One Way or Another: A Novel (30 page)

Even the sea had not wanted Angie, despite all his efforts. He himself had brought her back from the Aegean, and from those marshes as if to prove his power over her, so she would know he was playing with her life and death. He’d enjoyed torturing her but now she was becoming a liability; people were inquiring after her, the media were onto it, the police were involved. It was dangerous to keep Angie around any longer and equally dangerous to try to dispose of her here. It would have to be Marshmallows.

Ahmet wondered why, for a man who had everything and who had been everywhere, his house on the bleak marshlands was his favorite, the one place in the world he could find peace of mind. Not always, but there were some nights, alone there, not a sound to be heard, not a footfall, no person, no animal, no ghost even to come back to haunt him, it was there he felt alive.

All the rest was just a façade: the glossy yacht soon to be transformed by Martha into something even more spectacular, more in keeping with his new stature in the society to which he was introducing himself and the new people who had come to his party and would attend the ball he was to give, people who would be glad finally to call themselves his friends. He also wanted to be known as a man who helped his friends, a charitable man, which in truth he was, though he preferred to keep that a secret, never wanted anyone to suspect his background might have been the same as the poor vagrants he helped from the dark alleys into new lives. Sometimes he failed, of course, some did not make it, but he gave them a shot at a new beginning, as he was now about to give himself. He was going to become Ahmet Ghulbian, friend to everyone that counted, host supreme, generous to a fault. And, in private, a killer. Which brought him back to Angie again.

Mehitabel kept her closeted in the guest cabin. “A prisoner of luxury,” she told Ahmet with that slow smile that changed her eyes to stone. He admired Mehitabel, though she seemed to be getting a bit out of hand lately, a little “above herself,” as the saying went. In truth, he no longer trusted Mehitabel, and he knew enough to believe the old adage credited to Mephistopheles, that if a man was only ninety-nine percent and not one-hundred percent with you, he was not your friend. Mehitabel had dropped to that ninety-ninth percentage; he could sense it in her body language, in the captured disdainful expression when she thought he was not looking, in the faint air of impertinence with which she turned and walked from a room. He had made Mehitabel, and he could break her. Without those emeralds around her neck she would be back to being a nobody. Or perhaps even, when he had used her for the final time, she would be nonexistent, the way Angie would.

What he needed now was to get back to Marshmallows, taking Angie and Mehitabel with him. The problem was that Marshmallows was still in the process of being renovated. The last report from Martha was that her assistant, a Mr. Sorris, was taking care of the final details, as was her sister Lucy.

Lucy! Dear God, he had not so much as considered Lucy in the scheme of the events he was planning. His little Lucy, who was to be the light of his life. Finally, he would have a reason for existence other than just the making of more money, of being the richest of the rich, the revered businessman admired by all and friend of none. He had not thought anything of her being alone at Marshmallows with one of Martha’s male employees but now it bothered him enough to get Martha on the phone.

“Just to thank you again for the wonderful yacht party,” he said, almost purring his gratitude, pleasing her.

“The first of many, I hope,” Martha said, a little absently because she was facing ten different logistical problems of “how to” and “why not” and “where is it” and “what happened,” and wondering if she was in over her head with this Ghulbian job anyhow. In fact Ahmet was the very last person she wanted to talk to right now, when all her plans seemed to be falling apart. Why was it people promised to fix, to alter, to make, to deliver by a certain date, then later told her it was impossible, and that was, as she reminded them fiercely, after she had paid a hefty deposit, the remainder of which money would not be forthcoming until she saw the end result. The “end result” usually came through after that, but not without some wrecked nerves on her part, which interfered with her relationship with Marco, who couldn’t stand her when she was stressed out. He simply took himself off to paint and left her to it.

