Leighton Gage - A vine in the blood

“Thank you, no.”

“But you won’t mind if I have one, will you?”

Without waiting for a reply, Jardin balanced his cigarette holder across a large, jade ashtray and stood up. He went to a cherry wood cabinet and took out a bottle. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jardin selected a single glass, delicately cut and looking like it cost a bundle, and resumed his seat.

“Where were we?” he said, pouring the amber liquid.

“You tired of her company.”

“Ah yes.” He took a sip. “I did.”

“Why?”

Jardin thought for a moment. “Gossip is one thing,” he said. “I’m not averse to a little of it myself, but spewing venom is another. I never heard her say a good word about anyone. So I drew the obvious conclusion: she wasn’t saying good words about me either.”

“How about her future mother-in-law?”

“Juraci? I don’t recall Cintia saying anything at all about Juraci. It would have been naive to do so, and naive is one thing Cintia is not. Everyone is well aware that the relationship between the Artist and his mother is a close one. If Cintia had expressed a negative opinion about her, there are scads of people who would have rushed off to make sure the Artist heard about it.”

“How about the Artist’s father? I don’t recall hearing anything about him. Ever.”

“You never will. Although I’ve been told there’s a claimant every now and then.”

“A claimant?”

“Juraci was… how shall I put this? Let’s just say that, in her youth, she was quite profligate with her charms. She’s never been quite sure who the Artist’s father is. That’s not what she gives out, but I assure you it’s true. Now, however, now that her talented son has come to fame and fortune, many of the men who’ve passed through Juraci’s life earnestly desire to be admitted back into it.”

“How does she handle it?”

“Denies them, one and all; claims that the Artist’s real father was a stonemason killed in a construction accident when his son was very young.”

“And that’s what most people believe?”

“That’s what virtually everyone believes. Fofocas has investigated her story in some detail. They’ve been unable to disprove it.”

Goncalves’s familiarity with Fofocas stemmed from the fact that it kept turning up in the bathrooms, or next to the beds, of many of the women he slept with. None of them ever admitted to purchasing it. One of their girlfriends, they’d say, must have left it behind, by mistake.

“How come you don’t buy into the stonemason story?”

Jardin smiled. “Unlike you,” he said, “Juraci Santos is fond of sherry. We’ve had a few tipples together and have, how shall I put this? Shared confidences.”

“Tell me more.”

“No, dear boy, I won’t, not without a good deal more sherry. Do you like erotic sketches?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Erotic sketches. Do you like them? I have a rather impressive collection.”

“No. I can’t say I’m much of a fan. You said you had two reasons for thinking Cintia a bitch. One of them was personal experience. And the other?”

“The opinion of the Artist’s mother.”

“Well, that’s certainly relevant. Why don’t you tell me about that?”

“Hmm,” Jardin said. “There are limits even to my indiscretion, but I see no harm in telling you this much: Juraci Santos employed a private detective to check up on Cintia Tadesco’s background. Unlike her son, Juraci is actually quite a perceptive woman, all too aware of the Artist’s shortcomings. She never accepted that a bombshell like La Tadesco could possibly be interested in anything other than her son’s money and fame. At the very least, she thought, Cintia must be cheating on him. Mother’s instinct, she’d tell me.”

“Who is this private detective she hired?”

“She told me, but I don’t recall his name.”

“Do you know if he discovered anything of note?”

“No.”

Jardin picked up the sherry bottle.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Correct. I don’t know. But, knowing Cintia, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he did.”

Jardin topped up his glass.

“Did Juraci tell her son she’d hired a private detective?”

Jardin took a sip of his sherry and breathed out a contented sigh.

“She didn’t,” he said. “She said the Artist would be furious if he found out.”

“Unless, of course, the detective came up with something.”

“True. And she was hopeful he would. At least, she was the last time I spoke to her.”

“How long ago was that?”

“In the course of her last visit. Three weeks ago today. Which brings me back to Fofocas. Do you ever read it, by the way?”

“No. Do you?”

“Of course I do, dear boy. After all, my name is in it more often than not.”

“What has Fofocas got to do with anything?”

“This: despite what you might think about the editorial content of the publication, they have some highly competent journalists there, always digging, digging and sifting through the dirt. Their readers like being exposed to a glittering world of which they can never hope to become a part, but they like the scandals of that world even more. The divorces, the love affairs, the drug problems, the health problems, the suicide attempts, those are the things that give impetus to circulation. It would dribble away to naught if they only printed snapshots of society parties, or interviews with air-headed show business people. Those are just the icing on the gossip cake. If there’s something to find on Cintia, I daresay Fofocas will come up with it. The detective might not, but I assure you that Fofocas will-again, if there’s anything to find. I told that to Juraci, told her she could have saved her money. But she said she couldn’t wait. She wanted to nip the relationship in the bud, break it up before it got any more serious. The Artist was already talking about marrying the woman.”

“Speaking of the ladies and gentlemen of the press, were you the one who tipped off Radio Mundo about the fact that the Artist’s mother had gone missing?”

“My dear boy, why would I ever do anything like that?”

“Maybe because they give you free publicity from time to time, and you felt obligated to return the favor?”

Jardin smiled. “It must be fascinating to be a policeman, always solving riddles. You have a talent for it, I can tell. I’ll bet your superiors are proud of you.”

“How about you answer my question?”

“And how about we adjourn to my place? I have a most excellent cook and a superb wine cellar. We could make an evening of it, just the two of us.”

It was Gilda’s night to cook. Garlic, sauteing in butter, perfumed the hallway between the elevator and their front door. In the kitchen, where Hector’s fiancee was deftly wielding a chef’s knife, colorful mounds of diced vegetables lined the counter.

The youngest of Sao Paulo’s female assistant medical examiners blew a few strands of silky, black hair out of her eyes, offered a cheek to be kissed and kept on dicing.

“It’s a curry,” she said. “Killer hot. You’re going to love it.”

He came up behind her, put his arm around her waist and nuzzled her ear.

“This,” he said, “is what I love. As far as your cooking is concerned…”

“Finish that sentence,” she said, waving the knife, “and you starve. Your uncle arrive?”

He released her, picked up the drink that was waiting for him and put it to his lips. It had become their daily ritual, a glass of wine in the kitchen.

“He did,” Hector said, after taking a sip.

“Why didn’t you bring him home for dinner?”