The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (23 page)

I walked out of my hotel to be greeted by a beautiful morning. There literally wasn't a cloud in the magnificent blue sky; it wasn't just the color of the sea that had caused this area to be named “azur.” My hotel was adjacent to the
zone piétonne
, so I walked the pedestrianized streets until one particular coffee shop smelled too good to pass by. I sat and ordered a double espresso, a bottle of Perrier water, and two croissants.

As I waited for my order to arrive I lit a cigarette, just to fit in, and decided to brave it and call Gerard's number. Uncomfortably, all I got was the ring tone, not even a chance to leave voice mail. I became rather more worried about what might have happened to the old man, which spurred me on to dare to dial the number that I hoped was Beni's.

A deep-voiced “
Pronto
,” was the sharp reply.

“Is that you, Beni?”

“Yes—ah it is Cait, I think?” came Beni's welcome response.

“Yes, it is—I hope you don't mind me calling you?” It was a concern for me, on several levels. “You must have been with Moreau until all hours, and it's not ten o'clock yet.”

“No, do not worry, it is a good surprise. How did you get my number? Did I give it to you?”

“No—but you're in the phone book. I looked you up.” Was I beginning to sound like a stalker?

“This is good! Would you like to meet for breakfast? I would enjoy your company. We seem to eat together a great deal, you and I. It is very pleasant.”

I'll be honest, my heart fluttered a little. Well, whose wouldn't? I've never been the sort of girl, or woman for that matter, that men take out on dates. I've always just sort of drifted into relationships. I know some women who are showered with flowers and gifts, collected in cars at an appointed time, taken out for nice dinners or even to the theatre or art galleries—all of which I would enjoy very much. But that hasn't been me. I'm “The life and soul of the party, Cait,” or “You're always happier down the pub, aren't you, Cait.” Here was a handsome man telling me that he enjoyed eating with me, and inviting me to do so again. It sounded pretty damned perfect! How I wanted to say yes, but instead, I did what I knew I
should
do.

“I'd love to, Beni—but I actually called you about Tamsin.”
What a way to put a damper on things, Caitlin Morgan! When a man you fancy asks you to join him for a meal, tell him you'd rather talk about a young blond who's “got the hots” for him instead!

“Tamsin? What is wrong now?” Beni sounded apprehensive, and as though he dreaded my answer.

I took a deep breath. “She rang me at my hotel telling me I ‘had to come' because something dreadful has happened to Gerard. Please don't think I'm heartless, Beni; I think Gerard is very sweet and I'm very worried about him, especially given . . . well, you know.” I didn't want to discuss dead bodies in front of a full café at breakfast time. “But I knew that if I was going to have to face another day like yesterday, I had to take the time to get myself cleaned up, and now I'm just about to grab a coffee and a croissant. I called the number I found for Gerard, but there's no answer, and Tamsin isn't listed in the telephone directory, so I couldn't call her back to get the full story.
You
were listed, so I thought you might be able to get in touch with her to find out what on earth is going on.”

“It might be something very bad, or it might be nothing at all,” said Beni, echoing my own initial thoughts. It was nice to know I wasn't alone in my assessment of Tamsin. “I will call Tamsin and will telephone you on this number when I have more information.” He sounded very businesslike, then he hung up.

There went my chance to dine with the divine Beni. I comforted myself with the flaky, buttery croissants I'd ordered, and put my phone on the table so I could answer it quickly when it rang. My phone bill was going to be horrendous!

I'd just finished brushing crumbs from my blouse when my phone sprang to life. It wasn't Beni's number.

“Hello?” I replied hesitantly.

“Hi, Cait?” It was Bud. I was delighted to hear his voice—relieved too.

“Bud—yes, it's me! It's great to hear your voice. I was worried about you. Where are you calling from? Are you okay?”

“Cait, shh—listen, I've got to be quick. I can't talk for long, but I had to call you quickly to tell you I'll be out of touch over the next few days. I've got something to deal with here that has to have my full attention, and I won't have time to help you out at all. Sorry, but there it is.” His voice sounded . . . I couldn't quite put my finger on it . . . defeated, yet still angry? He was almost whispering.

