The Corpse with the Silver Tongue Read Online Free PDF Page B

replies Alistair absently. He turns to the Italian and says effusively, “And this is Cait, Cait Morgan—she used to work for me, but she’s something to do with the police now, aren’t you, Cait?”
    Benigno Brunetti reaches for my hand, and I offer mine to shake his, but instead he turns my palm downward and kisses the back of my hand . . . where I can feel all the little hairs there standing to rippling attention. Oh dear. Quite something .
    â€œEnchanted, Cait, Cait Morgan,” he quips. “It’s Beni, please.” He looks up from my hand, and I see there are tiny amber flecks in his brown eyes, and green flecks too. I feel myself blush. And get warm.
    â€œSo you are a policewoman? Here in Nice?” he asks, now standing upright again.
    I laugh. Maybe a little too loudly. I know I am gushing. I cannot help myself. Oh dear. “Heavens, no. I’m afraid Alistair has things a little mixed up. I’m a professor of criminology at the University of Vancouver. I presented a paper at an international symposium at the Nice Acropolis this morning. I’m only visiting for the weekend. And Alistair happened to bump into me and invited me here this evening. I leave on Tuesday. I did once work at his advertising agency in London, but that was a long time ago.” I am speaking quickly, and I am not being witty, engaging or even logical. I want to shut up, but it seems I can’t. “So are you an archaeologist?”
    â€œYes, I have been,” replies Beni, “and I have also, like you, been a professor, but now I am mainly an administrator. They call me the director. It is a grand title for a person who sits in meetings. But I am fortunate to be sitting in meetings about things that fascinate me.”
    He is giving me polite attention. Tamsin is on tenterhooks. She feels she should be the center of everyone’s attention. It’s her birthday: it’s a fair expectation, but I suspect it’s not confined to one day a year.
    Beni is carrying a heavy-looking parcel, wrapped in pink. His large right hand manages to hold it easily as all the kissing, hugging, and introductions take place, and now he offers it to Tamsin, who drops my little basket of fruits onto a nearby chair. I suspect they’ll stay there for some time. Clearly Beni’s gift is far more important. Tamsin strikes me as having a fairly short attention span.
    â€œOoooh, what is it?” she squeals. Can this woman do nothing but be over-enthusiastically squeaky?
    â€œYou should open it to find out,” booms Beni. He’s teasing her, just a little. I wonder if he has children—he’s treating her as though she’s a child, and he seems to be used to that role. Maybe nieces and nephews? I can hope!
    Once again Tamsin sets about destroying the work of the gift-wrapper, dropping the paper and ribbons onto the floor (Alistair bends to pick them up—very interesting), this time revealing a red velvet-covered oval box. She flips it open. It holds a beautiful silver-backed hand mirror.
    â€œOh, it’s lovely,” she coos as she looks at her reflection, all sense of irony lost on her.
    â€œBeautiful workmanship,” I observe, referring to the art-nouveau design of a peacock with a flowing tail that is chased into the silver back panel and down onto the mirror’s handle.
    â€œOh yes,” says Tamsin, still looking at herself.
    Beni smiles at me, and winks. He gets it. I smile back, and raise an eyebrow.
    â€œHave you seen the pattern on the back, my sweet?” asks Alistair, almost too cheerfully. He gets it too, and he’s embarrassed .
    Tamsin twirls the mirror in her tiny hand. Her eyes play across the back and onto the handle. “Look,” she observes excitedly, “the feathers go all the way down. Isn’t that clever?”
    We all agree that it is. Terribly clever.
    All of this I am certain about. Clear about. There