each other before?”
“We met on the first day and it was what the French call ‘coup de foudre,’ Inspector.”
“Forgive me, Miss Salviati,” said Moretti, “but — you are a very beautiful woman. You must have had men making passes at you, falling in love with you, at every step. What was different about Toni Albarosa, that you would risk an affair with a man married to the daughter of the marchesa, who was on the premises, and who clearly has a position of importance on this project?”
Vittoria Salviati swung around from the mirror on her swivel chair, giving both officers a glimpse of slim brown legs beneath her cotton wrap as she did so.
“That’s just it — he didn’t make a pass at me. He just looked at me so sweetly with his big eyes, and told me — oh, the most beautiful things you can imagine! For a whole week before he slept with me! Oh, I’m sure this is all my fault. I’m sure this has something to with that bitch of a wife of his, or that bitch of a mother-in-law of his, or both of them!”
“I don’t think you need blame yourself for his death in that way, Miss Salviati. I think that Mr. Albarosa was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did he ever say anything to you about anything he might have seen or heard during those nightly visits? Outside in the grounds, I mean?”
“No. Mostly we didn’t talk once he got to my room.”
Moretti could think of no adequate response to this.
“Does everyone have to know?” Vittoria Salviati leaned forward anxiously in her chair, affording Moretti a generous glimpse of her much-photographed and beautiful bosom.
“Not immediately, but when we find who is responsible, the reason for Mr. Albarosa’s presence on the terrace at that hour may come out in court.”
There was a knock on the door and the makeup artist put his head into the room. “Miss Salviati’s due on the set in half an hour and — oh my God!”
With a wail and a shriek he ran across and held the actress’s face between his hands.
“Vittoria sweetie, what have they done to you, what have they said to you!” He turned and looked accusingly at Moretti and Liz Falla, the brutal sulliers of his handiwork. “Look at this mess — she’s got mascara and lipstick on her chin, for God’s sakes. I’m going to have to start all over again.”
At the foot of the trailer steps Liz Falla stopped and looked at Moretti.
“That Albarosa had a great act going, eh, Guv? Believe you me, that one works much better than that sleaze Ensor’s slimy gropings.”
“I believe you,” said Moretti. “I want to talk to Monty Lord next, but first we’ll head back into St. Peter Port, and I’ll drop you off at the station. If Chief Officer Hanley asks where I am, you can tell him I’m making further enquiries.”
“Right, Guv.”
“Okay, DC Falla, give me your first impressions,” Moretti said, as the police car pulled in to the side of a narrow lane to allow one of the town buses through. Through the open window Liz Falla called out cheerily to the driver as he passed.
“Well, first of all, I agree with the costume lady — find out why daggers and we’re on our way. But I’m not sure I agree about the past. The French say ‘coup de foudre,’ like Vittoria Salviati said, but they also say ‘cherchez la femme,’ don’t they? I think it’s all about sex myself.”
“You may be right.” Moretti smiled. His partner’s straightforward and unvarnished approach was a salutary reminder of his own tendency to intellectualize and embroider. “And Ms. Chesler may be over-exaggerating the importance of the daggers. When the purple-haired gentleman took a fit at some smudged makeup I reminded myself that we’re dealing with people who act and think theatrically. The use of decorated daggers could be merely picturesque, for effect. And nothing more.”
“The artistic temperament. Or histrionics, like my uncle Vern. So we go back to motive and opportunity?”
“For the time being. But we’ll certainly take a look at the daggers back at the crime lab. If possible, I’d like us to interview Monty Lord and the other actors whose costumes were damaged when we get back to the manor in the afternoon. By the way, I thought you were about to say something when I asked Betty Chesler about her use of the word ‘omen.’ Were you?”
“No, Guv.” There was a pause, and then Liz Falla said, “I just thought she was being fanciful.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up from Hospital Lane when I’ve seen to some personal business.”
“Right you are, Guv.” Liz Falla cast a quick glance at Moretti. “That actress, then — do you think those were real tears?”
Moretti smiled and shrugged his shoulders “I do, but I don’t think that was just grief we saw. She’s genuinely scared that the marchesa will find out, and we’ll have to talk to the widow before we can decide if Toni Albarosa was as sweet and genuine as everyone says. But my feeling is that your instincts are right. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
The restaurant Moretti’s father had once owned was above the cellar that housed the jazz group, the Fénions. It was called Emidio’s — Moretti senior’s first name. It was now run by Rick Le Marchant, the younger brother of Emidio Moretti’s former business partner — a solution that had kept the peace in the extended family, if not the immediate family. As was not uncommon on the island, it so happened that this branch of the Le Marchant family was distantly related to Moretti’s mother, Vera Domaille.
Whenever Moretti walked in through the front door with its red awning, he was stepping into the past — which was why he so rarely ate at Emidio’s, although it boasted some of the best and most authentic Italian cooking on the island. The restaurant smelled particularly enticing today. From the direction of the kitchen wafted the yeasty, fruity fragrance of freshly baked panettone, and through the side of the glass-covered counter shimmered the dark chocolate gleam of dolce torinese, the chilled chocolate loaf his mother had loved so much.
But while he ate his veal scallopine al Marsala or scampi alla griglia, Moretti preferred his digestive system not to be awash with memories of his mother laughing at his father over the low counter that divided the kitchen from the restaurant. That bright memory was gone too soon with her early death, and from then on it was the shadow of Emidio Moretti that wandered between the red tablecloths and took the orders of local and tourist until he sold the business.
Coup de foudre. Like a thunderbolt, his father once told him. Como un fulmine, Eduardo. Not just from the pain in the empty stomach, the ache in the bones from the physical labour, and the ribs cracked from the butt of the guard’s gun. Like a thunderbolt when I saw her face — her great blue eyes and the pity in them. I smiled, and the next day there she was again — only this time she darted out and put a piece of bread in my hand. The day after that it was a piece of cheese — sometimes it was bacon or sausage, if they had any, and they had so little — we were all starving. We were lucky — we were never caught, but she took a terrible risk. Como un fulmine, Eduardo.
“Ed! What brings you here? Thought you stuck to the lower level of this establishment.”
Rick Le Marchant was a small man — small in height but of expansive circumference, with a voice and a laugh as rich and mellifluous as his stracotto or zabaione. He was about fifteen years older than Moretti,
