The Rich Shall Inherit (35 page)

“But you know so many beautiful women,” she said, “all those famous faces in the magazines …”

“They’re women like your mother, Aria,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Only a few of them have a heart, the rest run on calculators. I feel like a new person here in Venice, with you. I feel as though the whole future is there for me to grab hold of—now I know I can do anything I want.”

“Orlando, I love you too,” she murmured, oblivious to the other diners, “that’s what I couldn’t tell you today.”

“The champagne, Signore,” the waiter said, showing him the bottle.

As the cork popped and their glasses were filled, Orlando said to her, “Tonight, let’s toast to a new beginning. For you, and for me.”

“A new beginning,” she repeated, but at the back of her mind was the sinister image of the man neither of them had referred to. Carraldo. And her mother’s words of warning.

Carraldo’s office was on a discreetly smart street in Milan, and it revealed one aspect of his personality. The walls and furnishings were gray, with minimalist steel and leather chairs; a slab of polished gray granite served as his desk, and thin metal lamps cast pin-spots of light onto the work surfaces and into the eyes of any person sitting opposite him. The gallery beyond revealed another aspect of him; here the bare elm floors were bleached and the stark white walls adorned with bold modern canvases from the young artists he was sponsoring. But there was another more dimly lit sanctum—the soft underbelly of Antony Carraldo, where he kept his recent acquisitions, the priceless Impressionists and old masters in which he was an international dealer, and which were the only things he truly loved. Or had loved—because now he was so insanely infatuated with Aria Rinardi, he could no longer concentrate.

Picking up the copy of Il
Giorno
, he reread the report of Claudia Galli’s death, and that her brother, the world-famous financier Pierluigi Galli, had been arrested and charged with her murder. He was being held here in Milan without bail pending further inquiries. Carraldo knew Claudia; he’d met her several times at parties in Paris and New York. She was the sort of woman you always saw at those expensive “charity galas” and “openings,” though she was more attractive than most because she wasn’t merely a too thin clotheshorse. Claudia had had flesh on her bones and curves that she’d displayed honestly and flamboyantly. She had given him the eye once or twice and he’d known she was his for the taking, but Claudia was too indiscriminate a lover for him. Still, to die like this was sad. And it was
also a little strange that it should happen now, when she and her brother were claiming the Mallory estate, and at last Claudia might be rich.

He sat back in his chair, his hands folded, thinking about Pierluigi. He’d heard he was in difficulties on the stock market, that he was drastically overextended. Only a few people in the business had suspected the depths of his troubles, but now, with Claudia dead, there seemed to be a motive for murder. Poppy’s fortune.

He’d met Pierluigi briefly, just once, in New York with his sister, and he’d seemed to him like a man containing a deep anger, or possibly pain, under a veneer of coolness. Carraldo had recognized the symptoms—Pierluigi had reminded him of himself. Now he thought about him, and he wondered.

The waiter had delivered a copy
of Il Giorno
with his breakfast tray, and even with his limited Italian, Mike knew what the banner headlines were saying. Claudia Galli was dead, and her brother, Pierluigi, was in jail, charged with her murder.

Mike whistled in amazement. Who would have thought it? And with what motive? Poppy Mallory’s money? But surely there would have been enough for the two of them. Then he remembered uncomfortably the look in Pierluigi’s pained dark eyes, and he thought maybe it wasn’t so hard to imagine after all.

When he went to the Palazzo Rinardi that night, Francesca Rinardi said she wasn’t in the least bit surprised: Pierluigi had always been a strange man, but he was a proud one. “I suppose he just got tired of Claudia dragging their name in the dirt,” she said unsympathetically. “She probably deserved it.”

“Mama!” Aria cried, shocked.

“And what do you think then, Aria?” Mike asked.

She was sitting opposite him in the octagonal dining room, and her big dark blue eyes looked sad as she thought for a moment about her cousins. “I never really knew them, you see,” she said apologetically, “they were so much older than me, and they lived so far away. I only met them once or twice. I remember thinking how pretty Claudia was … I’m just sorry it happened. Sorry for both of them,” she added.

