Sailing to Capri (33 page)

He brought all his lovers here, men as well as women, because that was how he was. Then when he was old—well, old for a ballet dancer—around fifty—he wrote the tell-all autobiography that scandalized the world and lost him a great many friends, and he returned to live here in near seclusion with the dog he adored.

He had the blue door carved into the garden wall so he could walk the dog on the cliffs. He knew those cliffs like the back of his own hand, knew where all the dangerous fissures and indents were, hidden by the scrub grass.

“He died right on this terrace,” I told Montana. “Sitting in his favorite chair with his dog by his side, sipping his favorite white wine and looking out at his favorite view.”

My eyes met Montana’s and I knew we were both thinking of Bob and how much better it would have been for him to die peacefully here, like Vassily.

Enrico appeared with glasses of iced tea and the little almond cakes he said were the specialty of the villa. I checked my watch. It was almost two o’clock.

Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon as the murder suspects straggled into the courtyard, looking like any other bunch of tourists in shorts and skirts and sandals, sunglasses and straw hats. As usual, Davis had a camera slung around his neck, and Dopplemann was carrying the expensive pair of binoculars, bought, I assumed with Bob’s money, somewhere on this trip.

Charlie Clement stalked in wearing the wraparound shades that conveniently hid his eyes. Magdalena had left Bella aboard the
Blue Boat
with her nanny and come with Rosalia and Hector, dapper as always in a white jacket, his hair groomed to within an inch of its life.

Diane wore black, to suit her “widow” image and was put out at having to walk, while Filomena strode in, glamorous as a showgirl in short shorts, newly purchased Capri sandals and a skimpy halter top. She was with Brandon, of course, while
Bordelaise, ever the cheerleader in a suntan, shorts and a white tee, was with Texas, exquisite as always in a plain cotton shift. A wind rattled the trees, sending Dopplemann’s Panana spinning along the terrace and he scrambled quickly after it, looking like an ungainly stick insect in his shorts.

Reg and Ginny exclaimed admiringly about the villa, drifting out onto the terrace for the view. Reg said he’d never in his life seen anything like it, and he thanked Bob out loud for inviting him because he could have gone through life not knowing places like this existed. Ginny talked to Enrico, who was offering glasses of the famous flinty white wine or cold beer, iced tea or Pellegrino. The old man seemed pleased with all the activity, happy to see the villa come to life again I supposed. Of course, he was completely unaware of the real reason we were here.

Across the bay, the dark clouds piled closer and in the distance thunder rumbled. I caught Montana’s eye and he nodded. It was time. I got everyone in the great room, arranging the suspects on the first row of chairs in front of the grand ebony desk where Montana stood, with the red herrings in the row behind.

My work done, I went to sit behind the desk next to Montana. A clap of thunder shattered the expectant silence and the women glanced nervously at each other.

I thought the scene was exactly as Bob had outlined it in his letter to me: the country house, the impending storm, the suspects all gathered, waiting for the will to be read.

The women crossed their legs, put their purses on the floor next to them, smoothed their linen skirts, hitched down their
shorts and folded their hands on their knees. The men leaned back in their chairs, arms across their chests, looking, I thought, aggressive, except for Dopplemann, who sank into his oversized chair looking like the White Rabbit caught in Alice’s Wonderland. Charlie snapped his fingers at Enrico for another drink and Davis stared straight ahead at Montana.

There were a few nervous coughs as Montana picked up his file of papers and told them Bob’s will was in the form of letters, one to each of them.

And then he began to read.

“Friends,”
Bob began his first letter,

“If I may still call you that. I hope you’ve enjoyed my cruise and that you celebrated my life as though you really meant it. But what we are here for now is to find out which one of you killed me.”

Shocked indrawn breaths hissed around the room and everyone glanced nervously at everyone else.

“Before we get to that, though, I want to remind you that it’s not often anyone gets a second chance in life, yet today I’m offering each one of you that chance. Let’s begin with you, Diane.”

Diane leaned eagerly forward in her chair.

“I can’t say for sure whether you killed me, Diane, but you thought you had good reason. I saw the anger and the desire to hurt me in your eyes many times. I wondered Why? Was I not generous enough? Did I not give you more than the prenup specified? As Lady Hardwick, you had everything you wanted, and yet you still wanted more. What is it with this thing called Money? Lord knows, as a kid I had none, just like you, Diane.”

Diane’s mouth clamped into a thin line. She glanced around trying to read her neighbors’ faces, but they were looking at Montana, waiting for what was to come next and somehow Diane knew she was not going to like it.

“At first I fell for all your family château and family tree nonsense, because you looked the aristocratic role. But later I took a look at French history. I thought your name sounded familiar, and that’s because it originally belonged to Diane de Poitiers, the Duchesse de Valentinois, mistress of King Henry II of France. Diane de Valentinois dominated French court life until the King died, and then his wife, Catherine de’ Medicis, forced her into ‘seclusion.’ Not to her glorious château at Chenonceaux but to the cheaper and much plainer Chaumont. “But of course, Diane, I’m sure you already know all this.”

Diane stared at Montana, seething with anger at being caught out in her lie, but she said nothing and he read on:

“In keeping with this story, a château awaits your ‘retirement.’ It’s smaller to be sure than Chenonceaux or even Chaumont but entirely suitable for my lady.

