What, he enquired out of interest, had
Scalfaro’s legal advice been?

“To wait on events.
When no one was able to identify my car, my attorney suggested I get it fixed without delay using the utmost discretion. The repercussions as Italian Ambassador to the UK could be embarrassing in the extreme, and Parliament has enough embarrassment to deal with. If only I could turn back the clock of that terrible night!” Scalfaro lamented.

Aye, thought Rex, but the girl would probably be dead anyhow, at
Giannelli’s hands.

And what did Rex plan to do with this information?
the ambassador asked, rising shakily from the Victorian day bed.

“Not my decision,” Rex told him, excusing himself with a curt goodbye.

It was time to confront Gino Giannelli.

*

Rex consulted his notebook for the business address Mr. Whitmore had provided, and availed himself of the waiting cab. A shower broke out as they took off down the quiet leafy street and turned onto a thoroughfare. Rex sat back on the worn seat and re-ordered his thoughts. Getting some sort of confession or at least confirmation of his hypothesis from Elise’s fiancé would be crucial to wrapping up the case.

“But the police searched my premises.” The young Italian spread his arms wide, indicating the breadth of hangar filled with a half dozen imported luxury cars. He gestured impatiently to a mechanic to leave them. The place was immaculate, the smell of new tires and engine oil intoxicating. Rex who, incongruously for his size, drove an economical Mini Cooper, found himself seduced by the sleek long bonnets and sexy rear ends of these gas-hungry predators. Gino caressed the
moulded front quarter panel of a cherry red Maserati GranTurismo with almost sensual pleasure. Clearly these machines were his passion.

“I was referring to a body shop which you omitted to tell the detectives
aboot,” Rex enlightened him. “I saw a freshly sprayed silver Ferrari in there.” He had shinnied up a drainpipe the previous night with a pocket torch, a precarious endeavour considering his bulk, but in the pursuit of justice worth the risk of a broken ankle.

“So?”

“It made me curious and more than a little suspicious, especially when I saw the diplomatic plate. I traced it back to a Vittorio Scalfaro whom you sold it to in March. Your personal assistant was very helpful when I called this morning posing as a potential buyer. As was the house agent who found you the new premises.” And Mr. Whitmore, of course. The solicitor had identified the Ferrari as belonging to the Italian Ambassador, a friend of Sir Howes’.

“Your point?”
Gino demanded, showing impatience.

“The ambassador came to you for a repair job—a little
quid pro quo
.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d been dining in Mayfair and left the club shortly before the accident, in which he has admitted his involvement. Perhaps he saw you at the scene.”

“He didn’t. Nobody saw me.” Gino fell silent, realizing his error. His hand struck the two-door coupé he’d been fondling. “
Merda!
” he swore.


Say It with Flowers stays open late at the weekend. The girl at the shop told me a man fitting your description paid cash for a bunch of chrysanthemums just before closing. Mums?” Rex asked emphatically, raising an eyebrow.

“They were a peace offering for being late,” Gino explained—warily.

“Roses are more romantic, not so?”

“The roses were drooping and sad. I liked the look of the golden balls. So sunny, so alive! I got them on the way to her place.”

“Spur of the moment?”

“That is how I am.
Impulsive. They told me at Presto’s she had left not long before. I saw her on the street and called out her name.”

“What then?”

“I explained I had overslept from a nap and was coming over to her flat to surprise her. I offered to walk her home, but she was having none of it. She was angry, and a little drunk. She only accepted the flowers when I threatened to throw them in the gutter. The next thing that happened was an accident. She stepped into the road still shouting at me over her shoulder. The driver took off in a hurry, and I couldn’t make out the number plate. It happened so fast.”

Giannelli
mopped his brow with the cuff of his spotless blue overalls. “I knew Elise’s father would blame me, even though it wasn’t my fault, so I left when I saw another person coming to her aid.” Rex felt sure he would have fled anyway. “Later, when Vittorio dropped off his Ferrari, I had my suspicions. A yellow petal was stuck in the grille.”

“But you couldn’t be sure he hadn’t seen you, so you did the repair, no questions asked.”

Giannelli made no reply.

“The good Samaritan heard Elise say ‘Chris’ and ‘Jean’ with her dying breath. I suspect she was trying to say “chrysanthemums” and managed the first part of your name, Gin-o. The chrysanthemum in your country represents death. The flowers you gave her were a death warning. Not true?” A sous-chef at Presto’s had supplied this interesting tidbit when Rex asked if chrysanthemums were popular in Italy, thus confirming what his suicidal ex-girlfriend had told him.

Gino shook his head derisively, going so far as to tap his temple to indicate the Scotsman’s lack of sanity. “You are reading too much into all of this.”

Undeterred, Rex continued his theory. “You heard the powerful engine of a speeding car and pushed Elise in front of it, not realizing it was
Scalfaro’s Ferrari. The left-hand drive may have afforded the ambassador less reaction time as Elise ‘leapt’ onto the street, as he described it. A wee push by you in her inebriated state would have sufficed.”


Vaffanculo!
” Dark fire flashed in Gino’s eyes. While Rex did not understand what had just been said, it sounded obscene nonetheless. “Why would I want to kill her?”

“Several reasons.
First, you saw her in the limo with Christiansen and got jealous.”

“I admit I saw her with the chauffeur, but she got out soon afterwards, and I followed.”

“Even though you were cheating on Elise, you didn’t like seeing her kiss another man. But you had planned to kill her anyway, before she could cancel the cheque for your business. Hence the Ecstasy, which Shannon saw you take with you and which you would have rammed down Elise’s throat once you got her home, and then made it look like suicide. But she blew you off on the street, and her indiscretion with the Dane served to add fuel to the fire. You saw another opportunity for murder when that Ferrari came tearing down the road. Impulsive and spur of the moment,” Rex added with a mirthless smile. “Is that not how you described yourself?”

BOOK: SAY MURDER WITH FLOWERS: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery
10.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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