The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (7 page)

“Will you eat?” he asked, picking up the menu himself.

“Oh yes,” I answered quickly, “
moules
for me, I think.”

“They are good here,” he replied, nodding, “but I shall take the pasta with clams. The chef here is Italian and makes very good pasta. He knows the sauce I like.”

As he sat there, completely comfortable in his body and his surroundings, I wondered what it must be like to be able to live like that. Don't get me wrong, I love my life, I can sometimes feel quite presentable when I'm all dressed up, and I can get along with most types of people in most types of situations. But he . . . well, he seemed to not just fit into his surroundings, but to epitomize them. The young waitress returned to our table with a notepad and a tray.

“
Moules marinière
for the lady, and I will take
linguini con vongole
 . . . tell Toni it is for Beni. He knows the sauce I prefer. We will drink Cotes de Provence rosé. Right away for the drinks, please.”

Beni spoke in a low, commanding voice. I was a bit annoyed that he'd ordered for me, but I calmed my natural desire to object by telling myself that he'd ordered for me what I'd have ordered for myself, so what was the point of even mentioning how rude I thought it was that he would just step in and take over? Sometimes I have quite long conversations with myself about such things, but it's not every time that I manage to hit the “edit” button before I open my mouth. Maybe it was the way that his eyes were smiling at me that stopped me from speaking out. Maybe it was just because I was so hungry that I didn't have the energy to object.

“It is a warm day for May,” observed Beni as he turned his face to the sun and replaced his sunglasses. I reached into my big, messy handbag to look for my Guccis. I'd bought them about twenty years earlier, on a weekend trip to Brighton, in England, with Angus—that ex of mine whose death had caused me so much grief, and I don't mean grief because he was dead, but because the police had thought I had killed him. Of course,
he'd
called the Jackie-O specials a “waste of money.” Spending money on anything but booze had always seemed like a waste of money to him. God—what had I been thinking, sticking it out with him for so long? I reckoned that by amortizing the original cost of those sunglasses over the years, they were now the cheapest pair I'd ever owned. It was strange, and a bit scary, to think of all that those glasses and I had been through together.

“Nice glasses,” Beni remarked as I popped them on. “They work very well with the shape of your face.”

You may keep on complimenting me that way for as long as you like,
I thought. I smiled. I was beginning to warm to a man who knew what I wanted to eat and drink and who wasn't afraid to tell me that I looked nice. I wondered if these were abilities passed from all Italian fathers to all Italian sons, or whether it was more about Italian mothers teaching their sons just how to go about nabbing women with whom they could produce the next generation.

“We should talk about what happened last night.”

Beni's remark surprised me. Of course, I'd suspected we'd inevitably end up doing just that, but he introduced the topic very abruptly. I was beginning to learn that this was his manner.

Before I could respond, the waitress returned with a curvaceous bottle of pink wine, two empty glasses, two more full of ice and an ashtray—all of which covered the small table completely.

“Thank you, no ice,” said Beni, and she took away the ice-filled glasses. He poured the wine and pulled a packet of long, slim cheroots from his inside jacket pocket.

“You will smoke?” he asked.

At least you're not lighting two of them and handing me one
, I thought, but I said aloud, “Not those, thanks—I'll stick to these.” I dragged a somewhat squashed packet of super-slims from my purse. I
will
give up. One day. In the meantime I stick to the tiny slivers of cigarettes that are just about half the size of real ones.
And
I don't smoke them all the way to the end.
And
I hardly smoke in Vancouver at all—there really isn't anywhere to do it, except inside your own home, or in your car. In Nice—well, many places are designated “no smoking,” but the outdoor terraces of the bars and restaurants are open to the elements where you're allowed to burst into flame if you want.

I lit up and just took it all in for a second or two. There are few things more glorious than sipping cool wine and inhaling smoke while listening to the jolly bustle of the Nicoise markets around you and smelling a hint of garlic in the air—the promise of a wonderful meal to come. For a moment, time seemed to stop . . . and I was blissfully happy. Then I opened my eyes, dragged myself back to the full reality of my situation, not just the fun bits. I thought I should reply to Beni's earlier statement.

