The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (17 page)

“Excuse me.” I thought I'd try to get everyone's attention before I began. “I don't know about anyone else, but, if I'm going to have to wait here until Captain Moreau arrives, and none of us have any idea how long that might be, then I really am going to have to eat something approaching a proper meal.”

Everyone's eyes were on me. I wondered if anyone was thinking that I could probably afford to live off my own fat reserves for a week or two. No one spoke. I carried on.

“Tamsin—you and Beni mentioned earlier that restaurants can deliver any type of food. Is there, maybe, some place locally that could deliver something we could all share?” I didn't go as far as to suggest pizza, but frankly, the thought of a large, thin-crust pepperoni with extra cheese appealed enormously!

Still no one spoke. The expressions around the table suggested that everyone was thinking it was Tamsin's place to take action, but she didn't speak. I piped up again, “You see, I wouldn't know who to call, Tamsin. Do you have a list somewhere? Or Beni, could you suggest a place?”

At last Beni spoke. I'd given him the chance to do something positive. “Of course I know a place—the place where we had lunch today. As you know, Cait, the food there is very good and I know the chef. I can call him. He will send whatever we want. So, Cait—what will make those beautiful blue eyes sparkle again?”

I felt myself flush—that second cognac must have reached my cheeks at just that moment. Damn!

“Pasta? Chicken? Steak? He can make them all. Though I do not think that fish is good if it is delivered—it will be cold too quickly. And you, Chuck? Gerard? And poor Tamsin—you must eat. I will order for you all if you like.”

Ah, good old Beni—back in control.

I'd been cross when he'd ordered my lunch, but now I didn't give two hoots what he had in mind for me—I'd have eaten a pair of old boot soles glued together with jam if he'd put them in front of me at that moment. Given that I was in one of the world's centers of culinary excellence, I didn't feel too guilty hoping for something a little tastier.

There was a general nodding around the table, and Beni marched toward the kitchen, announcing loudly that he would make all the arrangements. I could hear his voice booming into the telephone as he barked rapidly in Italian to someone for whom the last twenty-four hours had
not
been a rollercoaster of murder, poisoning, police, robbery, death, and more police. No wonder I was hungry!

“That was a good idea, Cait,” commented Chuck quietly. “We could all do with something. And even if Tamsin says she's not hungry, she has to keep her strength up.”

For what? She doesn't actually do anything.
I looked at the waif-like blond to my right who was nodding off in her chair, her head bobbing down then popping back up. What I actually said, sounding concerned, was “Yes, of course.”

Chuck nodded toward Tamsin and whispered, “Sedatives?”

I shrugged. “I guess,” I replied, although I didn't think that sitting in a hot bath and drinking champagne had helped very much. I smiled at Chuck. I tried to look sympathetic. It's the sort of response I knew would be expected.

Chuck then nodded in Gerard's direction. He, too, was doing the head-bobbing thing, but in his case it was understandable. He was over eighty; he'd spent the night in hospital—probably getting as little sleep as I had; and he'd just had a pretty big shock . . . and a couple of pretty large cognacs, too.

I smiled at Chuck, “I know how he feels—I bet we could all do with a nap at some point. How did you get on at the hospital? Did they keep you in all night?”

Chuck seemed distracted, and answered absently, “Yes, they let me out around six this morning. I came home, showered, and tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I kept thinking about Alistair.” He fell silent for a moment, then added, “Cait, what do you think happened to Alistair? Do you think that Madelaine's death can possibly be connected to his in any way?”

I felt my multi-purpose right eyebrow lift as I said, “I think someone wanted to kill Alistair and poisoned us all to achieve that, and, yes, I think that Madelaine's death is connected to Alistair's in some way.” I trailed off, realizing that I was, after all, talking to a suspect. I didn't want to give too much away, even if Chuck did look more like the all-American everyman who disappears into the background than a violent killer.

“Did Beni tell you about the robbery at the museum?” I asked. I didn't think he had. Chuck looked surprised.

“Today?” he asked, sharply.

