Secrets Of Bella Terra (30 page)

I
n the wine bar, the glass doors that protected the wines still hung open, some with broken hinges. Plastic garbage cans filled with glass shards lined the walls of the bar. Most of the wine had been mopped up, but the fruity, aged oak odor still permeated the air.

A gloomy Tom Chan worked behind the bar, doing an inventory of the bottles left intact.

Madelyn was not here.

“Mr. Chan, where is my housekeeper?” Ebrillwen asked.

“She left about an hour ago.” He sighed heavily as he wiped off a bottle of wine.

“She left?” Ebrillwen was clearly horrified. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.” Tom read the label; then through tearful eyes, he looked at Brooke. “At least the bastard missed the 1968 Mosberger cabernet.”

“How did she leave?” Brooke felt bad for Tom, but there was more at stake here than the fate of his bar.

“She walked out.” He placed the wine on the bar with the lineup of other stained and battered bottles, then reached for another.

“Did she say anything?” Ebrillwen asked.

“I’m not her boss!” he said in exasperation.

With frosty disdain, Ebrillwen said, “No, Mr. Chan, I am, and I’m trying to ascertain why my employee abandoned her post.”

Tom was a sweet guy, in no way able to stand against a hard-ass like Ebrillwen. Meekly he said, “She was sort of muttering to herself about a man. . . . Spotted somebody out the window, I think, because she jumped up all of a sudden and left.”

Ebrillwen looked directly at Brooke. “That is not like the girl. She is supremely responsible.”

Brooke’s niggle of panic was growing. “Do you think she’s gone to check on her daughter?”

“Her daughter is in school. We dropped her off on the way to work this morning.”

“Do you think she went to the police?” Brooke asked.

“She was by no means convinced she should do so. She was, as you said, frightened she would lose her child.” Ebrillwen drew herself up. “Besides, surely she would have done so in her off-hours.”

“Right. Try paging her again.”

“I’ve paged her twice.” But Ebrillwen did it again.

Tom Chan now watched them with concern. “You ladies are sure worried about one housekeeper.”

A movement outside the windows caught Brooke’s gaze.

Josh walked through the lush garden outside the wine bar, looked inside, and smiled broadly at Brooke—and winked.

Every nerve in Brooke’s body tightened in fear. “Did you see that?”

“That very handsome young man?” Ebrillwen looked down her nose at Brooke as if suspecting her of lascivious thoughts. “Yes, he works here.”

“I suspect he killed Luis Hernández.” As Brooke said the words out loud, she realized she believed Zachary. Something about Josh was just . . . off, like spoiled meat or old milk. “If he has Madelyn somewhere . . .”

Ebrillwen’s alabaster complexion became ashen. “Why would he do that? Why?”

“Because if it’s true”—the memory of that smile and wink sent a chill down Brooke’s spine—“if Flores came because he was working a job and Madelyn has the papers to prove there is a job, Madelyn is a threat.”

“To Josh?”

“To the man who hired him.”

Tom picked up the house phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“I’m going after him.” Ebrillwen strode out the door.

Brooke started after her.

Tom Chan grabbed her arm. “I usually keep a pistol behind the bar. Of course, it disappeared when the bar was vandalized. But listen, if you suspect this guy, don’t chase him without a weapon. Take this.” He ripped the foil off a scuffed bottle of champagne and handed it to her.

He was crazy. Tom Chan was crazy.

“It’ll work,” he assured her. “Take the wire off from around the cork, shake it up, aim it, and pull the cork. Even if you don’t pull the cork, it’ll pop on its own within a few minutes. Delayed release. A time bomb.”

“Right. Thank you.” She ran after Ebrillwen.

“Plus you can carry that and none of the guests will think a thing about it,” he called after her. Then he said, “Oh, hell,” and limped toward Noah’s office.

N
oah and Rafe relaxed in Noah’s office. Rafe’s new, secure computer was propped up against the lamp, and both men watched the feed from the wine cellar and talked desultorily.

“When do you figure he’s going in?” Noah stretched back in his office chair behind his desk and hooked his hands behind his head.

“Soon.” Jacket off, Rafe leaned against the twodrawer file cabinet. “The way these things usually work is—the thief has so much time to acquire the merchandise before he’s done.”

“Done how? They kill him?”

