The House in Amalfi (30 page)

“Lamour!” I glanced quickly at Aurora. I thought she looked odd. She was pale and her hands were shaking. She sank onto a couch, staring at me with her dark, unreadable eyes. Of course she looked beautiful in a pale lemon-colored gown that clung softly to her young body. Her long dark hair hung in a sleek fall past her shoulders, but now she pushed it wearily back.

Suddenly worried, I went and sat next to her. “Are you all right?” I asked. I wanted to take her hand to stop it from shaking, but I was afraid because I didn’t know what she might do.

“I hate this,” she whispered so I had to bend my head to catch what she was saying. “I hate all these people. I hate the
Castello. I hate
you
,” she said loudly. Her blank eyes met mine. “I hate myself.” Then she got up and ran from the room.

My eyes met the attendant’s, but she turned quickly away. Her business was only to tend to the cosmetic worries of the guests, not the fears of their minds. Still worried about Aurora, I made my way back out and onto the terrace. But I had more than Aurora’s tantrums on my mind.

Later Lorenzo found me in the shadow of a sphinx head at the far end of the terrace. “You look magnificent,” he said quietly.

“In the Contessa Biratta’s gown,” I said. “Of course you recognized it.”

He nodded. “I’d seen her in it with your father. She was a legendary beauty. But now,
cara
, let’s forget about that. Come; join my guests. The evening has only just started; soon dinner will be served, and then there’s dancing.”

He looked pleadingly at me, but the magic had gone out of the night. He’d known all along about Cassandra Birrata. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t tell me the truth about what had happened that night. Instead he’d left me to flounder along alone, searching, wondering, never knowing how my father had died. I knew I could never trust him again.

“I’m sorry, Lorenzo,” I said in a choked voice, and kicking off my shoes, I sped back down the terrace into the night. Lorenzo did not follow me, and I did not want him to.

I ran back down the
scalatinella
, unzipping the gown as I went. I couldn’t stand the feel of it against my skin. I hated it. I never wanted to see it again. Ripping it off, I hurled it into the bushes and ran naked into the house.

I paced the
salone
, shaking like a frightened cat. The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end.
I had found her. I’d found Jon-Boy’s killer.

I went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, poured
myself a glass, and drank it with a shaking hand. Finally, wrapped in my old white cotton robe, I went to sit on the terrace. Huddled on my lovely bench, I could hear the music wafting down the hill from the party, see the lights glowing against the sky, and later the fireworks, and hear the cheers that accompanied them.

I decided that tomorrow I would ask Mifune about Cassandra Biratta and then I’d decide what to do.

To the whisper of music and the croak of a tree frog I fell into a restless sleep on the old blue sofa that had cradled me safely so many nights since I came here.

The next morning I sought out Mifune in his vegetable garden, an orderly paradise with beds of herbs and tomatoes and tall green beans. Zucchini blossomed bright yellow on their fat green stems and peach trees formed a perfect symmetrical pattern espaliered against a sunny south-facing wall.

I ran down the sandy path toward him; I had no time to waste. “I’ve found who my father’s mistress was,” I said. “The Contessa Cassandra Biratta. Was she the woman with the long black hair, the beauty you told me about?”

Wearing his battered straw coolie hat, Mifune was on his knees tending a recalcitrant row of pea shoots, a vegetable he had introduced to the Pirata gardens from his own country. He liked things orderly, and since pea shoots were not amenable to orderliness, they offended his aesthetic sensibilities.

He got up and dusted off his knees. “She was,
piccolina.
”

“And was she here the night he died?” I almost couldn’t bear to hear his answer; I already knew that Cassandra Biratta had killed my father.

Mifune went to sit on the stone bench at the edge of the path, and I sat beside him.

“I have searched my conscience many times,
piccolina
,” he said, and his voice was so soft that I had to bend my head to catch his words. “I made a solemn promise, one that I cannot
break. But I cannot stop you from doing what you must do to find the truth about your father’s death. You have that right. Cassandra Biratta was here often, at the little house. And she was here the night your father died. Beyond that I can say no more.”

I mulled over what he’d said. I knew that where there was a love affair there was often also jealousy. And knowing my father, I’d bet there was also another woman . . . another mistress. The one with the initial “I” in his diary.

“Were there two women fighting over Jon-Boy?” I asked.

“You are a woman and you sense it in your bones,” Mifune said. “Her name was Isabella Mancini. She was your father’s lover before the
contessa.
”

“You knew her?”

“I knew her.” His eyes met mine. “I can say no more.”

“I’ll find Isabella,” I cried, “and I’ll go to the
contessa.
I’ll ask her how she killed Jon-Boy. I’ll tell her she was seen here the night he died, out on the cliff in the storm . . . that there are witnesses. . . .”

Mifune held up a warning hand. “Be careful, Lamour. Cassandra Biratta is like an elegant white crane, the kind you see in old Japanese watercolors. Graceful, beautiful, and with a heart of steel.”

I still didn’t know why Mifune had taken a vow of silence about Jon-Boy’s death and I thought I probably never would, but I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for what he had told me. I had finally solved the mystery of my father’s death. And now I was about to confront his killer.