“Well, the thinking is that it took place last night, but, yes, it was discovered earlier today.” I could hear tiredness in my own voice. I lit a cigarette—that would keep me focused.

“What did they take? I've been there a few times—though it's not really my era—and they've got some great stuff there. I'm sure a lot of it is very valuable.” Chuck wasn't wrong.

“They took a couple of statues, and some little ink-wells I think Beni said they were, and some papers that Beni was working on. They only got into the offices, not the actual display areas.”

Chuck nodded sagely. “They were lucky, then.”

I decided to not tell him about the archives and the necklace. My natural inability to trust a stranger led me straight to the thought that I really wanted to talk to Bud about Madelaine's death. But I knew that before I did that, or spoke to Moreau, or even ate, I had to find a place where I could be alone and get the events of the last hour or so into a proper perspective.

Beni's reappearance from the kitchen, proclaiming that food would arrive in half an hour, snapped both Gerard and Tamsin out of their torpor. I got to my feet and ground out my half-smoked cigarette. Then I grabbed my handbag.

“Just got to use the you-know-what,” I said, and I headed off toward the downstairs bathroom. As I walked through the kitchen I glanced about and spotted a little notepad, which I picked up. I locked the bathroom door behind me, turned on the extractor fan to create some noise, took the only seat available, and tried to concentrate on what I'd seen at Madelaine's apartment. I screwed up my eyes, started to hum . . . and I was there once more . . . 

I can see my hand putting the key into the lock—the lock is perfect, no marks or scuffs: it hasn't been forced or picked. The door opens silently. I smell mothballs and garlic . . . and something else . . . what is it . . . 
Gerard's cologne
. He's standing next to me. Very close. I can hear him breathing. We see our reflections, and Beni gasps. I move forward and to the left where I can see the room. It is clean, well dusted and polished and, though everything in it is old, it is well tended. No—not everything is old. The television is new and large, and, now that I see it again, it is quite out of place here. Very flat. Very expensive. Tucked into the corner is a laptop computer, hooked up to various cables.
All very high-tech for a woman in her nineties.
The chair in which Madelaine is sitting is new, though its style is old, as is the pattern on the upholstery fabric. Is there anything else out of place?
No.
It all seems to be a variety of furnishings that were once costly and are now well worn and much polished. I look again at the space where the missing photograph once hung. It is only visible when you walk to, or from, the kitchen. Madelaine doesn't sit and see her young self while looking into the garden, or watching the television; the picture is behind her then. She only sees it when she's bringing something from the kitchen to the living room, or standing at the window or
TV
and looking toward the front door.

Madelaine's body is upright in the new/old chair. The angle of the chair is slightly reclined. I look at her feet and ankles. They are dark and mottled with lividity, which means she's been dead at least thirty minutes, but probably not more than twelve hours, and she likely died in this position. Her hands have fallen into her lap. Were they placed there? I don't think so, I think that's where they fell naturally. Now I can see what is wrong. If she had simply died as she sat there, she would have fallen forward, or at least sideways.
Someone has propped Madelaine in her upright position after her death.
She didn't just die—someone killed her, then rearranged the body. She is wearing the wedding band and gold watch she had on at dinner the night before, but her clothes are different. She has changed her clothes since leaving the hospital that morning. There are no signs that would suggest a corrosive poison or something that would have made her convulse. It seems she died quite peacefully.

Now I think about the kitchen—I can see two bowls that have been used and washed but not put away, a cup and saucer, a mug, and a coffee pot, too. There's a huge, stainless steel refrigerator squashed into the tiny space.
That's new: there are still traces of the plastic coating around the trim.
Is there anything else here that's odd? No . . . but the smell of garlic is not strongest in the kitchen—it's strongest in the living room. Why would that be?
I'll think about that.

Is there anything else to see? Or smell? Or touch . . . No, I am careful to not touch anything. Do I feel anything? Yes . . . I feel the air move; there's a through-draft. I take myself back into the kitchen, and I see that the top portion of the window is open, though the shutters are almost closed. Like the window in the museum, it is tiny and high up. Why do I think of the museum? It must be the window.

