When Montana was in London on business, he ate breakfast at Patisserie Valerie in Soho, where he kept an apartment. It was always the same, a croissant and strong coffee. He ate lunch wherever he happened to be when he felt hungry and had dinner most nights somewhere local, preferably Indian or Chinese. Tonight he decided to take Daisy to the Red Fort on Dean Street.
There were no taxis, and he decided to walk up Piccadilly, cutting through the side streets to Park Lane. He was ten minutes late when he gave his name to the doorman, waiting while the concierge called Daisy on the house phone. Given the go-ahead, the concierge escorted him to the elevator and pushed the call button.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. Daisy was standing there, arms folded over her chest. She wore a long-sleeved narrow black dress with a deep V neckline that fastened with a row of tiny buttons. The knee-length skirt showed off her slender legs and a string of emerald beads was wrapped around her long neck. The green brought out the color of her eyes and her long dark red hair swung luxuriantly over her shoulders. She looked, Montana thought appreciatively, better than a million bucks. Or even a hundred thousand. Rats sat next to her, his head cocked inquiringly to one side.
“You’re late,” she said by way of greeting.
“And you are beautiful tonight,” he replied, adding that he was sorry.
“Sorry for the compliment? Or for being late?”
“Your choice,” he said wearily. After a couple of nights with little or no sleep he was in no mood for verbal battles.
To his surprise, Daisy smiled. “Just testing,” she said. “I promised myself I’d go easy on you tonight.”
Montana was surprised again to see her blush. There was something endearing about Daisy despite her snippiness. He’d heard the story of her marriage from Bob and understood why she was perpetually on the defensive with men. He couldn’t blame her but thought it was about time to put all that behind her and just get on with things.
“Come on in and let me get you a drink,” she said in the low sweet voice that pleased him, walking him into the vast living area. Through the wall of windows was a view of the treetops, hazy in the glimpse of a half-moon and with a dazzle of red taillights in the street below.
Four large paintings hung on the wall, though none were by artists Montana knew. Ice tinkled against the glass as Daisy handed him his usual bourbon. “I wanted to ask you about Rosalia,” he said.
“The woman who wanted a normal life with a husband who came home nights, and a family,” she said. “I think I’ve found her.” She told him about the letters from Spain.
“So why didn’t you call me with this information right away?” he asked, irate.
She shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that important. Besides, it’s prying into Bob’s personal life and after all she can hardly be a suspect. She loved him.”
“So don’t you think Bob would remember her in his will?”
“I suppose he might, but you can’t seriously believe Rosalia came back for some sort of revenge. That she killed Bob? After all, she was the one who left him.”
“We don’t know that for sure. We have only Bob’s side of the story. Who knows what really goes down between a man and a woman except the two of them? I don’t see a motive for murder, but then I haven’t spoken to Rosalia yet. I’ve no idea what she’s like, or what she’s capable of.”
“But you found Davis Farrell. He called yesterday to accept my invitation. I liked him. He was the only one who talked about Bob.”
“Farrell can be charming, especially with women. We found him selling insurance to Hispanic immigrants in Queens.”
“Oh.”
Daisy seemed so surprised that Montana smiled. “Come on, let’s get some dinner.”
The dog watched sad-eyed as the elevator doors began to close behind them and Montana promised a walk as soon as they got back.