Instinctively, I knew that whatever it was he had to focus on, it was serious. My mind flew to the shooting I'd read about on the internet.

“Are you in South Surrey?” I couldn't help but ask.

“How do you know about it?” snapped Bud. It wasn't like him.

“I read about it on the internet,” I replied, guardedly.

“I didn't know the news was out yet. At least, not all of it. Damn! Anyway, Cait—it's nothing you can do anything about. The whole team's on it, and we're pretty much sure we know who we're looking for, and where we'll find him. It looks like the idiot used his own
SUV
to drive away from the hit, and a witness got his plate number. He's holed up at a house that belongs to a known associate of his in Delta. I have to go now. I'm sorry I can't be there for you, but this has to take precedence. I'm sure you understand.”

“Of course, I understand, Bud. Will it be . . . dangerous?” Again, I couldn't stop myself asking.

“It's always dangerous with these guys, we all know that—and this one, more than most. This is a new low, even for him. Dangerous or not, we'll get the bastard, you can be sure of that. If it's the last thing I do—I'll get him!” He sounded desperate, a man on a meaningful mission.

“Okay Bud—just go. All the best. Thanks for calling, it means a lot. I'll be fine. And give my love to Jan . . .” but he'd gone before I'd finished speaking. It had to be something big if he was still working on it at past two in the morning. Poor bugger—it looked as if he was having as bad and as long a Saturday as I'd had!

I'd hardly had time to begin to feel sorry for Bud, and Jan, who had presumably already spent half of her weekend on her own rather than with her beloved husband, before my phone rang again. This time I recognized the number as Beni's.

“Hello Beni—so what's up?” I asked, almost casually.

“It is very sad,” he replied grimly.

“Oh my God—what now?” My heart sank as I thought of all the things that might have happened to poor old Gerard—and there I'd been sipping coffee and stuffing my face with pastries!

Beni's voice was strong and controlled. “When Gerard was dropped off at the Palais after Moreau interviewed him last night, he fell on the front steps and broke his hip. The police were still there, so they took him straight to the hospital, where they operated last night. He is doing well, but he is likely to be in hospital for some time. He needed supplies—clothes and so on, so he called Daphne, whom we met last night, because she has a key to his apartment. She then called on Tamsin at her apartment, because she knew that she and Gerard were friends. This is what set Tamsin off.”

I could imagine it had. I was sure that, somehow, Gerard's unfortunate accident had immediately been interpreted by Tamsin as relating to her in some way, shape or form.

“So are you going to see Tamsin—or Gerard in hospital?” To me the answer seemed simple.

“First I will collect you,” replied Beni, giving me a nice, warm feeling, “then we will see Tamsin, and we will gather some items for Gerard from Daphne, and take them to him in hospital. He is the one who needs us the most, but Tamsin must be dealt with first. I thought I might call Chuck and ask him to meet us as Tamsin's. What do you think?”

“I'm in the
zone piétonne
right now. How about I walk down to the Meridien hotel on the sea-front and I can meet you there?”

“Yes. Good. I will be there in twenty minutes—it is a date!” replied Beni, and he hung up.

I'll admit I was smiling as I finished my coffee and water. I suspect that I over-tipped quite a bit, but, in my own defense, I was feeling rather pleased with myself. I wanted to get going quickly so I could make full use of the Four Star public facilities at Le Meridien before Beni arrived to whisk me away in his flash car. I trotted off toward the glittering sea, knowing that I was going on a date . . . even if it had taken an octogenarian getting a broken hip to make it happen. Yes, I know it was a bit “Tamsin-y” of me—but a girl's got to make the most of the opportunities that present themselves.

Seventeen minutes later—yes, I was clock-watching—I stood outside the swanky entrance to the glamorous hotel that my university couldn't have afforded for me to stay at for half an hour, let alone five nights. Beni arrived in his magnificent convertible, its roof down, his sunglasses glinting with gold embellishments, dark hair blowing in the breeze, shirt collar open wide and showing off his perfect tan. He screeched to a halt, leapt out of the car, and opened the passenger door for me, then closed it carefully, as though as though I were a precious cargo.
I could get used to this
, I thought. I smiled and buckled up. His driving, as well as the law, made this a necessity.

