The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (6 page)

Nothing like making a girl feel comfortable before you have an “informal chat” with her, eh?

I felt a bit flummoxed at all this explanatory preamble. Well, more than a
bit
flummoxed! You see, I'd been on the “right” side of the law for so long that I had forgotten how being questioned made me feel. For a moment or two I was right back at that police station in Cambridge, fifteen years ago, defending myself against the pretty heavy-handed assertion that I
must
have killed my boyfriend because I was the only other person present in our flat at the time of his death. I had been cooped up in that dreadful place for a terrible couple of days, with the entire weight of the police force trying to make me say or do something that would prove me guilty. The feelings of panic I'd had at that time were beginning to creep back.

I kept telling myself that I hadn't had anything to do with Alistair's death, and that the French police would quickly discover that to be the case. Though even as I ran these thoughts through my head, I only half believed them myself. I realized I was picking at the sides of my fingernails as the captain spoke, and I looked up to wonder if he could read the inner turmoil in my face and in my actions. I was probably looking as guilty as hell! And terrified too. I had to pull myself together. I gave myself a quick talking to, settled my shoulders and tried to keep steady eye contact with him as he asked me to recount the events of the evening before.

He asked fairly predictable questions: Why was I in Nice? Why was I at the party? How did I know Alistair? Did I know any of the other guests? Had we all eaten and drunk the same things? What had been my impressions when Alistair collapsed? Had I seen the stolen necklace?

It was at this point that I dared to ask a question, because I was getting quite curious about this stolen necklace.

“At the time that Tamsin Townsend mentioned the ‘Curse of the Celtic Collar' there were people dropping like flies, so I dismissed it—but are you able to tell me what she was talking about?”

Moreau thought for a moment, then leaned forward across his desk and spoke rapidly, his fingers lacing and unlacing as he spoke.

“Monsieur Townsend was planning to give a valuable necklace to Madame Townsend for her birthday. We believe that the necklace disappeared from the apartment some time after lunch on the day in question. That is when Madame Townsend says she last saw it. Her husband then took it away so he could present it to her later that evening.”

He might as well have said he couldn't tell me anything, because I wasn't much the wiser. Clearly, I was in the frame for theft, even if not murder.

“So there
has
been a crime committed,” I observed, maybe a bit wickedly, “but you can't be sure if there's been a murder as well as a theft. Am I being questioned as a suspect for theft?”

The translation of my question clearly made my translator uncomfortable, and drew raised eyebrows from his boss, who pushed himself back in his seat, smiled wryly and said in a broad accent, “Ah, the professeur of criminology she is . . . mmm . . . sharp, I think.”

I smiled back, but thought about the impression I wanted to make—I didn't want to seem to be a smart aleck.

“I sometimes work with the Vancouver Police Department,” I explained. “I get called in to cases to help develop a deeper understanding of the victim. It's my specialty. And sometimes I can provide insight in questioning suspects—the more the investigators know, the better able they are to assess whether the suspect is lying or telling the truth. Now, personally, I know nothing about this necklace, but clearly you have more information about it than you are telling me. Should you be ‘cautioning' me—or whatever it is you do in France when you are questioning a suspect about an actual crime?”

Captain Moreau nodded his head and drew in a long breath as Bertrand translated.

“Professor Morgan, I do not need to caution you at this time as we are still establishing if the necklace in question is missing or if it has simply been hidden by the dead man. We do not know if M. Townsend was poisoned intentionally or accidentally. It is all unknown. But, tell me, I am interested in the opinion of a criminologist—what do
you
think happened last night?”

I weighed my words carefully, and was as honest, and brief, as I could be.