I'm tired. I'm done. I'm hungry.

I got up from my “seat” and leaned on the edge of the basin, looking at my reflected self in the harsh lights and thought,
Oh, Cait—you look exhausted
. My God—little had I thought, when I'd got on that plane a few days ago, that
this
would be my experience of the fabulous Cote d'Azur!

Rather than wallowing in self-pity, I looked at my watch and decided to give Bud a ring. I pulled out my phone and dialed his cell, but I only got voice mail. Of course, he was out in Chilli-wack-wack-wack doing his Gang Busters thing and probably all the paperwork accompanying an operation like that. I left a message.

“Hi Bud, it's Cait. I hope your Chilliwack thing went okay. It's about eight at night here now, on Saturday of course, and I have to announce another dead body. The elderly woman, Madelaine Schiafino—though apparently that's an assumed name to lend an air of respectability to a woman who gave herself to the Gestapo, then ran off with German booty at the end of the Second World War. We've got to hang around to speak to Captain Moreau . . . I wonder if you've spoken to him about me yet? I guess I'll find out soon enough. Anyway—it was digitalis that we all got dosed with, Alistair more than the rest of us, which is why he's dead and we aren't. I don't know about Madelaine: hers might have been a natural death, but I doubt it, because I think her body was rearranged after death. If you fancy giving me a ring I'd say that I'm likely to be up and about until at least your three o'clock today . . . but, honestly, call any time. It would be great to hear a friendly voice about now. I'd really like to talk about all this with someone I trust. Okay. I'll bugger off now. Hope to hear from you soon . . . Byeeee.”

I pushed the off button. I know I'd only been talking to an empty line but, somehow, I felt as though Bud had been with me, and had gone. I felt very alone.

I used the loo, washed up, put on some more lipstick, and hoped that by running my fingers along the dark circles under my eyes, they'd magically disappear. They didn't. At least I'd made the effort and, when I smiled at myself, I looked relatively perky. I was ready for dinner and the people out there. But first I asked myself if I'd made any sense of the Madelaine thing. I realized immediately that nothing much made any sense at all. So I held my head high as I marched back through the kitchen. I hoped the food would arrive quite soon because I was reaching a place I had never thought existed—I
wasn't
looking forward to nibbling any more pâté de foie gras!

AS I REJOINED OUR “PARTY”
on the balcony, Tamsin was whining that she was cold. Chuck tried to pacify her and offered to bring her a shawl. Beni suggested everyone should move inside. Gerard sat quietly, and I could see his eyes glistening with tears. I wondered what I'd missed. I moved toward Gerard and asked, “Are you alright?”

“I am very tired,” he replied heavily. “I wish the policeman comes soon. I feel I must sleep.”

I patted him on the arm and suggested that I might make some coffee, though I was a bit apprehensive about doing so because I remembered how very complicated the coffee maker had looked.

“Coffee will come with the food,” was Beni's response to my general enquiry.

“Did you order decaf?” asked Tamsin sharply. Personally, I've never seen the point of decaffeinated coffee—it's just hot, brown liquid that tastes like . . . well, not coffee, in any case.

“For you, I did,” replied Beni, smiling graciously. Obviously, he knew her preferences. I could only imagine they were numerous and demandingly precise.

“Good,” replied Tamsin. “Caffeine is very bad for you, and if I drink it now, I'll never sleep. My mind's racing as it is.”

That must be a novelty for it
, I thought. “That's only natural, Tamsin, given the circumstances,” I said. “You must be desperate to know what happened to Alistair, like we all are,” I added.

Beni, Chuck, and Gerard all nodded, but Tamsin's response floored me.

“I know what happened to Ally. He died because of the digital-
is
.”

I couldn't leave it there, now could I? The woman was a complete idiot!

“Tamsin, if the snails were somehow dosed with the digitalis, aren't you the least bit curious about how the digitalis got there? Or who might have done it? And what about Madelaine? Don't you think that her death is somehow connected to Alistair's?” I knew I was raising my voice, but I'd reached the point where I felt that was all I could do to get through her thick skull.