As we pulled away, I knew I would remember that moment forever. It was one of those feelings you get only ever get a few times in your life. Something has allowed you an insight into another world not as an outsider, or an observer, but as a participant. It was heady stuff, and I could feel the excitement in the pit of my stomach as Beni Brunetti and I swept toward the Palais on that stunning May morning.

When we squealed to a halt at the giant black gates, Beni hopped out to press the buttons for Tamsin's apartment. She buzzed us in. Instead of pulling up in front of the main entrance to the beautiful old building, Beni swung to the right, along the driveway heading back down the hill, but now inside the walls of the gardens surrounding the apartment building. He took it slowly, which was a relief, giving me a chance to look around as we descended. I hadn't had an opportunity until then to see the gardens that were Gerard's life's work. Soon we were parked, and Beni rushed to open my door once more.
Yes, I waited for him to do it—well, it was such a treat!
We began the walk back up the hill toward the front entrance to the building.

“Is this where you had to park last night?” I asked to get the conversation started.

“No, farther on. It goes all the way around the bottom of the gardens, but it is one way only, so it can take a while,” he replied, seemingly lost in thought.

About a quarter of the way up, Beni placed his hand lightly on my arm and said, “Come this way. Let us walk through the gardens, then you can see how beautiful they are, how lush and how well tended.” I was surprised to hear him speak with such interest of something other than an ancient relic. I'm pretty interested in gardening, but in the passive sense. I like to see them and visit them, rather than work in them. I thought I might be in for a treat, in more ways than one.

We stepped over a low wall that ran between the driveway and the garden proper. We were transported from a world of grey stone walls, brown pea-gravel, and blue sky into a green cocoon that immediately felt cooler and gentler. Huge palms towered above us, and at our feet was a surprise—grass. All around us were beds demarcated by low, well-trimmed box hedges, and inside each bed was a mass-planting of one species, some of which I recognized. Roses, some sort of Shasta daisy, and bougainvillea occupied sunny beds, while shadier beds housed red and apricot astilbe and—good grief . . . 

“Look—foxgloves!” I cried involuntarily.

Beni jumped. I apologized and took his arm.

“I'm sorry—it's just that I thought it would be too dry and too sunny to grow foxgloves in this climate.”

“You are correct. I know that Gerard has tried very hard to grow these flowers. He tends them with much care. Do you like foxgloves?”

“Why, yes, they're a favorite of mine. They seem to be blooming much earlier here than they do in the area where I live,” I remarked.

“It is warm here through the winter. I think they awake more quickly and grow more vigorously here.” He smiled back at me. “I, too, like these. Farther up Gerard has some yellow ones. Shall we look?”

I was intrigued. “I didn't know there
were
yellow foxgloves. Yes, I'd love to see them.” We moved off at a slightly quicker pace.

As we walked, the thought occurred to me that maybe a killer trying to find digitalis didn't have too far to look after all. I managed to put aside that macabre thought for a moment or two and was able to enjoy the buds that were just bursting open on a bed of yellow foxgloves. I wondered if I'd be able to find them back in Vancouver—I made a mental note to check. In the meantime, I allowed myself a moment or two to turn and look back down onto the whole canvas of the gardens. My word, Gerard had done a good job! It was true that now he was aided by a group of much younger men, but the vision had been his, the planning was still his and—oh, the poor man. I could imagine how he must have felt about the big hulk of a swimming pool being sunk into this wonderful creation.

“Do you know where they plan to build the pool?” I asked Beni, not expecting him to know much about it.

“But yes,” he replied. “You see the beds near the bottom corners that have the olive trees in them?” I nodded. “You see the beds about half way up with, on the right, the red roses and on the left, the white roses?” Again, I nodded. “Those would be the four corners of the pool. A retaining wall would be built on this, the higher side, and the pool will be sunk into the cellars that are below the gardens.”