I squeezed his arm. “Would you like more wine?”
“No, no.” He seemed to enjoy my cozying up because he stroked my hand. “You take over Karastovsky’s work at the Covington?”
“Yes, I did.”
He looked left and right, then whispered, “I could-a tell you a thing or two about Karastovsky and those Winslows.”
I looked around, too. “Really?”
“Sì. They think Baldacchio’s a fool but I show them. They promise me a business deal, and I make sure they donna screw me. Baldacchio, he has the last-a laugh.”
“How in the world did you do that?”
“A little insurance.” He rubbed his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I show you sometime.”
“That would be lovely,” I said softly. “Maybe we could meet next week and catch up on old times. Are you busy Monday?”
He was taken aback for a moment, then slowly grinned. “Quello è molto buono. You’re a smart-a cookie.”
His Italian came and went like the tide. I patted his arm. “I’m glad you think so. Shall I come to your studio? Say, around two o’clock Monday?”
“Perfetto. I show you my latest treasure.” He moved even closer and I could see the comb marks in his overly gelled hair. “And maybe I show you a little something extra you will find extremely interessante.”
“Interesting?”
“And provocative. Tell no one. We do some business together, eh?”
“I can’t wait.”
“You’re a good girl,” he said, unexpectedly avuncular; then he frowned and shook his finger at me. “But do yourself the favor and stay away from the Faust.”
“The Faust?”
“The curse. I could-a lost my eye. Quel libro maledetto.”
“Your eye? What?”
The memory seemed to cause him pain because his eye began to twitch. He rubbed his forehead, then threw up his hands dramatically. “Eh! We talk Monday. You come see me and we talk.” He handed me his business card and strolled away. I saw Minka corral him by the dessert table and force him out the door.
Holy crap. What had I gone and done now? Ah well, I’d find out Monday.
“Hello, Brooklyn.”
I whipped around. “Mrs. Winslow.”
She looked lovely in a black Chanel suit and carried a clutch purse. She patted my arm consolingly. “I thought we should pay our respects.”
“Thank you,” I said, and breathed in relief. Her sincere kindness was a refreshing change from Enrico’s and Minka’s lies and calculations. “How are you?”
“Oh, my dear, I’m fine.” She smiled sadly. “But I know what it feels like to lose a good friend, so I wanted to wish you well.”
“That’s very kind.”
“If you’re willing to hear some advice from an old gal like me, I’d recommend that you take extra good care of yourself at a time like this.”
I smiled. “You’re hardly an old gal and I appreciate the advice.”
“I’m going to have to buy a case of that pinot,” Conrad Winslow said as he joined us. “Damn fine wine.”
We shared some small talk, and then they left. I was struck again by how genuinely nice the Winslows were, and how inexplicable it was that they’d managed to produce such a self-centered creature like Meredith.
I’d worked up a real appetite, so I grabbed two more tiny sandwiches, egg salad this time, then headed for the wine bar, praying the hangover gods would be gentle.
Robin sidled up to me. “You look pretty good for someone I had to pour into the cab last night.”
“I’m young,” I said. “I bounce back.”
“Obviously.” Robin turned to the bartender, a local boy who worked part-time in the Dharma vineyards. “Hi, Billy. I’ll have what she’s having.”
We waited until she had her drink in her hand, then began to stroll the periphery of the room.
“Who was that old guy you were talking to?”
“Enrico Baldacchio,” I said. “We just had a very interesting conversation.” I took a sip of wine, swirled it around my mouth and swallowed. I held the glass up to the light. “This is exceptional, isn’t it? Great color.”
“Don’t you dare change the subject. What’d he say?”
I gave her the short version as we walked.
“Do you honestly believe he’s got something to show you besides his etchings?”
“Ew.” But I’d had the same thought. “I guess I’ll find out Monday. I made a date to meet him.”
“A date?” She groaned. “What did we discuss last night?”
I frowned. “Fashion?”
“No, smartass.” She stopped walking and whispered hotly, “We talked about how you shouldn’t be investigating Abraham’s death by yourself because you could piss off a killer. Remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“We discussed how that was not a good idea. And this guy Enrico could be a killer.” She took a sip of wine. “And then I called your clothes atrocious and you got miffed. Any of this ring a bell?”
I took a sip of wine. “I recall the atrocious part.”