Martha did not blame him, but she did miss him. She had not seen Marco since the yacht party and the lovely time together in the hotel in Nice, just the two of them. Of course Lucy had been with them too and the dog. Martha thought it was a good thing the old family home was still standing because the numbers were growing; when you added together family and friends she was going to need all the space she could get. She also needed the commission from Ahmet to make enough money to redo Patrons the way it should be done, that is, to restore it to the way it was when her mother and father lived there. Martha wanted it to be exactly the same only repaired, refinished, shiny with love and newness. “Home” would definitely be where her and Marco’s hearts would be.

And now here was Ahmet Ghulbian on the phone demanding that his hideous place, Marshmallows, be finished even before the day of the party, which gave her less than a week. Of course much of the work had already been done. Morrie confirmed that it was looking good, apart, he said, from Mehitabel being there, and him telling Martha he would never go back because it was haunted. That was all she’d needed; it meant now she would have to go there alone to check on how work was going. She couldn’t send Lucy, not after Ghulbian helicoptered her off with him like that, wining and dining her, coming on to her. Marco might have to remind Ghulbian that Lucy was only seventeen, that his behavior was not appropriate, that, in fact, he had better lay off. Meanwhile she would keep Lucy out of his way, take care of Marshmallows herself. In fact, she would go there today, check what was left to be done and see if what had been done was correct. She had time to get there and back to London before dinner.

She called Marco and left a message about where she was going and why, said she would meet him at their favorite Italian restaurant at nine, and that she loved him. Oh, and by the way, would he keep an eye on Lucy? She would take care of Ghulbian.

As she jogged through the rain and the puddles up the driveway with its scrubby trees and the hulking white birds that flew over the car, checking her out, then went and flew back and hulked under the eaves again, looking as miserable as she felt, she thought Marshmallows still did not give off a welcoming aura, no matter how she’d tried to change it. Of course new trees were to be planted, truckloads of them would be arriving, their roots encased in wooden crates. Mature trees, because Ahmet had neither the time nor the patience to wait for anything to grow. Instant gratification was his watchword, in more ways than one, Martha suspected. Anyhow, the trees would make a huge difference, as would the thousands of daffodil and tulip bulbs that had been planted, the many-colored variety with the shaggy petals that she adored, when spring finally came to this part of the gray world.
If
it ever did.

She parked in the semicircle of what was left of the gravel in front of the steps and got out, stretching her back. The house still looked gloomy and forbidding. No one was supposed to be there, but oddly there was a light on upstairs, in an attic, she guessed, though she had never been up there, never even so much as penetrated the bedroom floor. “Downstairs” was what she had been given to do and that was where she’d worked. She wondered who could be up there under the eaves near those birds, and if it was a guest why, in this vast house, had they not been given better accommodation.

Standing on the front steps, ringing the clanging great doorbell, hearing it echo through the empty house, Martha got the uneasy feeling that Morrie was right and the place
was
haunted. She heard footsteps crossing the hall, took a step back, ready to turn and run. The door was flung open and Ahmet stood there, with that smile on his face.

“Oh, thank God, it’s you” was all she managed to say.

53

“My dear Martha! Had I known you were coming I would have organized a better welcome! Come in, please.” Ahmet glanced anxiously at the now circling birds. “I hope they haven’t bothered you; I promise to get rid of them before we finish the house.”

“No, please don’t, they’ve probably been here for generations, they’re a part of the place.”

Martha stopped to look back at them settling again in a row on the eaves; some held small twigs in their beaks, obviously in the process of rebuilding their nests. She thanked heaven there was something alive at Marshmallows after all. With its everlasting flat background of treeless marshland it was a hard place to love: in fact, Ahmet was probably the only man who could ever love it. She certainly could not call to mind at the moment any woman who’d want to settle here in the wilds with only the silence and the twenty-mile drive through the scrubland to find a village store with a carton of milk, a newspaper, another human being. She wouldn’t bet the TV reception was decent either, which was something else she’d better check on since it obviously fell into her area of responsibility.