“Last night was a first for me, Beni. I've worked on quite a lot of police cases, and many, many academic ones; I've been around bodies a fair bit, and I've even attended autopsies, but I've never seen anyone actually drop dead in front of me before. What about you?”

Was I trying to shock him? Was I just plain showing off? Either way, I didn't get the reaction I'd expected.

“I have seen three people die,” Beni replied gravely. “My father, in a hospital bed, which was a terrible loss, and which upset me a great deal, even though it was expected . . . A trusted colleague who became trapped under a fallen marble column at a dig we were working on in southern Italy, which made me angry and frustrated, because I couldn't help him. And, now, Alistair.”

He paused and seemed to be searching for words. I sat there chastising myself for making him think I was a completely heartless idiot.

“Alistair's death made me feel . . . relief,” said Beni, almost with surprise at recognizing his own feelings. He drew deeply on his cheroot and nodded his head slowly as he blew smoke high into the air in a thin, blue stream. “Yes, relief,” he muttered, huskily.

“That's interesting,” I said. Aloud, as it turned out, which surprised me, because I'd meant to only think it.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, slowly. “I thought his death would have made me feel . . . something else.” He looked puzzled.

Of course, all the time that he was puffing and looking handsomely confused, I was wondering why he'd feel
relieved
about Alistair's death. It was intriguing, to say the least. A good-looking man with an air of mystery about him—how dangerous is that? I told myself to be objective, to try to find out more, rather than allow myself to be carried off into the realms of a romance novel.

I sipped at my wine, and simply watched Beni for a moment. Then I ventured, “Had you known Alistair for long?” I had to try to find out more, but gently.

“A couple of years, I think,” replied Beni, still seemingly distracted.

“How did you meet?”

“It was a fundraiser for the museum. I cannot remember which one—we have many, you understand. There is a great deal of work to be done and not enough money from the government. I think it was a Primavera Evening. Yes. Two years ago, last spring. Alistair had been suggested as someone who might supply, or donate, food—the escargots from his farm. My assistant contacted him, he agreed, and, of course, he was invited to the evening. I met him and Tamsin at the event. After that, I was invited to their home many times, and Tamsin visited the museum often. Alistair came once or twice. They both liked it that I was able to get them
VIP
tickets for the jazz festival at the Cimiez Arena. I think that the music was not to Tamsin's taste: she attended because it is chic to do so, and she liked to be seen to be in all the fashionable places. Alistair seemed to be interested in the artists, but was happy to be seen at the concerts with Tamsin at his side.”

That fitted with my assessment of both Tamsin and Alistair: a wannabe airhead with a rich, older husband, who was, himself, happy to show her off as the trophy wife she was. A cliché that exists because it's true in so many cases.

“Are both you and your wife friends of the Townsends?” I asked as innocently as I could. You can't blame me for wanting to know, can you?

Beni gently rolled the end of his cheroot against the inside of the ashtray, depositing a perfect column of ash, and smiled broadly, giving me a sideways glance that was almost conspiratorial.

“My wife is gone. She and I no longer live together. She lives in Milan. I live here. It is better this way. We will not divorce. It sits well with us both.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” I replied feebly. I swear my stomach tightened at his response. I told myself it was because I was hungry, not because . . . oh, well, you know!

“Do not be sorry for me. It is life.” He raised his glass to me and sipped.

His comments seemed very philosophical and wise. Not so very different from Bud, in many ways—but head and shoulders above him in the looks department, of course, Bud not ever having been “beaten with a handsome stick,” as he himself put it.

I smiled as I thought about Bud, and wondered what he'd say about Beni. More to the point, I wondered what Jan's comments about him would be. “Oh Cait—I got married to Bud, I didn't go blind!” was something she'd said to me once when we'd been out having coffee and she'd spotted a good-looking guy in the crowd.
She'd
like Beni: she liked the tall, dark, and handsome types . . . which was odd, considering that Bud was quite short, very blond and more rugged than handsome.

