The Dead Don't Get Out Much (23 page)

At least the weather had turned. Ray and I were heading into a mild, sunny November day, no rain, no fog, just perfect. Ray had already checked us out. I suppose he'd updated the records, paid the double rate and settled up for our breakfasts. As I passed, the desk, the girl with the twinkly earrings waved and called out, “Signora MacPhee, I have made enquiries about your
nonna
. Someone suggested she may have been visiting the American gentleman staying at the Villa Rosa. Of course, it might be someone entirely different.” She stopped and shrugged. If she wondered where Ray had come from, she never mentioned it.

“Where's the Villa Rosa?” I said.

She beckoned us over to the desk, drew a map on the hotel stationery and offered a few tips on not getting lost.

“Do you know this man?”

“No.”

“Are you certain he's American?”

“No, he's not from here for sure. Not English either. He is very rich, and he speaks Italian with an accent. I thought…”

“Is his name Harrison Jones?”

The earring swayed as she shook her head. “I do not know his name. One of the maids has a sister who keeps house for him. Wait here, please, I will ask.”

“This could be it, Ray. Let's get over there. And we'll take the two cars. She can't get away from both of us.”

Ray chuckled. “I still can't believe the old girl tricked you like that.”

“Glad someone thinks it's funny. She won't succeed with a stunt like that again,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

Our helper bustled back in two minutes, waving another piece of paper. She said, “Here it is. I have no idea how to pronounce it.”

Ray and I stared at the neatly printed name.

“Who the hell is this Guy Prendergast?” Ray said.

I felt a flush of excitement. “He's a man from the past. And you know what? I think he might be dead.”

* * *

Perhaps the Villa Rosa was named for its soft Tuscan pink colour. It was one of many reconstructed farm houses that dot the hills in Tuscany, surrounded by olive trees and ancient cypress. Although this villa stood on a hill, at the end of a tangle of dirt roads, with the map and travel tips, we had no trouble finding it. Up close, the villa was smaller than most. I glanced around the property for a Mercedes. I saw only a battered green Rover.

Ray scanned the property while I banged on the rustic wooden door until a very tall, stooped man opened it. His brilliant blue eyes were still bright and alert. And his spiky white brush cut, overdue for a cut, contrasted with leathery skin the colour of cognac. He had leather sandals on his feet, a glass of red wine in his hand and a Peter Robinson paperback tucked under his arm. He peered at us over half-moon reading glasses. I recognized the long jaw from the old photo.

Ray stuck out his hand, “Ray Deveau, how you doing.”

“And my name is Camilla MacPhee,” I said, “Are you Guy Prendergast?”

“Sure am. It must be my lucky day to have two English-speaking visitors.” He had a firm two-fisted handshake, just a slight tremor in the thin fingers. Something told me he was not surprised to see us. Had he had a call from the hotel? Or had Mrs. Parnell warned him I might show up? He kept up the pretense of an unexpected visit as he ushered us through the house, an interior of cool tile floors and rough walls in the soft Tuscan pink.

“Don't mind the mess,” he said with a slight quaver in his voice. “I've developed the bad habits of a single man. Perhaps if I'd known you were coming, I might have cleaned up a bit, but probably not.”

Of course, I liked Guy Prendergast's casual approach to housekeeping. Books lay stacked in piles, a half-dozen empty wine bottles clustered in a corner. My guess was his housekeeper spent most of her time in the kitchen and cleaning, since everything that could gleam gleamed. She'd have orders to leave the books alone. As we passed through, I noticed the walls sported some very nice artwork, elegant oil landscapes, which fit in well. We filed past a large rustic wooden table with an open suitcase on top. A second heavy wooden door led to a stone patio, nestled against the vine-covered back wall.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to mismatched wooden chairs. There was nothing casual in the way he kept his plants. Well-tended rosemary, thyme and basil still grew profusely in the raised herb garden. Hibiscus trees hugged the walls. I sniffed the air and found it hard to believe it would ever be winter anywhere. Guy Prendergast seemed very pleased at our visit, although we hadn't given him any idea of what we wanted. He hadn't asked.

