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“Vengeance was required?”
The don nodded.
“I assume you agreed to provide it.”
“Money doesn’t come from singing, my friend.” It was one of the don’s most cherished Corsican proverbs and the unofficial slogan of the Orsati Olive Oil Company. “Money is earned by accepting and then fulfilling contracts.”
“What was the name on this one?”
“Miranda Álvarez. The Vionnet woman was confident it was an alias. She was able to give us a physical description and a profession, but little else.”
“Why don’t we start with her appearance.”
“Tall, dark hair, very beautiful.”
“Age?”
“At the time, she was in her mid-thirties.”
“And her profession?”
“She was an art dealer.”
“Based where?”
“Maybe Barcelona.” The don shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Maybe Madrid.”
“That isn’t much to go on.”
“I’ve accepted contracts based on less, provided the client agrees to confirm the target’s identity once the target is located.”
“Thus avoiding needless bloodshed.”
“In a business like mine,” said Don Orsati, “mistakes are permanent.”
“I take it you were never able to find her.”
The don shook his head. “Françoise Vionnet begged me to continue looking, but I told her there was no point. I refunded her money, excluding the deposit and the expenses for the search, and we went our separate ways.”
“Did she ever tell you why her partner was murdered?”
“Apparently, it was a business dispute.”
“He was an art dealer as well?”
“A painter, actually. Not a successful one, mind you. But she spoke highly of his work.”
“Do you happen to remember his name?”
“Lucien Marchand.”
“And where might Christopher and I find Françoise Vionnet?”
“The Chemin de Joucas in Roussillon. If you like, I can get you the address.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all.”
It was upstairs in his office, said Don Orsati. In his leather-bound ledger of death.