“M. l'Capitaine, I think that someone poisoned something that we all ate or drank last night, and that, for some reason, the poison affected Alistair more than the rest of us. I don't know if he was the target of the poisoning, or if someone else at the gathering was supposed to die, or if we were all just supposed to become ill. As I have told you, I didn't know anyone else at the party other than Alistair, so it's difficult for me to be more informative. If I think about Alistair as the intended victim, I'd say that at least three people, Chuck Damcott, M. Fontainbleu, and Mme. Schiafino, disliked Alistair's involvement in a project to build a swimming pool in the gardens of the Palais. As for my own knowledge of Alistair—well, I might as well be open and tell you that he was known, during his working life, as a man who liked to have information about people that he could hold over them, in order to get them to do his bidding. I have no idea if that was a pattern of behavior he had continued into his retirement here in Nice.”

The captain rubbed his hand through his hair as Bertrand translated. He looked thoughtful as he scratched the side of his nose and leaned closer to me across his desk. “Did you
like
M. Townsend, Professor?” he asked.

“No,” I answered bluntly, “I disliked him intensely.”

He nodded, appearing to have made up his mind about something. Then, quite abruptly, he stood up and held out his hand to shake mine.

“Thank you for your honesty, Professor Morgan,” he said, looking down at the notes he'd been making. He looked me right in the eye as he added, “It is interesting to hear the point of view of someone who did not like the man whose dinner invitation they accepted, and who was the only guest unknown to anyone else at the table. You will not be leaving Nice until we have discovered the exact cause of M. Townsend's death, Professor.”

I felt a chill run through me. Good grief—when he put it like that, I was clearly high on the list of suspects if Alistair had been murdered. A stranger at the table the night a man that I hated had died? I saw his point.

I was determined to not skulk out of Moreau's office. I held my head high as I swung my purse onto my shoulder and turned for the door, toward which Bertrand was rapidly marching.

As he held the door open for me to pass through, a thought suddenly occurred to me, and I turned back to see the captain making notes.

“M. l'Capitaine,” I called across the wasteland of incongruous, fitted carpet between us, my voice echoing in the large room. His head popped up. “I have just remembered that Alistair
did
consume something that none of the rest of us shared with him.”

“
Oui?
” he was clearly interested.

“While we were having drinks on the balcony he smoked a cigar.” I felt pleased with myself.

“Was it his own cigar?” asked the captain.

What an odd thing to ask!
I thought, but I then gave the idea some consideration, and supposed it was a reasonable enough question, though not something that had occurred to me. “I don't know,” I replied truthfully. “I saw a wooden box that could have been a humidor on one of the little tables inside the apartment, and I know that Alistair enjoyed his cigars, so I suppose, at the time, I assumed it was from his own supply. But I don't know that to be a fact.
I
certainly didn't give it to him, but I guess any one of the others at the party might have brought it for him. No one else was smoking cigars.”

“Thank you,” was the captain's curt reply, and he resumed his note taking. I was well and truly dismissed.

As we walked back to the main entrance, I thanked Pierre Bertrand for his efforts with the translation. He smiled and bowed politely, assuring me it was nothing at all. I also ventured to enquire about my fellow guests, and how they were faring after the medical emergencies of the previous evening. He looked uncertain and shuffled from foot to foot as he answered.

“I do not think I can do any harm by telling you that only Mme. Townsend is still at the hospital. She was sedated last night and is still being observed. But everyone else has been released, like you.”

“Thanks for that,” I replied gently. I could see he was concerned about how much information he was allowed to give me, and I didn't want to press him. You see, I was already beginning to think of this as a “real case,” whatever the captain might have said, so talking to those who knew Alistair here in Nice, living his new life, was high on my list of things to do. That's what I do . . . I learn about victims to help work out why they might have become a victim in the first place.

I didn't really need any inside information from Bertrand—I knew I could track down Beni Brunetti through the museum, and I knew that all the other guests lived at the Palais, so I
had
to be able to get hold of them somehow. And, giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I was truly concerned that the two older members of our group were, in fact, well enough to be at home, alone: they might have been released by the doctors, but were they feeling well enough to really look after themselves? Oh, okay then, I'll admit it—that was just my internal justification for wanting to talk to them about Alistair. Rationalization is something of a personal forte.

