The Rich Shall Inherit (36 page)

Why indeed? wondered Mike. He’d tried to contact Orlando yesterday at his
pensione
, but they’d told him he’d left for London and wouldn’t be back for a few days. Aria obviously didn’t know about his claim and he wondered why Orlando hadn’t told her. Did he think Francesca would be angry and have an excuse to fire him if she found out? Or that Aria was so desperate to get the money, she wouldn’t want him around? Surely not, because from the look in her eyes and those blushes, there was already romance in the air!

One thing was certain, though. Carraldo knew Orlando was claiming Poppy’s estate—because Carraldo was the kind of man who would make it his business to find out; he’d want to know what chance Aria stood of receiving the inheritance, and if he wanted her as badly as it seemed he did, then he wouldn’t want her to win. Mike would bet his boots that Carraldo would do anything rather than let Aria get Poppy’s money. And from what he’d heard about him, he’d also bet Carraldo wouldn’t take it lightly if Aria made a fool of him by running off with another man. She’d better be careful; she was playing a very dangerous game.

The little Fiat was skimming along Route 21 to Treviso when she said suddenly, “Mike, are you a proper detective?”

“I’m an investigative journalist,” he told her, “but I suppose you could call me a sort of detective.”

“Then will you help me?” she asked, putting her foot down and overtaking an enormous truck, waving to the driver as she pulled back into her lane. “I think I’m being followed. There’s a black Peugeot behind the truck, he’s been on my tail ever since the Piazzale Roma.”

Mike glanced back over his shoulder just as the black car appeared around the side of the huge truck, and then swung back into the lane behind them.”

Mike peered at the car again; the driver, his face hidden by a dark, peaked chauffeur’s cap, was keeping a steady pace behind them. “It’s a main highway,” he said, “maybe he’s just taking it easy on his way to Treviso.”

“It’s not only that—I think I’m being followed in the streets too.” Aria’s eyes were frightened as she told him about the
footsteps in the fog. “And yesterday—even in the daytime—I had the feeling I was being watched. You know, that sort of eerie prickling sensation in your spine. I went to the theater last night with my mother and I swear someone followed us home. The streets were still busy and I kept looking over my shoulder, but how could I tell? It might have been any one of a dozen people. But I
knew
he was there.”

“Did you tell your mother?”

“Of course not; she’d never let me out of the door if she knew.”

“But why would anyone want to follow you?” he asked, thinking of Carraldo.

“It’s common knowledge that I’m supposed to be Poppy’s heiress,” she told him, “it’s been reported in all the Italian newspapers. I thought maybe somebody was trying to kidnap me!” She glanced at him, and then through the rear view mirror at the little black Peugeot, still keeping steadily behind them. “I’m scared, Mike.”

He thought of Claudia, murdered just a few days ago, and Pierluigi in jail, and now Aria thought she was going to be kidnapped—or worse. All for Poppy Mallory’s money. The inheritance that had seemed such a blessing was becoming a curse. “Let’s put him to the test,” he suggested, “pull into the highway cafe up ahead.”

Switching on her indicator, Aria swung the car onto the service road and parked in front of the gas station and cafe. They both turned to stare behind them, waiting to see if the black car would follow, but it didn’t appear. “Maybe I was wrong after all,” Arai said with a nervous little laugh, “my mother always said I had too vivid an imagination.”

“Let’s take a break and get a cup of coffee anyway,” he suggested.

They leaned companionably against the counter sipping foaming hot cappuccino and sharing a wedge of rich chocolate cake. “Let me ask you something,” Mike said suddenly, “does Carraldo know about you and Orlando?”

Aria stopped in mid-bite; there was a little piece of chocolate icing on her lips and she licked it in nervously. “What about Orlando and me?” she asked defensively.

“You know …” He shrugged.

“No, he doesn’t,” she said in a small voice. “I’ve only known myself for a few days. Anyway, how did you know?”

He grinned. “I didn’t, it was just a feeling.
You
have to do something about that blush of yours.”

She blushed again, staring at her feet, and he debated whether to tell her about Orlando but decided against it. Maybe Orlando would tell her himself later; he certainly didn’t want to interfere in the course of true love. “You don’t think maybe Carraldo has you followed, do you?” he asked instead.

Her head shot up and she stared at him, astonished. “Carraldo wouldn’t do a thing like that! He trusts me. As far as he knows, he has no reason not to.”

Mike nodded. “Okay, then let’s be on our way.”

He kept an eye out for the little black Peugeot, but there was no sign of it, and Aria seemed to have forgotten about it by the time they arrived at the Villa d’Oro.