“You may remember it, up in the hills above Saint-Tropez? We once visited it together. A charming, pleasant place set in its own pine-filled acreage with a view of the sea and excellent for entertaining. So good, in fact, that I’ve left you enough to ‘entertain’ properly while at last also earning your own living. Plans are already approved to turn the property into a hotel, which I’ve renamed for you—the Château de Valentinois. Finally, my dear Diane, your background will match your story. And all your old friends will come and stay. Think what pleasure you’ll get from being able to charge them this time.

“This is your ‘second chance.’ There’ll be enough money to cover the cost of the renovations, plus setting up in business and a reasonable ‘pension’ of ten million dollars to get you through life, payable monthly so you don’t blow it all at the Casino. The rest is up to you. There’s an old saying, ‘Empty hands will find mischief.’ Well, this will give you something to do. Make no mistake, it will be work, work, work. I wonder if you are up to it? We shall see.

“What I don’t understand, though, is what happened to all the money I gave you? What happened to the jewelry? The property? I don’t believe your gambling problem is that severe, so what exactly did you do with it?

“And no, dear Diane, I don’t really think you murdered me. For one thing, I don’t believe you’re clever enough to pull off something as complicated as murder—unless it was a crime passionnel, sticking a knife into a cheating lover’s back, that sort of thing.

“I think in your own way you loved me. And for a while there I was in love with you. I treasure those moments, despite the aftermath. So, chère Diane, I bid you good-bye, and wish you bonne chance
.

“There’s just one caveat. In order to have your very own château, you must now tell the truth. So stand up, my dear. Admit who you were
then, and who you are now, and where my money went and why. Leave nothing out, for I can assure you that by now, Montana will know it all.”

Every head turned to Diane, who sat stony-eyed, face flaming. After a few moments, she got up. Looking at Montana, she said, “Since you know everything there’s nothing else for me to say.”

“But Bob wants
you
to tell us, Diane.”

She shrugged impatiently. “So you can gloat, I suppose.”

“We’re not here to gloat over another’s misfortune. We’re here for a second chance. Remember?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “All right. I’m no aristocrat. I reinvented myself, like so many other women have done. I was born Diane Lenclos on a poor, miserable little farm with a father who beat me and my sister, and a mother who drank herself to death because it seemed a better option than her life. Our farm was so near—and yet so far from—the beautiful châteaus of the Loire, which were about as accessible to me as the moon. That’s the reason I took the name Diane de Valentinois. As a girl, I longed to be like her.” She shrugged. “And I almost made it, didn’t I?

“When Maman died, my younger sister, Alice, and I were left alone with Papa, and he continued to vent his rage on us. We ran the house and helped on the farm, avoiding his backhanders across the face as much as we could, but we showed up for school once too often with bruises and the teacher called the child welfare services. Papa was put in jail for six months. I
don’t know what happened to him after that, I never saw him again.

“I was thirteen and Alice was nine when they put us in the cold red-brick ‘home’ along with forty or so other homeless children. We each had a bed to call our own and a small chest of drawers in which to keep our possessions, except Alice and I didn’t own any. We got three just-bearable meals a day, schooling six days a week and church every morning and twice on Sunday. I felt as though my soul was wearing a straitjacket. It was squeezing the life out of me. I waited until I was sixteen before I ran away. I promised Alice I’d come back for her when I was successful. Like every other teenager, I was going to be a movie star. I looked good enough, all I needed was the money and to know the right people. I thought it would be easy.”

Diane stopped. She stared at the floor, biting her lower lip as though what she was going to say next was too painful to bear.

“There’s no need to go into detail about my life then,” she said finally, “so I’ll skip a few years. Let’s just say I married a rich man and became Lady Hardwick and a different person.

“I’d promised Alice I’d be a success, and when at first I wasn’t, I was too ashamed to admit it to her. Wait, just wait, I said, it’ll be all right, I’ll come for you soon. But now I was a society lady and all wrapped up in my new life, in the clothes and the parties and the jewels and my houses. I had my new image to live up to and Alice was a country mouse, all she knew was our deprived childhood and the children’s home. Bringing Alice to live with me would have given my game away, so I put her off. I gave her money, said I’d send for her when I could.
But Alice couldn’t wait any longer. She decided to rent a car and come to Monte Carlo to see me. She was near Lyon when the car hit a tree. They got her out using the Jaws of Life and took her to the hospital. In her handbag they found a letter from me.

“I was giving a party when the phone call came. I was terrified for Alice, but my guests were important people, I couldn’t just leave them. So to my shame, I just carried on. I flew to Lyon the next morning. Alice was in a coma. She was wrapped in so many bandages she looked like a mummy. They said the windshield had shattered in her face. They said there was brain damage.”

Diane lifted her head and looked at her audience. Tears slid down her cheeks and she wiped them impatiently away. “I confess I prayed for my sister to die,” she said quietly. “I
wanted
her to die. She was a sweet simple girl, and now she was nothing. And it was all my fault.

“She was in the hospital for many months. Her face healed, but the scars were terrible. Eventually she came out of the coma. I believe she recognized me, though she couldn’t say my name because she could no longer speak.