‘That would be lovely.’
Safa picked up the electric kettle and filled it with water from the tap. ‘Yasmine, why don’t you go color in your mother’s office so Hannah and I can talk?’ She switched on the kettle, removed two cups from the dishwasher and set them down on the counter.
Yasmine crammed the crayon she was using back in the box, hopped off the stool and said, ‘Can I play on your iPad, Grandmother?’
Safa smiled indulgently. ‘Of course.’
Yasmine snatched the device off the counter where it had been charging and skipped off into the adjoining room.
When the kettle began to scream for attention, I said, ‘Have the police made any progress in finding Masud’s killer?’
Safa filled the teapot and set it in front of us to steep. ‘Sadly, no.’
‘I keep asking myself who could have done such a terrible thing.’
‘I ask myself the same question, every minute of every day.’
I was tempted to tell Safa about the evidence I had found on the croquet mallet, but I had promised Detective Powers that I’d keep that information to myself. ‘Everybody at Calvert Colony is jumpy,’ I said instead. ‘If it can happen to Masud it can happen to anyone.’
‘Not just anyone,’ Safa said. ‘I think the newspapers were right. It was a hate crime.’
As I sipped my tea I reviewed my list of potential suspects: the colonel, Christie, Richard Kent, Tyler Bennett and Balaclava Man – who may, of course, have been one of the men. After a few moments, I asked, ‘Safa, are you sure you didn’t report what we saw to the Office of Health Care Quality, between Nancy and Jerry, I mean?’
She studied me over the rim of her teacup, pale eyebrows gracefully arched. ‘No, of course not. That’s not my job.’
‘Then who did, I wonder? It wasn’t Elaine or Tyson.’
Safa’s gaze was steady, unwavering. In that moment I knew it was Masud – it had to be. And she knew that I knew.
‘Masud can, uh, could be compulsive. When I told him about the rape, he marched off to see Tyson Bennett. Demanded that he do something, although between you and me, Hannah, I’m not sure what Mr Bennett could have done. You can’t chain old people to the beds, after all.’
As I sipped Safa’s fine Earl Gray tea, I mused that Masud was exactly the kind of person who might chain an infidel to a bed, but the man was dead, so I chided myself for being so judgmental and moved on. ‘So what happened between the two of them? Did Masud say?’
Safa set down her mug, stirred in another half teaspoon of sugar, then laid the spoon to one side. ‘Masud told the director that perhaps we’d made a wrong decision in moving into the colony, that maybe it wasn’t a safe place for a woman to be.’
‘Ah.’
‘Mr Bennett insisted that Jerry’s sex with Nancy had been consensual, and that, he said, was that.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps Masud called the Health Care Quality people after hearing that Mr Bennett didn’t plan to report it, or perhaps not. I really don’t know. But maybe Masud was right. Maybe Calvert Colony isn’t a safe place for a woman like me to be.’
‘Does that mean you’re not planning to come back?’
‘I’m needed here.’ She bobbed her head in the direction of the next room where the familiar sounds of Angry Birds – deedle-deedle-ha-ha-ha-squawk-squawk-squawk – followed by the computerized sound of broken glass testified to a touchingly familiar, normal twenty-first-century home environment.
‘They’ve been a great comfort to me, my family,’ she said.
‘I’m crazy about my grandkids, too, Safa, but you have many friends at Calvert Colony. We miss you.’
‘After the incident with the graffiti, Masud wanted to move right away.’
‘I can understand that, but where did he plan to go?’
‘That’s just it. The waiting list at Ginger Cove is a mile long and, well, they don’t cater to our special needs.’ She smiled. ‘I put my foot down, Hannah. I told Masud that the only way I was leaving Calvert Colony was feet first. I love my town home.’
‘Good for you,’ I said, admiring her gumption.
‘Underneath all this,’ she said, indicating her baggy dress and hijab, ‘there’s an opinionated Southern Baptist from Texas named Linda.’
I laughed out loud.
Safa’s face clouded. ‘I made every effort to be a good Muslim wife, Hannah, but no matter how hard I tried, Masud wasn’t entirely convinced that my conversion was sincere.’
‘I saw how he treated you outside the kitchen that day, Safa. Frankly, I was concerned.’
‘Masud was a jealous man, but his behavior that day was an aberration, I assure you. Masud never hit me, Hannah.’
I searched her face, seeking the truth. ‘I would never make a good Muslim,’ I told her. ‘I have too many male friends, and I enjoy their company, even when Paul isn’t around.’
‘That was the hardest part of conversion for me.’
‘Sometimes I don’t play by the rules either,’ I said, thinking about finding Safa alone in the kitchen with Raniero.
‘We have a lot more in common than you might think, Hannah Ives.’
I reached across the butcher block surface and squeezed her hand. ‘I know.’
NINETEEN
‘There is a curious respect for legal formalities. The signature of the person despoiled is always obtained even if the person in question has to be sent to Dachau in order to break down his resistance.’
John C. Wiley, U.S. General Counsel in Vienna,
March, 1938.
If I had to write a caption to illustrate the next few days, it would be this: Woman waits vainly for the telephone to ring.
Not that I expected Detective Powers to keep me in the loop on the progress of his investigation into the murder of Masud Abaza, but I still hadn’t heard back from Hutch about what, if anything, he’d learned about Izzy’s valuable painting currently on exhibit at the Baltimore Art Gallery. I was within hours of dropping into my brother-in-law’s downtown office in full-blown pester mode when he phoned.
‘I have news.’
‘Good or bad?’
Hutch snorted. ‘A little of both, I should think. When can you and Mrs Milanesi come by?’
Right now, was the correct answer, but I needed to consult with Izzy, so we tentatively settled on eight o’clock the following morning, and I’d call him if that turned out not to be convenient.
Izzy and I arrived right on time the following day; the receptionist escorted us into the conference room where Hutch was waiting. A stack of photocopies sat in front of each of our places, along with a bottle of spring water. A tray of donuts, each neatly sliced in half, sat in the center of the table. Hutch didn’t usually provide refreshments. Perhaps he was laying in supplies for a marathon.
‘Please sit down, ladies.’ He paused, then added, ‘Coffee?’
‘If it’s no trouble,’ I said, reaching for a cruller.
Hutch nodded in the direction of the credenza where a Keurig coffee machine sat in splendid isolation, surrounded by a selection of individual K-cups. ‘My new toy. Help yourself. The French roast is particularly good, but there’s decaf as well.’
‘None for me, thanks.’ Izzy selected a half moon of cinnamon, and had taken a nibble when Hutch tapped a set of printouts of photos that I knew had come from Naddie’s cell phone.
‘First of all, Letizia Rossi’s scrapbook. Has it been found?’
Izzy shook her head sadly.
‘Pity. Well, then, let me say how valuable these photographs have been. I had an expert enlarge and crop them, so we have records of at least fourteen of your family’s paintings. Over the past several days I’ve spent a good deal of time with the director of the Baltimore Art Gallery and her staff, who have, in my opinion, been fully cooperative.