“It’s magnificent,” he exclaimed. The impressive driveway ended in a circle in front of the cream stucco villa. A flight of stone steps flanked by pediments supporting full-height classical busts of Roman maidens, their arms extended in welcome, led to a wide portico supported by four marble columns. There were three rows of square windows edged with dark green shutters arranged symmetrically on either side of the massive double doors, and four more classical marble statues stood at each corner of the flat roof.

“It’s beautiful,” she agreed, “but there are others far more magnificent. If you ever saw Palladio’s ‘Rotonda’ near Vicenza, you’d know what I meant. But let’s go in, we must get to work.”

The villa was exquisitely furnished with Venetian antiques, but it looked dusty and unlived in, and Mike noticed that there were large, pale gaps on the walls where paintings had once hung.

“They’re on loan to a museum,” Aria explained. “We couldn’t afford to insure them any longer and anyway the house is not kept at the right temperature and humidity level to preserve them.”

A man in a cloth cap appeared in the hall and she introduced him. “This is Alfredo; he and his wife look after the place. I think it used to have thirty servants in my great-grandfather’s day, but very few people can afford that luxury now.”

“We were expecting you, Signorina,” Alfredo said. “The Baronessa telephoned. She said to have lunch ready at one-thirty.”

Aria laughed. “Trust Mama not to forget her social obligations. Well, Mike, where shall we start?”

“How about the study?” he suggested, but he knew as soon as he saw it that it was a lost cause. The study was neat and tidy and the desk was immaculate, with fresh writing paper and envelopes, and stamps in little drawers, ready for the serious business of letter writing.

“Why don’t we walk through the whole house and see if you get one of your ‘feelings’ about things,” Aria said, smiling mischievously at him. She really was so pretty, he thought, following her up the stairs; he couldn’t blame Carraldo and Orlando for falling in love with her.

“The villa was renovated at the turn of the century,” she told him. “That’s when the Rinardis got their hands on the Konstants’ money and boy, did they spend it. Apparently it was almost a ruin by the time Felipe Rinardi got to work on it. He restored all these wonderful wall reliefs and the ceiling frescoes, as well as taking care of the rising damp and the drains. It’s a pity, really, that it’s slipping back again. Mama wants to put it back into shape, though, when we get the money.”

Mike noticed she’d said “when we get the money,” not “if,” even though there was no real evidence yet to back up her claim. He followed her through bedrooms and dressing rooms, bathrooms and sewing rooms, upstairs salons and downstairs morning rooms, gun rooms, boot rooms, sculleries and butler’s pantries …. Not to mention the library, the grand salon, and the dining room with a table that would seat thirty and a chandelier that must have weighed several tons, where they ate a simple lunch of pasta and salad and cheese, with a bottle of the local wine to wash it down.

“What about the attics?” he asked as they sipped their coffee afterward.

“The roof is almost flat, so there are no real attics, just servants’ rooms. I don’t think anybody’s been up there in years.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he said, thinking of Hilliard Konstant. But when she showed him the musty corridor and the series of small, boxy rooms furnished with decrepit iron bedsteads and cheap wooden chests, he knew she was right. Unlike at the Rancho Santa Vittoria, there was no treasure trove here.

The light was already fading as they climbed back down the pine staircase into the kitchen quarters. “Perhaps we should try the library,” he said, “we may get lucky,” but he didn’t hold out much hope. The Villa d’Oro had been cleaned of its family debris over the years and little personal remained that was of interest.

“My father always used to work in here,” Aria told him, sitting behind a solid, workmanlike desk in the library. “This was his desk. Mama hates it; she always wants to get rid of it or hide it somewhere less prominent, but I won’t let her.” She glanced at Mike, her mouth soft with sadness. “You would have liked my father. He died when I was only six, but I can still remember him. I remember sitting on his knee, here at this desk, and the day he brought Luchay home. And I remember going to his funeral, holding Carraldo’s hand. Funny, I thought Carraldo was so strong then, and that he was there to protect me. It just shows how wrong you can be,” she added bitterly. Shrugging away her memories, she walked to a shelf and removed a large leather album. “Would you like to see Angel’s bridal photograph?” she asked. “And there are pictures of her children too.”

“I sure would,” Mike said eagerly.

“Here she is on her wedding day.” Aria pointed to a faded sepia print of a lovely blond girl in a cloud of tulle veiling and a radiant smile. “She was very beautiful,” she said with a sigh. “None of the children really resembled her at all, unfortunately. And this is my grandmother Maria-Cristina. And this one is Helena.”