Fiametta served the risotto she’d prepared, despite Francesca’s instructions to the contrary. She hovered in the background waiting for Mike’s opinion, looking like an aging blackbird in her frilly serving apron. “It’s tragic,” she sniffed, dabbing her eyes with a corner of her apron. “Claudia was such a pretty little
girl, so full of life. And poor Pierluigi was always kept under his father’s thumb. After their mother died, there was no love in that household. Aleksandr was a strange man, very strange ….”

“That’s enough, Fiametta,” Francesca said quickly.

“The risotto’s delicious,” Mike told Fiametta with a sympathetic smile, “you were right, it’s the best in Venice.” She nodded, satisfied, and hobbled back to her kitchen.

“I asked her to serve asparagus soufflé,” complained Francesca, “but she’s getting so old and doddery, I don’t think she remembers.”

Aria’s eyes met Mike’s across the table. “She’s not
doddery,”
she said, “and this is Fiametta’s specialty. She just wanted to show off, that’s all.”

“Well, she certainly succeeded,” Mike said with a grin. “I’ve eaten at the Cipriani, and Harry’s Bar, and this is the best so far.”

“We try to keep up our standards, despite the circumstances,” Francesca said coldly.

“What
circumstances
, Mama?” Aria asked sharply. “I hate it when you talk as if we’re forced to live on a crust of bread and a lump of stale cheese!”

Mike watched interestedly as they glared at each other. The two were so different—Francesca was a cold fish, and Aria was passionate and turbulent—and at loggerheads with her mother! She wasn’t beautiful like Francesca but there was something far more than that, something that drew your eyes to her. It wasn’t just that she was lovely, he decided; and he knew suddenly what it was that Antony Carraldo had fallen for: Aria had that devastatingly vital quality of glowing, passionate youth.

“I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness,” Francesca said icily as Aria smoldered silently at the other end of the table. “One’s children never see things quite the way their parents do, do they? I suppose it’s what’s called the generation gap.”

Fiametta removed their plates and served a dish of chicken cooked in lemon. “This is an old Venetian recipe,” Aria told Mike; “it probably originated with the Moors or the Turks. Fiametta knows all that stuff, don’t you?” she asked, catching hold of the old woman’s hand as she walked by.

Mike observed the glance of affection that passed between them. “Tell me about your grandmother,” he suggested. “Did you ever meet her?”

“Grandmother Maria-Cristina?” Aria said, surprised. “Goodness,
no. She died long before I was born. And I don’t remember Papa ever talking much about her. Apparently she was a bit of a tart,” she said cheerfully, tucking into her chicken, “always chasing after men.”

“Aria!” Francesca exclaimed, scandalized. “You shouldn’t talk about your grandmother in those terms!”

“Oh, come on, Mama, you know it’s true,” she said with a grin. “Maria-Cristina was a naughty girl, just like Poppy.”

“And what about Luchay?” asked Mike. “Didn’t he belong to Helena?”

“You’ve met Luchay? Yes, he was Great-aunt Helena’s parrot. When she died, Papa brought him home for me. Isn’t he beautiful?” she asked enthusiastically. “He was Poppy’s parrot first, you know. He must be the only one alive who actually knew her. Don’t you wonder what must be locked away in that tiny little head of his? It’s like a jigsaw puzzle, we each have these little pieces that are part of the picture of Poppy’s life, but there are all these bits missing. And Luchay knows them. I’ll bet he knows who the real heiress is. I just hope it’s me.”

Mike laughed. “And what would you do with the money if you got it? I heard you want to be an artist. Isn’t Orlando Messenger tutoring you?”

She blushed deeply, staring down at her plate. “How did you know that?”

“I happened to be in the Maze Gallery in London last week, and saw Orlando’s exhibition. The gallery owner mentioned that Carraldo had bought a painting and that he’d asked Orlando to tutor you. I just wondered how it was working out.”

“Fine,” she said, “he’s very good. And he’ll be a great artist, one day, when he gets a chance to work properly.”

“In my opinion that young man is too full of his own self-importance,” Francesca said as Fiametta brought in fruit and cheese. “And personally, I don’t see the value in his work. Still, Carraldo is the expert, I suppose he must know what he is doing. I certainly hope so,” she added meaningfully. “I’m afraid we never have dessert in this household,” she told Mike. “Teenagers put on weight so quickly, you know, and we don’t want Aria to get fat before her wedding, do we?”

Aria raised her eyes to heaven, heaving a sigh. “Mama!” she groaned.

