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“Yes, they had one almost every other night, and they tore the place to shreds every time. It was my job to put it together. They always had someone new over.”
“What kind of parties were these? Did you serve at them?”
“The ones we had with Goldie were nice. Sedate. Elegant. The ones with Kiki . . .” She made a face. “He bought this place because he liked his privacy. Because he wanted to be away from the city proper. It was a jewel. But when Kiki came along, let’s just say she didn’t have the same respect for it that the other wives had.”
“These parties . . . they were wild?”
“A bit like a fraternity party, I’ll admit. At first, they were fine. But after a time, when everyone was quite drunk and they didn’t need us anymore, we were sent to our quarters. That was usually when the cocaine came out. I’d always find it in the morning, when we cleaned up.”
Daisy looked at her notes. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Tate?”
“The day he left,” she said, again, without emotion. “I always saw him off before his trips. He did everything the same. I gave him his regular carry-on bag, his suitcase with a couple changes of clothes, and he kissed Ms. Tate goodbye, and left, same as always.”
“So there was nothing different?”
“No . . . not that I remember,” she said, deep in thought. “Oh, well, there was one thing, now that you mention it. But I don’t know if it’s relevant. I usually pack his things for his protein drink. Just the ingredients, kale and whatnot, so that someone can make the drink for him on the plane. Mr. Tate didn’t trust anyone else to do it, so I did it for him. I suppose once, they forgot, and Mr. Tate had a terrible trip. If he doesn’t drink it every morning, he gets a terrible headache, because of the altitude. But when I went downstairs to put the ingredients into a bag, Ms. Tate had already assembled it.”
That sounded odd. “And she never did that before?”
“No. Ms. Tate never did anything in the kitchen. So I was surprised. But I think it was because of the argument they’d had.”
“Argument?”
“Well, yes. I don’t listen in on my employers’ arguments, but I’m sure they heard it all the way to downtown Venice, it was that loud,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “He said something to her about his money, and how all she did was spend, spend, spend, bleeding him dry.”
Now, her eyes were wide.
“That was unusual for him?”
“Oh, yes. He never spoke of money, and nothing was too good for his new bride. He threw money around like it grew on trees. So when he said that, I was surprised.” She shrugged and sat back in her chair. “I figured that was why Ms. Tate was in the kitchen. She was finally trying to help out and not simply drain his wallet.”
“So she never really lifted a finger to help him?”
“No. Typical twenty-five-year-old. It’s all about her.Hemade it all about her. And she loved the attention, loved being spoiled. He loved spoiling her. The only time I ever got a hint that the arrangement wasn’t working for him was that night.”
“The night before he left.”
She looked at Daisy as if she’d seen a ghost. “Yes. Now that you mention it. Yes.”
Daisy scanned her notes. “This protein drink . . . he drank it every time he flew?”
Roberta nodded.
If so, and if Kiki had poisoned the drink, then why had it not affected him until they returned home? “Do you have the itinerary of the trip?”
“Of course. It was a gambling trip, I believe. They always made the same rounds. Mr. Tate and his friends frequented Monte Carlo, and then they’d fly to Cannes or Lyon—one or the other—and try the casinos there. And then back to Venice. He’d always try his luck in Venice, on the way home. I believe it was superstition. He was a superstitious man.”
“Was he? And do you know the names of the friends he brought with him?”
She began to count the names out on one hand. Some of them were names that had been listed by the businessman on the airplane, and Daisy marked them off, then scribbled down a few new ones. Six men in all.
Daisy stared at the list. “These men were all friends of Mr. Tate’s?”
“Yes. Some were business relations, but they were friends, first. Mr. Tate was very good to his friends. He always made time for them. They had a club . . .” She frowned. “I can’t remember what it was called.”
“Frati?”
“Yes, right. The brotherhood. He treated many of those men like his own brothers. It’s funny—I have been with him so long but I couldn’t tell you if he had any blood family. I never met them. But his friends, I met over and over again. He was very good to them. He always took them on trips. This one was to celebrate Matteo’s birthday, I think.”