Rather than push for more from the young policeman, I decided to leave and rely upon my own investigative skills, some of which I have picked up by osmosis from Bud and his team. I looked at my watch and calculated the time in Vancouver. There were still a few hours before I could reasonably phone even an early riser like Bud, so I decided to fill my time the best way I could and find myself somewhere to eat. When in doubt, resort to food.

I LEFT THE POLICE STATION
as quickly as I could, and headed toward the sea. As I walked through the busy streets I was only vaguely aware of the sun in my eyes and the breeze on my face. I finally forced myself to become more alert to my surroundings as I was jostled by the crowds pressing together under the shaded walkway alongside the Galleries Lafayette. I decided to head to the Cours Saleya for lunch. I still felt robbed of my relaxation there the day before, so thought I'd try again, even though I knew that my enjoyment of
moules marinière
and rosé wine would now be tinged with—what? Sadness? Not really. Guilt? Certainly not. But . . . something. Call me selfish if you must, but I was beginning to realize that my position was far from enviable. I could end up stuck in Nice at the heart of a murder investigation for weeks!

Okay, so there are worse places to be, and I was pretty sure that they'd be able to organize someone to teach on my behalf at the university—but think of the cost! Good grief—it was all well and good the department covering my hotel for a few nights, but what if I had to stay longer? Who would pay then? I was pretty sure that my travel insurance wouldn't cover “out of pocket expenses incurred as a result of being suspected of murder.”

That was a bridge to cross when I came to it. Rather than worry about things over which I had no control, I told myself to get my act together and get myself some lunch. I wandered past the bustling restaurants alongside the flower market and found myself an unoccupied table at one of the last eateries. Yesterday I'd sat at the one with the yellow awnings and chairs and today I thought I'd pick the one with the red awnings. The menus at both seemed to be pretty similar, and both offered what my palate yearned for—mussels. Having missed breakfast, and not having eaten much at all the night before, I was ravenously hungry. It's not a state with which I'm overly familiar, as I like to make sure there's always something around that I can snack on.

I settled down and accepted a menu from a young girl in a white T-shirt, black pants and a long white apron. Yes, I knew what I wanted, but I do so enjoy reading menus. I find I can eat my way through them in my mind, my mouth watering at the idea of all the lovely flavors and textures being offered. I was just enjoying the thought of
loup de mer
with
pommes frites
when there was a polite cough to my right.

“Professor Morgan, Cait, it is I, Beni Brunetti. May I speak with you?”

I looked around to see Beni standing there with his hand extended toward the chair opposite me, and a hopeful smile on his face. His teeth were magnificent. As were his eyes, and his hair and . . . well, you get the picture. Call me shallow if you want, but I couldn't see what harm it would do to allow an incredibly handsome, intelligent, and well-educated Italian to join me, so I smiled back and motioned for Beni to sit.

“How do you feel today? Well?” he asked, his rich tones resonant but quiet.

“I'm feeling fine, thank you, Beni. I seem to have rediscovered my appetite!” I laughed and patted my tummy. “Not that I ever really lose it,” I added quickly. I always think it's better to get in cracks about my weight early—that way people get the idea that I'm comfortable with it. At least, that's what I hope.

“Ah, Cait—you must not worry about things like this. Body image is a cultural phenomenon, and it is also cyclical. Because we live in times of plenty, it is fashionable to be very thin. In times of great need it is fashionable to be plump. What matters is health and enjoyment. Eat, drink, be merry. The Romans had it right. They were, however, much healthier eaters than many think.”

I was a bit taken aback by this opening. Considering that we had met under what had become such deadly circumstances, I had half expected Beni to only want to talk about the events of the previous evening. He seemed to be quite content to just sit and chat about food—my favorite topic.