brother retired. He had not substantially altered the decor of the restaurant, but a greater profusion of plants and vines now climbed in and around the stuccoed walls, thanks to his wife’s green thumb.
When Emidio Moretti came back to the island and courted Vera Domaille, it had been the Le Marchants who had found him his first job with Don Bertrand at the Héritage Hotel, and for the penniless Italian immigrant, they became his island family. Moretti knew his father was not the voluble, emotional Italian of popular perception, who wore his heart on his sleeve and poured out his innermost thoughts to anyone who cared to listen, but if anyone knew anything about Emidio Moretti and his family back in Italy, it would be a Le Marchant.
“Hi there, Rick. I’ll have some of your great bruschetta and, if I may, a little of your time.”
“Done. Annette can take care of three tables.” Rick Le Marchant called out to the pretty dark-haired waitress behind the counter, “Two orders of bruschetta and two espressos, Annette.”
The coffee arrived, Annette returned to the kitchen for the bruschetta, and Rick Le Marchant looked speculatively at Moretti.
“Is this business? Any problems downstairs I should know about?”
“God, no. At least, not as far as I know, and I’m sure Deb would tell you.”
Deborah Duchemin was the manager and hostess of the Grand Saracen, where Moretti played jazz piano, and in which he had a part interest. From time to time, the club ran into trouble with members of its clientele who thought it would be a fruitful drug-selling venue, and had to be dissuaded, arrested, or thrown out.
“Yup. She’s a tough biddy, that Debby. Now,” — Annette deposited the bruschetta on the table and departed — “what’s up?”
“My godmother just died in Italy. I didn’t know her that well, but she’s left me with a request in her will that’s a puzzle. I only remember meeting her on two occasions, although I think my father took me back to see his family quite soon after I was born. And yet she’s kept quiet all these years, not spoken to anyone who might have helped her, and waited until after she herself had shuffled off this mortal coil to ask for my help.”
“What does she want you to do?”
“Now that’s real bruschetta,” said Moretti, finishing a luscious mouthful. “Hold on —” he reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper, “she wants me to find someone called Sophia Maria Catellani.”
“Sophia Maria Catellani.” Rick’s cherubic face was uncustomarily solemn.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
“Catellani means nothing to me but — I don’t know. What I mean is, Sophia Maria seems to ring some sort of bell, and yet — hold on. I’m going to make a phone call.” Rick looked across the table at Moretti. “I would have to share this with my mother. She’s in a nursing home on Mount Durand now, but her brain still functions fine. It’s her body that has let her down. That okay?”
“Fine by me.”
Moretti watched as Rick went through to his private office. He was aching for a cigarette. Instead he ordered another espresso, and exchanged a few words with Annette, who was dying of curiosity about the film people up at the manor. She was less curious about the murder than she was about whether Moretti had actually seen any of the stars, and disappointed that he had only spoken to Vittoria Salviati.
“What’s she like?”
“Beautiful.”
“I know, but what’s she like? Was she nice?”
“Yes, she was nice.”
Rick returned, and Annette scurried off to the kitchen with her scrap of insider information. Vittoria Salviati was nice.
“Did I say my mother’s brain was functioning fine? Understatement of the year. Firing on all cylinders, enough to continue to be a thorn in my side. I’ve got something.”
“She knows something?”
“Well, depends on whether you think it’s something. It may be coincidence.”
“Not sure I believe in coincidence, not in my business. Go on.”
“She says — after much hemming and hawing about what a negligent son I am, and how good a son-in-law Emidio was to his poor aged mother-in-law — that she seems to remember that if you had been a girl your name was going to be Sophia. Or Sophie. She’s not sure which, but of that much she is sure. Sophia or Sophie.”
“Well, well,” said Moretti.
As Liz Falla turned the police BMW into the courtyard of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine and found a parking space between an immaculate period Mercedes and a battered contemporary Honda, an agitated figure rushed out from among a gaggle of helmeted fascisti making their way across the courtyard. It was Gilbert Ensor. He was shouting as he approached.
“Thank Christ you’re back — where the hell have you been?”
“Having lunch, Mr. Ensor. How can we help you?”
“My wife has disappeared, and the security guards say it isn’t their business.” He was sweating profusely, his unseasonable linen jacket clinging to him.
“Disappeared? She has probably gone back to the hotel.”
“Don’t you think I’d have the sense to check that? She’s not there. We’ve had an attempt on my life and a murder — my God, you’re cool in the circumstances! If anything’s happened to her, I shall personally see you’re both hung out to dry.”
Since “keeping cool in the circumstances” appeared to be annoying the hell out of a sweating Gilbert Ensor, Moretti stifled the desire to retaliate in kind.
“Have you checked with the limousine drivers? She couldn’t have walked, and it’s unlikely she’d have taken the bus.”
“I got Bella to do that for me. She says no one has left in a limousine this morning — the only ones that returned to town were empty.”
Into Moretti’s mind drifted a vision of a donna mobile running lightly down the corridor in the manor, a humiliated young woman going out into the same corridor, the sound of someone passing, humming as she went by the door of the marchesa’s sitting room. He decided to jump to conclusions.
“I think,” he said, “she’s in good hands. Safer than here, I should think. I suggest you take a limo back to the hotel and wait for her.”
As a bewildered Gilbert Ensor turned to leave, Moretti allowed himself to add, “And stay off the patio, won’t you, sir?”
When he was out of earshot, Liz Falla looked at her senior officer. “Do you know where she is, Guv?”
“Not really. I’m going to look for Monty Lord. I want you to check whether anyone saw the Ducati leave — and whether it left with a passenger.”
“Brilliant!” said DC Falla. “Oh I hope so, Guv.”
Moretti was spared a hunt for the film