Ray and I declined the offer of red wine. Ray relaxed and leaned back in his rickety chair and gazed out at the view of rolling hills and vineyards. I kept my eyes on our host. I wasn't so sure we could trust this foxy old fellow. I sat forward and whipped out the fragile, faded photo of the six young people.

“Will you look at that,” he said shaking his head and chuckling. “What a bunch.”

“Do you remember these people?”

“Who could forget them? Betty Connaught was a bit hoity-toity, too good for the likes of me. The kind of gal who'd say one thing and mean another. Now we'd call her passive-aggressive. Now that Hazel Fellows was a pretty thing, always up for a party, loved to laugh. And Violet Wilkinson, she was the best, just splendid. Never met anyone like her.”

“Me neither,” I said.

He said. “Hasn't changed a bit. After all these years. Still has that look in her eyes. Not to be trifled with, Vi wasn't, then or now.”

I blurted out, “Did you stay in touch with her?”

His eyes flicked away. “Not really. I carried a torch for her all over Europe, but she had her heart set on Harry Jones, that's this fellow here.” He pointed to the first golden boy with the debonair grin. “So there wasn't much point in hoping.”

Something told me there was still a spark left in that torch, even after more than sixty years. Guy Prendergast continued, “By the time I found out that fool Harry had jilted her, she was going out with this Parnell fella. I knew him a bit too. Stuffy as all get out, but he was stubborn. He wouldn't have given up like I did. My own fault. What is it the kids say nowadays? You snooze, you lose?”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“I tried again after that Parnell fella died. Wrote to her, hoping to get things going. I never heard back. That time I took the hint and found myself a nice girl, got married and turned my attention to making money and raising kids.”

By this time, I'd decided the quaver in his voice was age or illness rather than emotion or nervousness.

“Mrs. Parnell is in Italy now.”

He peered at me over the half-moon glasses.

I said, “She's investigating what happened to Harry Jones in the war. She's visiting people who might know something about him.”

“Really?” he said, taking off the glasses and slipping them into his pocket.

“Yes. And we've been told she came here to see you.”

“Have you. Well, you can't keep secrets if you're a foreigner in Italy. The locals know everything. Walk into the bakery, and everyone behind the counter is already up on what you had for dinner last night.”

I fought down a flash of impatience. “We'd like to get to the point. Mrs. Parnell needs medical help. We have to find her before something bad happens. I want to know what she was doing here.”

“Medical help? What kind?” That was news to him. The dark leathery skin paled at least two shades.

“She's in grave danger of having a cardiac arrest. Her doctor is outraged that she would even consider flying to Italy in her condition. I don't care if she told you to stonewall anyone who came looking for her. She needs help, and you'd goddam well better help us.” So much for the well-mannered guest.

Ray looked more than a bit surprised by my outburst. Guy Prendergast took it in his stride. Maybe someone had prepared him to be yelled at. “I didn't know she wasn't well. I should have guessed from the look of her. Not herself at all. Can't say I blame her. Thing is, we were all so wrong about Harry, weren't we? It had to come out some time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, no one would ever have expected it. He seemed such a fine fellow, way better for a fine gal like Violet than a layabout like me. Something changed him. He…”

We were on to something new now, and I couldn't stop myself from interrupting. “Changed him how? Please get to the point.”

“War does strange things to people. It can wreck your mind and heart. Some never get over it. Some rough and ready fellas grew up on the front lines, came back stronger and tougher. Others hear screaming shells and the shrieks of dying comrades all their lives. They end up wrecks of human beings. Nervous breakdowns, drinking.” He raised his glass and chuckled. “Who am I to talk, with my
vino rosso
at ten thirty in the morning?”

“One last time, how did Harry change?”

“Well, if you ask me, Harry just plain went bad.”

Ray had been quiet up to this time. He said, “Bad? What kind of bad?”

“First of all, Perce was shot down, then Harry was seriously injured. I guess you know that. They were together all their lives. Harry was always the good influence, and Perce was the wild one, he was always in trouble, some of it serious. I don't think Harry got over Perce dying. Never was the same afterwards.”

