A Grave Waiting by Jill Downie Page A

fringes. “Moretti, I think? Not an island name.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe dress —” Liz Falla put her notebook away “— you said the one on camera was a Poiret. What about the one you are wearing now?”
    â€œAh, my coat of many colours.” Coralie Chancho’s voice took on a crooning sound as she stroked the fabric. “Sonia Delaunay. Delicious.” The crooning sound became a quavering, faltering singing, and the song was “La Vie en Rose.”
    Quand il me prend dans ses bras, qu’il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose .
    In the pink-lit museum of her past life, Coralie Chancho was back performing on some long-gone stage. Gently, quietly, Liz Falla started to sing with her.
    Il me dit des mots d’amour, des mots de tous les jours, et ça me fait quelque chose .
    It was the first time Moretti had heard his partner sing. It was surreal . The setting and the song blended, and the liquid flow of Liz Falla’s voice against the cracked-bell sound of Coralie Chancho’s smoke-shattered vocal chords shivered through his veins and the length of his spine.
    â€œPretty, isn’t it? Look at that engraving on the barrel, all those leaves and scrolls and whatever. Never thought you could say that about a gun, but this one’s like an ornament, right?”
    Liz Falla shivered and pulled her raincoat collar up around her neck.
    A chilly wind blew across the marina, and a light rain had started to fall. A small group consisting of Moretti, Falla, the harbour master, two divers, and a constable from the uniformed branch were gathered around the tiny object on a tarpaulin spread on the ground. Nearby stood a melancholy group of seagulls, hoping for a chance at any leftovers that might remain. The diver who had brought up the gun touched the handle, which still gleamed through the sludge from the bottom of the harbour.
    â€œLooks like mother-of-pearl. My granny had some cutlery with this stuff on it.”
    â€œIt is,” said Moretti. “And the trigger’s gold-plated from the look of it. It’s a Browning Baby — lady pistol, pocket pistol, various names. Some versions of it became the American Saturday-Night Special.”
    Moretti looked down at the constable, who was still crouched over the small pistol. “Le Marchant, I’m leaving this with you. Get it to the SOC lab.”
    Le Marchant eased the tiny object into a plastic bag.
    â€œSo that’s the murder weapon,” said the harbour master, who’d come along for the ride, murder not being a common occurrence in his fiefdom.
    â€œNo,” said Moretti. “That’s not what killed him. There’s no way that gun shot the bullet that was in Masterson’s head. No way.”
    â€œYou mean there are two guns?”
    The diver stood up and swore, unzipping the front of his wetsuit. “Shit! I thought we’d got the weapon sewn up with this baby. If you don’t mind me saying, Ed, isn’t that unlikely? With the yacht moored right here, and the fact we don’t get that many guns laying around — hell, this isn’t New York.”
    â€œDon’t get me wrong,” Moretti stood up, thrusting his hands deep into his jacket pocket, encountering his lighter talisman as he did so, “I didn’t say it has nothing to do with Masterson’s murder. I said it was not the gun that killed him.”
    â€œHoly shit,” said both divers in unison
    â€œMy feelings exactly,” said Moretti.
    Sometimes he had a glass or two of wine at the Grand Saracen, but mostly he didn’t, unless there was someone like Ludo Ross in the club. “Not a chance,” he’d said to Ludo, and now he regretted it. After he’d written his reports for Chief Officer Hanley he didn’t feel like returning home, so he’d eaten in town, and then shown up at the club.
    The Grand Saracen was named for a legendary Guernsey pirate and