and murdered the man? Nobody even knew he was coming until after we arrived.”
“I think it’s a possibility that they saw a chance and grabbed it. I will be happy to be proved wrong.”
“And if you can’t prove anything, either way?”
“Then it will go down as an accident, period. By the way, you didn’t happen to take a stroll in the moonlight after I went to sleep, did you?”
A peculiar look flashed across Cynthia’s face before she burst out laughing. “You calling me a suspect, huh?”
“Maybe.” I grinned at her. “I never assume anything. You had opportunity, and all it would take is one push.”
“But I had no motive. I didn’t know the man. I didn’t like the man, from what little I saw of him, then and now. Besides, if you’re going to investigate this, Sherlock, you need a Watson, so you have to trust me.”
“I always thought Watson was kind of thickheaded.”
“I’m the smart Watson. Am I in?”
“Of course.”
“So let’s get ready to go admire more Medici monuments. While we’re driving, while we’re wallowing in art and history, we talk and we listen. Somebody is bound to say something about the professor’s death. Good thing you and I are in different vans—we can listen to two sets of people.”
“Good thinking, Watson.”
Chapter 10
Cynthia had made it sound simple, but I had to ask myself what I thought I was doing. I don’t go by gut reactions or woo-woo “feelings.” I’m an analyst by trade and by choice. But something about the death of Anthony Gilbert troubled me, and I wanted to know why—without making it painfully obvious what I was doing and why I was asking questions.
Point one: He was a charmer, and I distrust charmers from the get-go. Point two: I’d be willing to bet he had directed his charms at some of my classmates gathered here, based on the curious range of responses to his presence. I wasn’t ready to say who, but I’d guess it was more than one of them. More than five? I shuddered at the thought—that would definitely put him in the sleazeball league. Point three: I was angry that he’d somehow insinuated himself into our gathering and then ended up dead. That wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be fun, with a bit of a trip down memory lane—good memories only. He’d screwed that up, although since he was the victim he couldn’t exactly be blamed—but I wanted to blame someone, and that meant his killer, assuming there was one. I made a mental note to check exactly how he came to be invited in the first place. Whose idea was it originally? Had Professor Gilbert said it was Gerry’s?
I wasn’t exactly “doing” anything about it. As I’d told Cynthia, all I wanted to do was watch and listen and see what people had to say. That wouldn’t be evidence of anything, but it might be suggestive. I certainly didn’t want to label any one of the women here a killer, but I had a suspicion that there were a few people who were happy to see the professor dead. I wondered if I should show some of the others the pictures I had taken of the professor’s body, sprawled on the ground, just to watch for their reactions. I’d have to be discreet, of course; otherwise I would come across as ghoulish and insensitive. No, probably a bad idea. I wondered why on earth I had taken those pictures in the first place. Because I’d been planning to photograph the landscape, and somehow captured a body by mistake?
No, Laura—you thought there was something wrong with the whole thing, so you took the pictures just in case … I made a mental note to off-load them when I had the chance. Did I have any faith in the Italian police? Not necessarily, but I wasn’t about to butt into their investigation—or lack thereof. I had no idea which unit was in charge of murder investigations here, or whether it was regional or even national. In any case, it looked as though they were content to do nothing, and I couldn’t fault them, exactly. Old drunk man
“I think it’s a possibility that they saw a chance and grabbed it. I will be happy to be proved wrong.”
“And if you can’t prove anything, either way?”
“Then it will go down as an accident, period. By the way, you didn’t happen to take a stroll in the moonlight after I went to sleep, did you?”
A peculiar look flashed across Cynthia’s face before she burst out laughing. “You calling me a suspect, huh?”
“Maybe.” I grinned at her. “I never assume anything. You had opportunity, and all it would take is one push.”
“But I had no motive. I didn’t know the man. I didn’t like the man, from what little I saw of him, then and now. Besides, if you’re going to investigate this, Sherlock, you need a Watson, so you have to trust me.”
“I always thought Watson was kind of thickheaded.”
“I’m the smart Watson. Am I in?”
“Of course.”
“So let’s get ready to go admire more Medici monuments. While we’re driving, while we’re wallowing in art and history, we talk and we listen. Somebody is bound to say something about the professor’s death. Good thing you and I are in different vans—we can listen to two sets of people.”
“Good thinking, Watson.”
Chapter 10
Cynthia had made it sound simple, but I had to ask myself what I thought I was doing. I don’t go by gut reactions or woo-woo “feelings.” I’m an analyst by trade and by choice. But something about the death of Anthony Gilbert troubled me, and I wanted to know why—without making it painfully obvious what I was doing and why I was asking questions.
Point one: He was a charmer, and I distrust charmers from the get-go. Point two: I’d be willing to bet he had directed his charms at some of my classmates gathered here, based on the curious range of responses to his presence. I wasn’t ready to say who, but I’d guess it was more than one of them. More than five? I shuddered at the thought—that would definitely put him in the sleazeball league. Point three: I was angry that he’d somehow insinuated himself into our gathering and then ended up dead. That wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be fun, with a bit of a trip down memory lane—good memories only. He’d screwed that up, although since he was the victim he couldn’t exactly be blamed—but I wanted to blame someone, and that meant his killer, assuming there was one. I made a mental note to check exactly how he came to be invited in the first place. Whose idea was it originally? Had Professor Gilbert said it was Gerry’s?
I wasn’t exactly “doing” anything about it. As I’d told Cynthia, all I wanted to do was watch and listen and see what people had to say. That wouldn’t be evidence of anything, but it might be suggestive. I certainly didn’t want to label any one of the women here a killer, but I had a suspicion that there were a few people who were happy to see the professor dead. I wondered if I should show some of the others the pictures I had taken of the professor’s body, sprawled on the ground, just to watch for their reactions. I’d have to be discreet, of course; otherwise I would come across as ghoulish and insensitive. No, probably a bad idea. I wondered why on earth I had taken those pictures in the first place. Because I’d been planning to photograph the landscape, and somehow captured a body by mistake?
No, Laura—you thought there was something wrong with the whole thing, so you took the pictures just in case … I made a mental note to off-load them when I had the chance. Did I have any faith in the Italian police? Not necessarily, but I wasn’t about to butt into their investigation—or lack thereof. I had no idea which unit was in charge of murder investigations here, or whether it was regional or even national. In any case, it looked as though they were content to do nothing, and I couldn’t fault them, exactly. Old drunk man
Similar Books