Mike stared at the elusive daughters curiously. They were alike and yet they weren’t; Maria-Cristina was very blond with bright, sparkling eyes and a lively, alert expression; while Helena’s huge, unfathomable eyes stared, unsmiling, at the camera. Her hair was blond, too, though a shade darker, and she had none of her sister’s sparkle.

“And this is Aleksandr,” Aria said, showing him a stained brownish photograph of a boy, aged about six, standing stiffly to attention in a Norfolk jacket and breeches, with a magnificent pair of shotguns in a case on the table beside him. There were several more pictures of Angel and her daughters as they grew older, but none of Aleksandr, and none of Angel’s husband.

“I think she tried to divorce him,” Aria said, “anyway the story is she went back to live in California and didn’t return here until after he died. Nobody seems to know too much about it, more’s the pity, because if they weren’t so prudish about hiding their scandals even from their own families, we might know the truth now.”

“It’s beginning to come together, though,” Mike said, assessing the scraps of information he’d gleaned from each of the people he’d met. All he needed was a few more clues and he’d be
able to piece together the next slice of Poppy’s life. He just knew there had to be
something
here, but he needed more time.

It was already dark outside and there was a sudden flurry of sleet against the windowpanes. “It’s getting late,” Aria said. “We must be getting back.”

“Couldn’t we stay?” he asked suddenly. “We haven’t even started in here yet.”

She hesitated. “My mother wouldn’t like it, not without her or Fiametta here as chaperone. I’ll tell you what, Mike, why don’t you stay? I’ll ask Alfredo and his wife to make up a room and look after you. Then you can work as long as you want.”

“Maybe I’d better come back with you,” he said doubtfully, remembering how frightened she’d been about being followed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be all right,” she reassured him. “I’ll take a water taxi from the parking lot at the Piazzale.” He waved her good-bye uneasily, feeling maybe he should go with her, but the library and the big house with its tightly kept secrets lured him too strongly. He needed to know about Poppy.

Alfredo had built up the fire and drawn the heavy green velvet drapes in the library, and there was a silver tray with a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a decanter of brandy on a small table. Mike stood by the fire, trying to visualize the Rinardis here at the turn of the century. The beautiful Angel and her handsome husband, and later the children. He knew quite a lot about Angel now, and even Poppy—up to a point. The one person he knew nothing about at all was Felipe Rinardi.

He sat in front of the fire, sipping his Jack Daniel’s and thinking about Felipe, the man who had masterminded the renovation of the Palazzo Rinardi and the Villa d’Oro—no expense spared, even though it wasn’t his own money he was spending; and the man who had ruled his household with such a rod of iron, they’d all hated him.

Then he prowled the room, searching the leather-bound volumes on the shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. On a shelf under
R
he noticed several marbelized paper boxes, like small files, marked
Paolo Rinardi—A Study of the Lives of the Romantic Italian Poets.
Pulling out the boxes, he carried them to the desk, the very same desk where Paolo had sat to write these pages—his life’s work. It had probably all been bundled up by Francesca and pushed away on a shelf, to be forgotten forever.

Opening the first box, he inspected the contents. The pages were handwritten in a tight, closely knit script and Mike’s shaky
Italian was no match for it. Putting them back, he opened the other two boxes, leafing through their contents. The third one seemed to contain Paolo’s notes and references and he glanced through it, not expecting to find anything of interest, until he noticed that some of the pages were written in English.

It was a letter and the first page was headed
The Rancho Santa Vittoria
, in big, sprawling writing. It began:
My dear Maria-Cristina, it seems a long time since I heard from you. Please write and tell me that you and Helena are all right. I worry about you, I’m always wondering what you are doing. Today I’m feeling particularly sad and lonely because I saw someone who used to be my friend—more, she was a sister to me. I know I’ve never mentioned her before, but now I want to tell you about her. Sometimes you remind me of her, and I wonder what it is that makes women like you so different from women like me. Is it genetic; a link from your father or your mother? Or is it pure chance, or circumstance? I’m telling you about her now because I want you to know that although I always believed in true love, I’m now older and wiser. I know that love can fade, or it can die—killed by a cruel heart, and the unjust actions of another. Now I’m left with only my love for you and your sister, and poor sad Aleksandr. Look after your sister, Maria-Cristina, she needs your help. She’s not like you, able to take care of herself. Because I protected her too much, she has never developed the tough veneer that you have. But now I’m going to tell you about Poppy, so that you will know what happened between me and your father …