“Well, this looks great,” she said to Ahmet, stepping into the hall, onto the newly finished floor, with the wide planks of chestnut she had specified, finished in the traditional way with square pegs and no visible nails. It looked spectacular, though she was not thrilled with the mahogany balustrade Ahmet had wanted to keep, and which did not look right with the chestnut. The red carpet was still there too, with the immense brass clips keeping it in place. She wondered why it had not been taken care of; she’d have to speak to Morrie about it, he had probably run out of there so scared he hadn’t even thought about it again.

“This carpet will go, of course,” she told Ahmet, standing at the foot of the steps next to him. “I’d prefer the wood to show, refinished to a more mellow tone, and with a narrow antique runner; pale, not this red that seems to be everywhere.”

She saw Ahmet frown, saw he was concerned, and impulsively touched his arm, told him not to worry about a thing, she would get it right,
and
in time for the ball. “The plans are well under way,” she added as she followed him into the library where, as always, a fire glowed in the hearth and the two red leather chairs awaited with a tea tray on the small table between them. She made a mental note to tell him to get rid of the huge Victorian silver set, the teapot was so clumsy she could barely lift it to pour, and the spoon handles so fancily embossed they looked to be museum quality, not everyday items of usefulness.

“We have to tone you down a bit, Ahmet,” she said as he sat in stony silence while she poured and handed him his cup. She offered the milk jug, the sugar bowl, the plate of fig cookies. He accepted none of them, sat staring off into the flames, almost, Martha thought, as though she were not there.

“Ahmet,” she said uneasily, putting her own cup back on the tray. “You are preoccupied, I can come back another time, there’s no hurry, really.…”

He lifted his head, stared irritably at her. “What is this preoccupation you and Marco have with
my
‘preoccupation’? I have business matters on my mind. All I expect from you, Martha, is my house finished on time and looking exactly the way you told me it would, the way it did in the sketches, the plans. I expect the same from Marco—my portrait finished and presented on an easel in the hall. No more, no less than what I am paying you for.”

Stung, Martha took a deep breath. “You will have everything you paid for, and probably more, exactly the way you did on the yacht.” She got to her feet in one smooth move, snapped her bag shut, picked up the sketches, the metal ring with the fabric samples. She flung her green Burberry jacket over her shoulders and was walking out the door when he caught up to her.

He reached out and grabbed her arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s just that the young man who was here is saying my house is haunted, he heard things. None of this is true, but rumors are starting. It does my reputation no good. This place is my home, Martha, and I want it to feel that way. I want you to make it into exactly that.
A home.
”

Ahmet’s expression was so earnest, he was so deeply concerned, Martha felt sorry for him, a man alone, a
lonely
man, rattling around in this too-big house in the middle of nowhere, with that unlit black hole of a space at the top of the steps where no one was allowed to set foot, and the fire always blazing in the library, the half-empty bottle of tequila, and the terrible silence all around them. Even the birds had stopped their cawing.

But looking into Ahmet’s eyes, Martha felt nervous; she told herself there was no reason, he was her client, she knew him well by now; everybody knew his reputation as a businessman, a giver to charities. Yet no one wanted to really
know
him.

She thought about Lucy, of how she had been here, alone with Ahmet, and of Morrie racing out of the place, claiming it to be haunted. Unknown fear sent her own heart racing.

“I must get going.” She headed for the door.

Ahmet was there before her, his back against the door, an expression on his face she had never seen before; eyes cold, mouth tight. An inner tension kept his body rigid.

“Not yet, Martha.”

She glanced anxiously over her shoulder, thinking surely there must be a servant, a helper, somebody who took care of this rambling place, though she’d noticed there was no dust, the house was impeccable, cleaner than clean, with no people, no children, no animals, no jacket tossed casually over the back of the sofa, no umbrella in the hall stand, no collection of silly hats on the pegs by the kitchen door.

A sudden high-pitched wailing sound shattered the silence. Martha stared, shocked, at Ahmet, who took her arm and quickly walked her to the door. He led her out, closed it behind them, saw her into her car, shut her door, the polite gentleman to the end.