I e-mailed Jammy, giving her all the details. Early the next morning I was in my car and on my way to Rome before I had time to rethink Mifune’s warning.

Lorenzo prowled his tower room. Hands behind his back, head down, he was thinking about Lamour and the events at the party. When he’d seen her in the red dress with her dark hair pulled back, for a second he’d thought she was Cassandra. He’d been so shocked, he’d simply left her there with Giorgio, and when he’d come to his senses, it had been too late.

Glancing out the window, he noticed that dusk was falling. The olive trees rustled, fluttering like silvery coins in the evening breeze. Lorenzo thought there was little more beautiful on God’s earth than an old olive tree, with its gnarled knotted trunk and its twisted branches. Mifune had planted these trees for Lorenzo’s grandfather. He had created all this beauty that Lorenzo’s family enjoyed now. Mifune knew everything there was to know about the Pirata family, and it was to Mifune that he now decided to go in search of some answers.

The old gardener heard his footsteps on the gravel. He stood waiting by the open door. “Signor Pirata,” he said with a low bow. “I am honored.” He stepped back to allow Lorenzo to enter and asked if he would care for some green tea.

While Mifune busied himself with the preparations, Lorenzo looked around. He never failed to be amazed by the simplicity of his old friend’s surroundings. A Zen-like aura of peace permeated Mifune’s simple dwelling, and thinking
of his own complicated, too-busy life, Lorenzo envied him that.

Mifune carried in an old enamel tray with two thin porcelain tea bowls. Cross-legged on the tatami mats, the two men faced each other across the low table. Mifune poured the tea and, with a small bow, presented a bowl to Lorenzo. “Signore,” he said, “to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“Do you remember the promise I made, many years ago?”

Mifune nodded. “I remember, signore.”

“You also made that promise, but for me it was a sacred vow. It’s one I can’t break, though now I am tempted.” Mifune’s pale eyes narrowed. Surprised, his wild eyebrows spiked upward, but he said nothing, letting Lorenzo say what he had to say.

“I’m in love with Lamour,” Lorenzo said, “but our relationship is built on a lie. My friend, I cannot go on like this. I’m torn between two truths—one from the past and one from today. What can I do? Can I ask her to share her life with me, knowing what I know about her father? I see no way out. The vow was a sacred trust. How can I possibly think of breaking it when it might damage everything I’ve worked to achieve all these years?”

“It is simple, signore,” Mifune said at last. “You have always respected your promise, but now there is another person to consider. Ask yourself, is it fair to keep the truth from Jon-Boy’s daughter? Does she not also have rights?”

“I hadn’t thought of her rights,” Lorenzo admitted. “But I see now I must consider that, too.”

“Do not leave it too late. Lamour found out that Cassandra Biratta was Jon-Boy’s mistress. She came to me and asked some questions. I gave her the answers as honestly as I was permitted within the limits of our vow. She is already on her way to Rome to confront the
contessa
. Lamour is a headstrong
woman, signore. She will not take no for an answer. She is determined to find out the truth about her father’s death.” His eyes met Lorenzo’s. “And after all, can we blame her?”

Of course Lorenzo couldn’t blame her. He, of all people, understood a daughter’s love for her father.

“I’m in love with a woman I have no right to love,” he said to Mifune. “Not only am I too old for her, but I have my family to think of. I see no way for a future together. How can I ask her to share the last part of my life when she is still young and with all her good years in front of her?”

Suddenly looking tired, Mifune said in his quiet voice, “It is a question of the heart. I have always believed that a man must follow his best instincts. Meditation isolates the thoughts and focuses the mind until only the spiritual remains within you. Try it, my signore, and may it help you in your troubles.”

The visit was over and Lorenzo thanked his old friend. He said he was sorry to have burdened him with the past as well as the future, and Mifune bowed and said humbly that it was his honor to help in his small, insignificant way.

Lorenzo went back to his tower. He did not switch on the lamps but sat for a long time at his window, looking out into the soft, dark night. He closed his mind to other matters and channeled his thoughts to the past, to his wife, Marella, to whom he had made his vow. Before too long, the way became clear. There was only one thing to do. And he must act immediately.

I walked through a lovely piazza, under enormous plane trees that cast a delightful shade, passing the Palazzo Biratta twice before I realized that the grandiose building half-hidden behind ornate iron gates was it.

The palazzo took up the entire southwestern corner of one of the most romantic squares in Rome. Built of pale carved stone embellished with rose-colored marble pediments and architraves and set in a courtyard behind immense iron gates, it towered an impressive five stories. The steeply sloped roof was edged with carved griffins and the heraldic devices of the Biratta family, which went all the way back to the Renaissance era. I’d done my homework; I knew the Birattas had started out as merchants, climbing through wealth and bribery and manipulation to a position of great power, culminating in the bestowing on them of the title of “Count.” The Birattas were still immensely wealthy, still involved politically, through banking and the Vatican, and they were still one of the most powerful families in Italy. They were a formidable enemy.