Martha Grimes - The Lamorna Wink

Theo set the little cup before the count; Diane performed the introductions, the count gave his little seated bow and a grazzi, and Theo started in immediately talking about his bookshop. Theo was about as soigné as a skunk, Diane thought, which was the reason for choosing him.

“So, Mr. Giopinno, excuse me, Signore Giopinno, you’re interested in books? I have, you know, the local bookshop called The Wrenn’s Nest-bit of a pun there, you know?-anyway, it’s done extremely well, had a gross of-oh, one hundred fifty thousand pounds this past year, looking to do even better by the end of this year…”

And on and on, with Giopinno looking-well, bemused, at best. He did, however, have silky manners and would never in the world have presented a bored countenance.

Diane, tuning Theo out, glanced at Melrose and Marshall, who had given up all pretense of reading and were leaning as far as they could toward her table, trying to hear. She made a lightning-quick run with her finger across her neck. Immediately they went back to their books. Marshall, she noticed, was reading his upside-down. God.

“… that the area could easily support one of your chain bookshops-not that I’m suggesting we get a Dillon’s, God, no; an independently run big bookstore, that’s the ticket!”

While Theo droned on, Diane waited for Agatha to appear. Diane had told Agatha that the count was interested in investing in real estate; she had suggested using Vivian’s house as an example.

“ Why? Vivian’s living in it. ”

“ Oh, but of course she’ll want to sell it when she moves to Venice. ”

Agatha now stood in the cafe’s doorway, and that woman was with her, that estate agent from Cornwall. All the better. Diane waved and smiled.

Theo Wrenn Browne excused himself and took his empty cup up for a refill. He detested Agatha except on the occasions she was useful to his cause. His biggest cause was getting rid of Miss Ada Crisp so he could expand his quaint little bookshop.

The two women hurried over to the table as if real estate deals were falling from the ceiling and were introduced to Franco Giopinno. Graciously, he rose and made a brief hand-kissing movement and sat down again, looking extremely unhappy.

“Well, now, Franco,” said Agatha, never the one to stand on ceremony or good manners. “You’ve got a marvelous property turnover here, and it’s wise to consider an investment. Vivian’s house, for instance, is better got rid of than kept. It’s high-end, not practical with all that thatch, which clearly needs re-thatching; in a little place like this-well, there’s not much call for such properties, and if one needs the money-”

A look at the count’s face made it clear one did.

“-the wise thing to do is sell up and put the money in other properties.”

“God!” exclaimed Theo Wrenn Browne, who’d returned with his fresh cup of cappuccino. “Property’s a hell of an investment these days. You don’t want property, count, you want-”

“I beg your pardon-Mr. Browne, is it? You own that sweet little bookshop?”

Theo fumed. “Sweet” and “little” was not the picture he was trying to get across. “I’m expanding, got to, what with all the custom-”

“To where?” asked Agatha, shaking with manufactured laughter. “You lost out on Ada Crisp’s place next door. Shouldn’t have started that lawsuit, it only made you look bad.”

Considering it was Agatha’s lawsuit, Diane reflected on the shortness of the memories and the division of the loyalties of some of these people.

Esther Laburnum picked up with what she’d been about to say to Theo. “You’re quite wrong to think real estate a poor investment; it never is. You just have to know what you’re doing.”

As with anything, thought Diane. Blowing a curl of smoke into the air, she saw the awful Withersby woman leaning up against the counter and talking the ear off little Alice Broadstairs. Mrs. Withersby charred here occasionally. She fit the cohort and property category to a T. Now if she could only fit the woman in.

Mrs. Withersby, doughty advocate of positioning herself wherever drink and smokes were being consumed, fit herself in. There was, after all, a new person sitting at that table who might be good for a glass or two.

As she approached, Agatha was saying, “What Vivian could do, once she sells up, is buy one or two of the almshouses where those Withersby people live.”

“Someone callin’ fer me?”

Yes, thought Diane. God is. She closed her eyes briefly and gave thanks to Saint Coincidence. She hadn’t set foot in a church in decades. The closest she’d got was that wine-tasting in the vestry of St. Rules. Now she wondered if judgment about the faith had been too hasty. “Mrs. Withersby!” She’d never said more than two words to the woman in her life. Now she was offering her cigarette case. “I’d like you to meet Count Franco Giopinno.”

Having helped herself to four of Diane’s cigarettes, she looked the count up and down. “Don’t know as you’d fancy me as a neighbor.”

Giopinno, his color having gone from white to whiter, rose and, bowing to the three women said, “If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I have an urgent call to make-my mother.” He mumbled something about his mother’s illness as he put on his coat; then he slipped away like smoke.

Diane excused herself and went to sit with Plant and Trueblood.

“Where’s he going? Is he gone ?”

“I’d certainly imagine so. He went to call his mother, for God’s sake, mumbling something about her being ill. That, I suspect, is prelude to his having to leave suddenly.” She sighed and said, “Well, that’s sorted, then.”

She felt something akin to sadness, such as children feel when their favorite game is over and they have to go in to tea.

Brian Macalvie rose when Morris Bletchley-without his wheelchair-came into the blue room, which Macalvie had been sharing with an old lady dressed in dark blue, as if she meant her dress to match the silk upholstery of the chair she sat in. She had spoken to him only once, and that to ask him to turn her chair so that it faced the window. He had done so, and since then she had sat and stared out. Occasionally, her lips moved and she smiled.

“Commander Macalvie,” said Bletchley. They shook hands.

Macalvie said, “I wanted you to know what’s happened. We’ve got the person who shot Sara Colthorp and Tom Letts and Chris Wells in custody.”

“Constable Evans told me. I’m not much given to surprises, Mr. Macalvie, but that damned well did it. Brenda Friel.” He shook his head and motioned to a Queen Anne wing chair covered in heavy blue velvet. “Sit down, please.”

Seated across from Bletchley, Macalvie told him, not all but enough, about the three shootings.

Moe Bletchley said, “But the Friel woman apparently has no qualms about killing. Why not just kill Chris to begin with? Why go to the trouble of making it look as if she’d run off?”

“For one thing, when Chris Wells came back here, Brenda thought we’d finally take her in for the murder of Sada Colthorp. And for another-she didn’t want to have to. Chris Wells was her best friend. I know it sounds implausible that the woman could still think in those terms, but that’s how I see it.

“Still, Brenda couldn’t be sure Chris was a real danger to her. Chris knew Ramona died of an AIDS-RELATED problem. But Chris didn’t know who the father was because Brenda herself didn’t know until Tom Letts mentioned Putney. Brenda knew Ramona had been working in London but didn’t know she’d been working for you. Brenda thought Chris would work it out if Tom Letts were murdered.