When I told him what had happened, he clucked over me in a soothing and satisfying way.
“Haven’t heard a word of this here yet, although I’m sure we will soon enough. I’ll expect police enquiries, shall I? You tell me Mrs. Galea—Marilyn, is that right?—has gone missing, and is the prime suspect?”
“Yes. Did Dave mention whether or not she was at the house when his men got there?”
“No. I waited for his team to pick up the furniture last night but didn’t talk to him personally. They came around eight or eight-thirty, I’d say. We were open late last night anyway, and they came before we closed. Dave left a message on the answering machine at the shop. Said the furniture was on its way to you, it was late and he was going to bed. Bad cold or flu, by the sound of him. We didn’t bother him at all today. We figured we’d hear from you if there was a problem.”
“No doubt he’ll be bothered soon enough, if he hasn’t been already.”
“No doubt. Maybe I should call and warn him he can expect a call from the police.”
“You know what, Alex? I think I’ll call him myself. Something went very wrong with that shipment, and maybe Dave can enlighten me in some way.”
“Okay. But you take care. Leave the detective work to the police this time, will you?”
“I will, Alex. And thanks for being there!” I said.
I called Dave at his home. His wife answered.
“Hi, Sandy, it’s Lara. How’s Dave? Is it possible for him to come to the phone?”
“Hi, Lara. How’s Malta? Warmer than here, I hope. Did the shipment get there all right?”
“It got here,” was all I could think to say. “Dave’s got a cold. It’s settling in nicely. The way he’s carrying on you’d think he had dengue fever, mind you. You know how men revert to babyhood the moment they get even the most minor of ailments! He’s asked me to screen all his calls. You are, in fact, the only person he said he’d talk to. Hold on a minute, I’ll get him.”
Dave came on the line, and I gave him a short version of events and told him to expect a call from the police. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed.
“Can you tell me anything about the shipment, Dave? Did you notice the switch in the piece of furniture? Was the chest particularly heavy? Who was there when your men got to the house? Anything strike you as unusual, anything at all?”
“We did everything in such a hurry, Lara. I don’t know… I’ll have to ask my team who let them into the house. I didn’t think to ask at the time. I did notice that one piece wasn’t measured with your normal military precision. But the yellow sticker with your initials was on it. I checked every piece for that. And you know, the description—chest, sideboard—not much difference really.
“I think I thought that maybe Galea had changed his mind about which piece to send, although it did cross my mind that maybe you’d come under the legendary Galea spell and lost it for a minute or two. You wouldn’t be the first woman that happened to.” His laugh turned into a coughing spasm.
“Very funny, Dave. The guy is dead. Stabbed.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not funny. I should have known something was wrong. I guess I screwed up. Big time,” he said morosely.
“I don’t think you screwed up, Dave. Presumably the murderer switched them. The police here think it was Marilyn Galea.”
“That little mouse? Tired of all his philandering, no doubt. Still I wouldn’t have put her down for it, would you? And you’d think divorce, while it might take longer, would be a more socially acceptable alternative, wouldn’t you? Most of the money’s hers, from what I hear. Isn’t it just as likely to be a jealous husband, or a colleague whom Galea beat out for a big commission? There must be a few of those. He got a lot of commissions.
“Come to think of it, I do recall a couple of the guys complaining that some of the furniture must be filled with bricks, or something. But they were all heavy wood pieces, and we didn’t open anything. I just amended the waybill accordingly. We were really rushing to make the flight. I… hold on a sec, Lara, Sandy’s waving at me.”
He put his hand over the mouthpiece for a second or two. “Gotta go,” he said. “Police at the door, as you predicted. Thanks for the warning. We’ll talk soon.”
“Just one more question, Dave. Was the furniture always in your sight from the time it left the Galea house? I mean, could he have been killed somewhere other than at his house?”
“Doubt it. The guys took it directly from the house and loaded it on the truck. They came straight to the airport. There was no time for a coffee stop, or anything, and they told me they came direct. I don’t think there was a time when at least one or two of us weren’t there during the loading. And anyway, why would anyone come all the way out to the airport to stab somebody? And what would Galea be doing out on the tarmac or in the hangar?”
What indeed? It was looking more and more as if Tabone was right. Galea was probably killed in his own home. And yet… I couldn’t imagine Marilyn Galea stabbing anyone, much less her own husband. She had seemed very nice to me. But what did I know? Perhaps I just felt guilty because I’d once contemplated having an affair with her husband. A middle-class Presbyterian upbringing stays with you forever.
It was not until the next day that I figured out what all the loud sighing was about when Tabone talked about the autopsy. I was back in Floriana the next morning, going over the same old stuff one more time. Marissa, looking very pale and sad, was leaving the office when I arrived. She gave me a wan little smile as we passed in the corridor. I’d seen Anthony and Sophia in the waiting room as I came in. He was utterly crushed, I could tell, by the death of his idol and mentor, she in her own quiet way, was a pillar of strength. It occurred to me that Anthony, an only child, and a very much adored one, was seeing life in the raw for the first time. Sophia on the other hand possessed a maturity that far exceeded her young life.
In any event, as I was reading the typed version of my statement, prepared for my signature, the telephone rang.
“What have you got?” Tabone grunted upon answering it. There was a pause.
“That’s it?” he asked incredulously. Then a few seconds later, he slammed the phone down and spoke to no one in particular.
“It appears Martin Galea was stabbed. With something sharp. Brilliant, wouldn’t you say? But perhaps you figured that out for yourself just looking at him,” he said, turning his attention to me and glaring in my general direction. I said nothing.
“Well, what would you expect from a loaner?”
“A loaner?” I asked hesitantly.
“Our former coroner, Dr. Caruana, has retired. He’s a prince. Really knew his stuff. We’re hoping to hire another one, Maltese, but in the meantime, we have a Frenchman, on loan. One of their rejects, if you ask me. He complains constantly about the primitive conditions under which he has to work here, and of course, he’s right. We have a long way to go in that area. Can’t do all the fancy tests other labs can. True in the medical area too. When Rosa, our eldest, was badly hurt in a car accident, my wife and I flew her to Italy for tests and treatment. Took every cent we had. No, more than that. We borrowed from several relatives, and we’ll be paying them back forever. But it was worth it, let me tell you.
“Caruana wasn’t bothered by it, though. He did his autopsies the old fashioned way, and he was always right. This French fellow obviously relied on fancy equipment in the past, and he’s definitely not so good at the basics. Complains about everything, including, and maybe especially, the food here. I hate spending any time with the man, but obviously I’m going to have to.