I frowned. “I never heard anything about Perce being in serious trouble. Hazel alluded to childhood pranks, that was all. Are you sure? I thought he was such a heroic guy.”

“Well, it would depend on who you asked. His family thought the sun shone out of his arse, if you'll pardon the expression. And Harry did too, always bailing Perce out. He'd have done anything for his buddy. Not everybody felt the same way. Perce was skating pretty close to the wire when he died. Maybe Harry snapped. Maybe he took over where Perce left off.”

“What was Perce involved in?” A cop's tone edged into Ray's voice.

“I couldn't really say. No proof.” He gestured toward the green hills that surrounded the villa. “Wouldn't like to lose all this in a lawsuit.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “A lawsuit will be the least of any of our problems, if you don't start to treat this seriously. We're trying to keep someone we care about alive. You say you care about her too. Tell us what you know.”

He let out a long sigh. “I've already caused enough harm. All right, Perce got mixed up with the wrong people, shady types. The kind who get court-martialed. Or shot because they find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Black market shenanigans, contraband, that sort of thing, back in England. At the time of his death, he was supposed to have been under investigation for some serious activities. That's what I heard from some of the RCAF guys I ran into after the war.”

I butted in. “Let me guess. Did the bad stuff have to do with the looting at the Palazzo Degli Angeli?”

Guy Prendergast picked up his wine, sipped it and frowned thoughtfully. “I don't know about that. There were rumours about looting at the Palazzo. Never saw any of it myself. We were busy trying to stay alive in 1944 and 1945. Having our friends bleed to death in our arms. Wasn't a shopping expedition, let me tell you. Canadian troops were high calibre. Even though the rumour was that the people who owned that Palazzo…”

“The Degli Angeli family,” I interjected.

“That's the name. They were supposed to have been very hospitable to the Nazis. I'm not so sure they really were. Some of the fellas might not have been too sympathetic if they did hear that kind of gossip. Anyway, none of the officers I encountered tolerated any monkey business.”

“Perce could have been mixed up in it?”

“I don't see how. He wasn't anywhere near there. He was an airman, flew bombers.”

“Mrs. Parnell went to the Palazzo. Must be some kind of connection.”

“Sure there was a connection, and the connection wasn't Perce, it was Harry. I told you he went bad afterwards. His regiment would have been moving up through that part of Italy, not all that far from here really. I'm pretty sure he could have been involved in looting fine artwork and other valuables from there and other places too. Wouldn't be surprised if that's what got him started doing so well after the war.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Parnell this?”

I knew the answer before he opened his mouth.

“Oh, God, what the hell did I start?” He lifted the wine glass and drained it in one serious gulp.

“Okay, so you did. How did she track you down here?”

“I found
her
. It was awful lonely here after my wife died. Never stopped thinking about Violet. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut and let her have her memories. I was hoping maybe she'd have a place in her heart for me, I suppose. Two lonely people. One independent woman, one foolish old romantic with more money than brains. Did pretty well out of my business, and then got lucky with some investments. Bought up a few old farms around here years back, and they've paid off well too. Timing is everything, and the Brits are crazy for this area. I figured the right art can give you a good return too, and, even if it doesn't, you get to enjoy it. So I started buying pieces, some good furniture, a few oils. A while back, I bought a lovely landscape that would suit this place. You walked by it on the way out here.” He pointed toward the house. “I dealt with an associate of Harry's. Figured you could trust a boy from back home, and the people he dealt with. Fella I got to know in the appraisal business dropped a hint my painting has a very iffy provenance. He hinted it might have been stolen from a church. He turned up his nose when I mentioned Brockbank & Brickle. I had gone through Harry's company for more than one purchase, and let me tell you, I was pretty steamed. I dug around a bit more, the lost art registry, that kind of thing, turned up a bit of mucky business about Harry and his lads. I never had enough solid stuff to go the police, especially here where there are a lot of hands in a lot of pockets.” He peered at us to see if we got the point.