Martha Grimes - The Lamorna Wink

“You make it sound as if they’re too decrepit to go with me to Cornwall.”

Diane was still entertaining readers of the Sidbury paper with her astrology column, largely because she knew nothing about astrology and was therefore free to invent. “You know what I mean.” Diane ate her olive.

“No, I don’t, Diane. Nobody understands what you mean in that column. ‘Get a life’ is hardly using the stars to predict-”

Vivian fairly shouted, “But you can’t go to Cornwall!”

They all looked at her and her deeply blushing face.

Surprised by this outburst, Melrose said, “I can’t?”

Now Vivian was momentarily tongue-tied. Finally she said, “Because Franco is coming here and we’re getting married!” Having apparently frightened herself with her own outburst, she looked round the table to see if their various expressions confirmed the fact she’d said it.

No one spoke. Even the normally unflappable Diane looked at Vivian open-mouthed.

When they did speak, it was all at once.

“Count Dracula-”

“Good God! When did this-?”

“If you’re going to London for your gown-”

Trueblood lit a jade green Sobranie and said, “Tell me, Viv-Viv, when was all this decided?”

“Ah… not long ago.”

Melrose said, “How soon is this to be? When is Count Drac-” Vivian’s look at him was as blood-curdling as anything Count Dracula could scare up. “I mean, when is Giopinno arriving? Dear God, this is something!” exclaimed Melrose.

“He’s coming in… a few days. Maybe a week…” She studied her hands.

“Ah,” said Trueblood. “And exactly when does this wedding take place?” He smiled, wolfishly.

Vivian looked at him with suspicion and reflected. Her blushes were replaced by a kind of death’s-head gray. “The exact date hasn’t been set yet. But it’ll be either this month or next. September or October,” she added, in case they hadn’t got their months in order.

Do you remember another September…? Whatever the words, the song played sadly in Melrose’s head, all humor fleeing him in an instant. He said, “But of course I’ll return for the wedding. Cornwall isn’t halfway round the world.”

“Return?” She said it dejectedly, as if it were as rueful a word as “remember.” “ Return? I would think you wouldn’t even go. ” Vivian regarded Melrose sadly. “It’s the last you may see of me single.”

“Yes, well…” Melrose hardly knew how to respond to this.

Vivian rose. She had still not removed her camel-hair coat, the caramel color blending beautifully with the browns and deep reds of her autumnal hair.

“I’m certainly thunderstruck,” said Diane, in a thoroughly unthunderstruck tone. Still, it must be so, for she’d forgotten her glass, which sat empty before her; even the olive had gone. Thunderstruck, indeed.

“Well, I’ve got to go and… do things.” Vivian turned and walked out of the pub. Her expression was not a happy one.

“Well. Well, ” said Melrose. “I’d say this calls for another round.”

“It has done for the last ten minutes,” said Diane, blowing thin columns of smoke through her nostrils.

Melrose called to Dick Scroggs, still reading the Sidbury paper-his favorite was the astrology column-and made a circular gesture with his hand indicating drinks for all.

Scroggs looked at him as if Melrose were calling on him to work out a message in semaphore.

“It never occurred to me Vivian would actually do it,” said Melrose, morosely.

Trueblood said, “Uh-huh.”

“Marry that smarmy Italian? After all this time? Not only that, but to do it here ! That’s a turnup for the books!”

Diane said, “I expect she’ll have to live in Venice where she won’t understand a word. They speak Italian there.”

“It’s their second language,” said Trueblood. “Do you mean you actually believe that story?”

Melrose and Diane stared at him.

“She was making it up.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Melrose said uncertainly.

Trueblood shook his head at his friends’ gullibility. “Listen, old bean, if she were really going to marry Dracula, we’d have heard long before this. She would have wanted plenty of time to think up excuses not to do it. She’d also want to allow us plenty of time to work out a plan to prevent her.”

“Excuses?” Diane looked at Trueblood in disbelief. “Why would she need excuses? Good lord, it’s easier just to divorce someone than to think up reasons for doing it. I should know; I’ve done it often enough. Dick!” She called over to Scroggs. “Are we ever going to get our drinks here?”

Melrose said, “I still don’t get it. Why would Vivian make it all up?”

Impatient with Melrose’s obtuseness, Trueblood said, “It’s obvious. She wants to keep you here.”

“A wedding in a few weeks would hardly keep me here for three months.”

“Oh, don’t be such a twit, Melrose,” said Diane. “There’s nothing rational in all of this-thank you,” she said to Dick Scroggs, who was setting fresh drinks before them.

When Dick left, Trueblood said, “Go on. Tell us more about this Cornwall murder.”

“There’s no more to tell. Someone in Bletchley thought she recognized her. I don’t think the victim will be hard to trace.”

“What was she wearing?” Trust Diane to sweep away extraneous matter and go directly to the heart of the matter.

“I don’t know. Macalvie didn’t tell me. But in the police photos it looked like a suit, amber or ecru, maybe-God help me! I’m getting as bad as you, Diane.”

“Who is he, anyway? Macalvie, I mean,” asked Trueblood. “I think he called here, to the pub once, looking for Jury.”

“He’s very high up in the Devon and Cornwall police. Jury’s known him for years. They worked cases together. Or as much together as one can ever get with Mr. Macalvie. He’s brilliant, though.”

“Speaking of Richard Jury-” said Trueblood.

“He’s in Northern Ireland.”

Diane looked absolutely scandalized, as if they were watching the Pope kiss a pig. “ God, Melrose! What is he doing there? ”

“I don’t know the particulars. New Scotland Yard hasn’t ever put me on a need-to-know footing.”

“Did Sergeant Wiggins go with him?”

“No. Macalvie’s trying to get in touch with him, though.”

“I knew it,” said Diane. “I warned him.”

Melrose frowned. “Wiggins?”

“No, no. Richard Jury.”

“His horoscope playing up again, is it?”

“His Venus is in a peculiar position in relation to Mars.” She tapped the ash from her cigarette into the metal tray.

“Whose side is he on?” asked Trueblood. “The IRA? The Provs? Catholics? Protestants? Irish? English?”

“The side of the dead, I imagine. He’s not helping the RUC, it’s just that something happened there that’s connected with something in London. At least, I think.”

Diane was still worrying over the fashion sense of the dead-and-gone in Cornwall. “You don’t know if it was a designer suit she wore, then?”

“What? You mean the unfortunate victim in Lamorna?”

“Yes. If it was, you know, a Lacroix, it would certainly narrow the field.”

“Narrow it to where? London? Paris? Rome?”

Diane’s patience was being tried. “Not only there. There are some quite fashionable shops in Edinburgh. And the Home Counties. One would have to broaden the base a bit.”

Melrose shook his head. “Whatever the base is, you’re way off it, love.”

“Actually, old sweat, she isn’t,” said Trueblood.

“Are we breaking now for an Armani commercial?”