My thoughts about Jan and Bud were interrupted by the arrival of our food, and the rearranging of the table that was required to allow our plates to be fitted onto the tiny space. Mussels and clams take up a lot of room because you need somewhere to discard the shells. The waitress managed, eventually, to place all the dishes, and she left us to the pungent aroma of garlic, wine sauces, and shellfish—and the embarrassingly loud rumbling of my tummy!

“
Bon appétit
,” I said, deferring to my French surroundings. I picked up my glass and drank a mouthful, before peering into the huge bowl of
moules
in search of a shiny blue shell that looked about the right size to act as my “picker.” Immediately my sunglasses steamed over, forcing me to take them off to wipe them with my napkin. I put them back on again. Then I dropped my napkin on the floor, so had to retrieve it before stuffing it into the neckline of my top, right underneath my chin. I know my own shortcomings when it comes to missing my mouth with food, and nothing
ever
has a chance to get as far as my lap, so covering my bosom with a protective layer is the best thing for me to do.
Then
I found a good-sized shell, popped the first fleshy mussel into my mouth and savored the deliciousness of white wine, pepper, celery, carrot, onion, garlic, butter and broth that coated the plump little mollusc in a totally blissful, utterly comforting taste sensation. Boy oh boy, I
love
good food! I know that I closed my eyes as I ate, and I opened them to see Beni smiling at me.

“You enjoy your food,” he observed warmly.

I chewed greedily, swallowed reluctantly, and smiled back. “You're not wrong” was the only reply I was prepared to take the time to make, before picking up another beautifully marked shell in my left hand, plucking out its moist contents with the shell I now held in my right, and placing it onto my eager tongue.
Heaven!

Luckily Beni surrendered himself to full involvement with his pasta and we both ate hungrily for a good few minutes. As I picked out mussels and tossed them into my mouth, Beni orchestrated the most amazing display of pasta eating I have ever seen—if you want to be truly mesmerized and entertained, watch a heart-wrenchingly good-looking Italian man eating linguine—the things he could do with a fork and his tongue! I kept thinking about the eating/seduction scene from the movie
Tom Jones
. Of course, Beni and I weren't seducing each other, nor were we tearing at chicken legs as though they were bodices and breeches, but I have to admit that my senses ran at “overload” for quite some time. Maybe the wine was going straight to my head. Maybe
that
was it. In any case, I loved every minute of it.

We managed to finish our bottle of wine before either of us had got as much as halfway through our respective meals. Beni motioned to the waitress for another. Should I have stopped him? Probably. Did I stop him? No. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” my mother used to say. I'm pretty sure she hadn't had such circumstances in mind, but I felt justified in applying it to the situation.

Despite the overwhelming desire to capitulate to my sensory indulgence and simply enjoy the moment, I thought I'd better try to keep something of a conversation going, so I asked Beni about the mystery necklace. It intrigued me.

“Do you know anything about the ‘Celtic Collar' that Tamsin said was missing? The police weren't very forthcoming, and she was wailing on about a curse, or something. It all sounds very mysterious.”

Beni's reaction, once again, took me by surprise.

“
Quella collana!
” he shouted angrily, and he slammed his hand onto the table, causing a mini-tsunami in my mussel broth. I must have looked horrified, because he immediately apologized. Profusely, and with lots of hand waving.

“I am sorry, so sorry, Cait,” he cooed. “I must not be angry, but it is this necklace. Alistair should not have it. He has no right to ‘own' it. I am sure he has come by it illegally. I should have it. In the museum. It is an important piece. It is a piece for the world to see. It has a value beyond being a piece of jewelry! All that Alistair cared about was its monetary value!” His body language spoke of passion and rage.

“
I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to upset you,” I said apologetically. “How do you mean ‘it is important'?” Now I was really curious.