Rafe laughed. “Wishful thinking. You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“This guy already killed at least one person and attacked Nonna. It’s more than just wishful thinking.” Noah’s smile was bright, toothy . . . vengeful. “It’s preplanning.”

Rafe’s amusement faded. “It’s a policy in my company that we try not to get ourselves arrested when we apprehend a perp. I do think this guy is getting anxious—the escalating violence means he’s desperate. Why else would you do things guaranteed to call attention to yourself?”

“Desperate equals sloppy?”

“In this case, it does. Assuming Bianchin is behind all this, he’s ordered a pickup, not a hit.” Rafe paused, then added, “But he’s not too picky about how the job is done.”

Noah seemed fascinated by the details. “How do you know he didn’t order a hit?”

“I don’t, but murder entails prison time, and I’m guessing he’s smart enough to avoid committing himself to violent intentions. The people causing the problems usually make sure there’s a lot of distance between them and the crime. They aren’t the ones who get caught, and if they do, they don’t get prosecuted for the worst charge.”
Damn it.

“I could kill the old fart myself.” Noah’s voice came from deep in his chest, the growl of a fighter who had seen his grandmother injured and his business hurt by the malice of one selfish man.

Ten minutes passed in silence.

“This is boring,” Noah said.

“Mind-numbing,” Rafe agreed. “And you thought I had a glamorous job.”

“Another dream crushed.” Noah turned to the computer on his desk. “If you’ll watch the monitor for a while, I’ll do some of my glamorous job—accounting.”

“Our lives are the envy of millions,” Rafe said drily. Picking up the computer, he wandered toward one of the chairs and sat. He perched the computer on his knee, halved the screen, and brought up a game of solitaire.

Five games in, he still hadn’t won and the cellar remained stubbornly empty. The afternoon was getting late, and for the first time he wondered whether the perp was suspicious. Had he seen Rafe remove the bottle from under his coat? Had he noticed Rafe place his cameras? Or his transmitters? That would thoroughly suck.

A faint knock sounded at the door.

Rafe flipped the cellar to full screen, stood, and looked out the peephole. “Uh-oh.”

“Who is it?” Noah asked.

Taking a long breath, Rafe opened the door. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

Francesca burst into the room with all the exuberance and emotion of the Italian drama queen that she was. “Rafe! Is it true? Have the wicked
polizia
dragged Victor to prison?”

Oh, God.
What role was she performing now?

With great care, he placed his monitor on Noah’s desk. “I wouldn’t call DuPey wicked, but yes, Victor’s in custody.”

Noah stood. “Won’t you take a seat, Francesca?”

“Ah, Noah, good afternoon.” She smiled at him with all the pleasure she always showed for Rafe’s family. “Thank you, but I cannot sit. Not while this injustice continues. Victor is not guilty of any misdeed!”

Not now, Mom, I’m really busy.
But Rafe couldn’t say that—not if she knew something that would spring Victor from jail. “Probably he’s not, but he can’t provide an alibi.”

“I can provide the alibi.” She struck a pose. “He was with me!”

Victor and his mother? Rafe wanted to slam his head against the wall—or hers. “Another affair?”

“No. No!” Her nostrils flared in disdain. “I would not sleep with that man if he begged me on bended knees. But he was with me.”

Rafe looked at his brother for help.

Noah grinned, sat back down, and settled in to enjoy the show.

“Really?” Rafe glanced at the monitor.

It wouldn’t save him. Still nothing moved in the cellar.

He returned his attention to his mother. “I mean, really? Because if you’re on some imaginary mission to save some guy who’s been respectful to you—”

“No!”

“Or who you slept with—”

“No!” She stomped her foot. “I tell you, I do not like him at all.”

“You don’t like a handsome, courteous gentleman who admires you?” Rafe had more than a little trouble believing that.

Her mouth turned down, not in the attractive pout she had perfected, but in a thin, petulant line. “He does not admire me.”

The brothers exchanged raised-eyebrow glances.

“What did he do?” Rafe asked.

She didn’t answer.

“What did you do?” Noah asked.

Francesca turned on him. “Nothing! I did nothing! A little light flirtation, that is all.”

“I’m confused.” Noah sat forward, glanced at the monitor, then stared compellingly at Francesca. “Why should you be angry with Victor if you indulged in a little flirtation with him?”

“Not with Victor! I flirted with that young waiter, the handsome one. The one who works the lobby and bar. Tall, blond, firm buttocks—”

Rafe covered his eyes with his hand.