Mike grinned at her; having dinner with Francesca was like
negotiating a mine field; whatever the girl did or said, her mother was one step ahead.

“I remember you said you have a villa in the country,” he said. “I know you’ve searched it already, but sometimes an outsider can see something you might have missed.”

Francesca looked up, interested. “That’s true, it’s a very large old house, it would be easy to miss something. Why don’t you take a look?” she suggested. “You’re almost like a detective—or at least your books read that way.”

Aria stared at Mike thoughtfully; maybe he really could find some evidence that would prove her claim. Orlando had gone back to London for a couple of days and she couldn’t see him anyway. She’d been so disappointed when he’d told her he was going; they’d been walking back across the same little bridges and narrow alleys she’d walked alone earlier, on her way to the Corte Sconta, but even though there were occasional footsteps behind them in the swirling fog, she hadn’t felt the least bit frightened—not with Orlando’s arm around her. To tell the truth, she hadn’t even thought about it, they’d stopped so often to kiss.

Aria shivered happily at the memory of his lips on hers; she’d felt so warm and relaxed with him, not like when she was with Carraldo. And they loved each other so much, even though they’d only known each other a few weeks. Of course, she couldn’t tell her mother yet, Francesca would never believe in love at first sight.

But now she was at a loose end and eager to do anything she could to help Mike because she so badly wanted Poppy’s money. Then she would be free from her mother, and Carraldo, and she could help Orlando—because Carraldo surely wouldn’t, once he found out!

“I’ll take you to the Villa d’Oro, if you like,” she suggested. “I could show you around.”

“For once that’s a good idea,” her mother agreed. “Why don’t you arrange a time with Mike. And I certainly hope you come up with something, because Aria really needs it,” she added, smiling at her daughter.

Aria had had a dental appointment the next day and they finally met the day after at the car park at the Piazzale Roma. She was there before him, waiting in the little white Fiat, muffled up in an expensive sheared-beaver jacket dyed deep green, with a huge bright blue scarf that matched her eyes.

“Hi,” Mike called as she opened the door for him. “My, you look pretty today.”

“It’s the jacket,” she said with a grin. “Mama insisted I buy a fur so I could look ‘respectable’ when I went out with Carraldo, so I got this. Of course she was furious, she’d wanted me dripping in mink, I suppose, but this is my style. Anyway, it cost a fortune,” she added, as she negotiated her way through the traffic on Venice’s periphery, “so we’d better find something at the villa today that proves I’m the heiress, or else I’ll have to marry Carraldo so Mama can pay for it!”

She laughed, but Mike could see she wasn’t amused. He thought of Lauren Hunter, struggling to make ends meet in order to look after her baby sister, and wondered if after all, Aria was just a spoiled little rich girl. “I don’t know whether I know you well enough to ask you this,” he said carefully, “but exactly why are you marrying Carraldo?”

Aria glanced at him, wondering if she could trust him. After all, he was working with the lawyers in Geneva; perhaps she should be more careful what she said. But she liked him; there was something trustworthy about such all-American ruggedness, and he was attractive, too, in his own way. Not like Orlando, of course—but who could compete with his beauty? And of course Mike was an older man—he must be at least thirty-five or -six. Deciding it would be all right, she told him the story of Francesca’s “illness” and the arrangement with Carraldo. “I haven’t seen him in the last few weeks,” she said finally. “We were supposed to announce our engagement the very day the heiress ad appeared in the newspapers. He was in London and called to say he couldn’t get back in time, and so of course the engagement was delayed. Then when Mama and Fiametta told me that I was the missing heiress, I knew I might not have to marry him after all. I’ve only spoken to him once or twice since, and I told him I wanted to wait. He was very nice, he understood, but …”

“But?”

“I think he was hurt,” she said softly, “I think he really cared.”

There was silence for a while and then Mike said, “Fiametta told you you were the heiress?”

She glanced at him with a smile. “You don’t think I’d believe my mother, do you?”

“And what about Orlando Messenger?” he asked, waiting for her to tell him that she knew Orlando was also a claimant to the estate.

She blushed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Orlando’s very nice,” she said quickly. “I know Mama doesn’t think so, but I believe he’ll be a really great artist one day. And obviously Carraldo thinks so, too, or else why would he help him?”