Free Daggers and Men's Smiles by Jill Downie Page B

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.”
    â€œThe artistic temperament. Or histrionics, like my uncle Vern. So we go back to motive and opportunity?”
    â€œFor 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?”
    â€œNo, Guv.” There was a pause, and then Liz Falla said, “I just thought she was being fanciful.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll pick you up from Hospital Lane when I’ve seen to some personal business.”
    â€œRight 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 .
    â€œEd!