“Trent?” Noah suggested.

“Yes. Trent.” Francesca’s voice turned sultry. “He worships me. But I wouldn’t have slept with him!”

This was getting more and more odd.

Apparently Noah decided Rafe needed help, because he took over the questioning. “What does Victor have to do with Trent?”

“It was late. The boy and I were teasing. The wine bar was closed.” She frowned at him. “Noah, the bars close too early here.”

“I have nothing to do with that, Francesca.” Noah’s scrutiny wandered to the monitor, then returned to the conversation. “The state of California regulates the hours.”

“Preposterous!” she said.

“Victor, Mom,” Rafe prompted.

“Victor arrived in a huff! He spoke rudely to the boy of whom I am very fond—”

“What’s his name?” Rafe asked.

She hesitated. “Trevor.”

Noah cackled.

“How fond can you be of him, Mom? You can’t even remember his name.” Rafe glanced at the monitor again. Still clear.

“That is of no consequence! He was sweet to me! And Victor sent him away.” She threw her hands into the air. “Then he . . . he escorted me back to my cottage.”

Noah leaned into the keyboard and started typing, his gaze fixed on the screen.

“Mom, did he hurt you?” Rafe asked.

“No. He is not that kind of man.” Francesca sounded huffy on Victor’s behalf.

“Can you see them on the security tapes?” Rafe asked Noah.

“I’m looking. Yes!” Noah pointed at the screen. “There’s a shot of them on the path to her cottage, and the timeline is right.”

Rafe looked. “Okay, so Victor and Mom were out the door of the Luna Grande after the feed to the cameras was cut. That’s why we never saw him exit the bar. When did Victor leave her cottage?”

“Looks like about four in the morning.”

“He shouted at me!” Francesca was clearly affronted and astonished they were not outraged on her behalf.

Noah was jumping from one time frame to another, one camera to another. “Victor went straight to his room and didn’t come out for two hours, right before he reported the vandalism.”

“So Victor’s off the hook,” Rafe said with satisfaction.

Francesca tugged at Rafe’s arm. “No, he is not, because in my cottage, he said rude things to me.”

Rafe was liking Victor more and more all the time.

“I can’t imagine any man saying rude things to you,” Noah said. When Rafe glared, Noah shrugged. “Really. Have you looked at her?”

“I know.” She took a deep breath. “It is outrageous.” But her voice shook, she sank onto a chair in front of Noah’s desk, and a tear dripped down her cheek.

At his mother’s sniffling, Rafe’s liking for Victor faded. “What did he say?”

“He said . . . he said I should not waste my time chasing after children.” A sob hiccupped out of her. “That sleeping with a little boy would not recapture my own youth.”

“Ouch,” Noah said.

“He said a beautiful woman deserved more than . . . than vapid posturing men who want only to u-use me for my money and influence in the movie business.” Her shoulders shook as she tried to suppress her tears. “He said . . . he said I do not need any man, that I should be . . . should b-be strong by myself. Only th-then could I meet a man who was my . . . my . . . my . . . equal.”

Noah passed Rafe the box of Kleenex.

Rafe offered the box to his mother. “I’ve been saying that for years.”

She pulled out a handful of tissues and blew her nose. “But you are my son. Of course you must say nice things to me about how strong I am. But it’s not true!” She tossed the wad of tissue at the trash can. “The body is no longer firm, the skin is not smooth and beautiful anymore, and I still have no one to love me with the passion and the fire I desire!”

For once, she wasn’t speaking for effect or providing a spectacle. She really meant what she said, and Rafe knelt in front of her and smiled. “Mom, you don’t need anybody else. You’re pretty damned cool all by yourself.”

“Do you think so?” She got more tissue and blew again.

“Who was the young girl who fought her way up from the streets of Naples to become Italy’s biggest film star?” he asked. “Who picked her own scripts and put her name on the top of the credits? Mom, you don’t give yourself enough respect.”

“I’m a big fan of yours, Francesca,” Noah said. “On-screen, you always play the kind of strong woman I admire.”

“Don’t play me, Noah Di Luca,” she retorted. “I know the truth. Most men like stupid, clinging women.”

Noah nodded. “Sad but true.”

“Yes, there are very few men whose egos are sturdy enough to stand up to a strong woman, but we are the only ones worth having,” Rafe said.