The Rich Shall Inherit (45 page)

“Los Angeles!” Aria exclaimed, thinking frantically of Orlando. “But we always spend Christmas here, at home …. And what about my art lessons?”

“I suggest we give Orlando a holiday over Christmas,” Carraldo said quietly. “I think we need time to get to know each other better, Aria, and your mother agrees.”

“I shall be coming too,” Francesca told her, smiling as she thought of shopping on Rodeo Drive. “After all, I couldn’t let you go unchaperoned, could I?”

Aria knew Carraldo was trying to be nice to her, to give her a special treat, to give her anything she wanted … and she hated him suddenly with all her heart. Because all she wanted in the world was Orlando, and he was taking her away from him.

Mike had worked through the night at the Villa d’Oro, piecing together Poppy’s story, but when he’d finished, he was elated rather than exhausted. At least now he knew the truth about Poppy’s baby—it was a daughter, not a son, and that eliminated two contenders—Pierluigi and Orlando. He guessed that Pierluigi wasn’t going to need the money anyhow, not now; and Orlando would just have to trust his talent to earn him the big money. He’d also have to choose either Carraldo’s sponsorship—or Aria. Mike didn’t envy him the decision.

The phone rang at eight o’clock the next morning. “Just the girl I want to talk to,” he said, smiling.

“I want to talk to you too,” Aria replied. “Oh, Mike, you’re the only one I can tell …”

Her voice sounded muffled, as though she was crying, and he said quickly, “What is it?”

“The man in the black car … he followed me back to the Piazzale Roma, or at least I think he did, it was hard to tell in the sleet and the dark. I didn’t even see him until I pulled into the car park.”

In between sobs, she told him exactly what had happened—but it was what
might
have happened that was in both their minds. “I’m going to drive out now to see you,” she told him. “I’ve got to talk to someone. Mike, will you help me? I’m so afraid.”

“Don’t go out alone,” he told her urgently. “Stay right where you are. I’ll rent a car and be back in a few hours. Wait there for me, Aria.”

She was at her easel, painting, when he finally got there. The green Amazon parrot glared at him from his outrageous jeweled stand beside her. “I’m painting Luchay’s portrait,” she told him,
managing a smile, but there were shadows under her frightened blue eyes and a look of tension in her face that hadn’t been there the day before.

Mike ran his hands through his short hair. He was unshaven and his tie was loose over yesterday’s rumpled shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. “You look like Philip Marlowe,” Aria said with a grin.

“Okay, kid,” he said in an exaggerated drawl, “give me the lowdown on the car park scam, before the D.A. gets to know about it.”

Aria laughed, suddenly looking like her old self again. “Just seeing you makes me feel better,” she told him.

“And just seeing
you
makes
me
feel a whole lot better,” he said, thinking she looked lovely even with smudges of green paint on her nose and her hair all over the place. “You look like a girl who didn’t sleep well,” he said, holding out his finger tentatively to the parrot. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, snatching it back again as it darted forward and nipped him with his sharp beak.

“Luchay always does that,” Aria said calmly. “If you hold out your hand, palm upward, he’ll expect food; but if you hold out your finger, he thinks you are going to touch him, and he doesn’t let anyone do that except me. And sometimes Fiametta. He once bit Mama so badly, she had to have a stitch in her finger.” She giggled. “He probably thought she was trying to steal his emeralds—and she probably was!”

“What about this guy in the black car, then?” he asked soberly. “Do you really think someone’s trying to kidnap you?”

She nodded. “Why else should anyone follow me? It was more than that, Mike; he threatened me, he
terrified
me.”

Mike knew she wasn’t going to like it, but he had to ask her. “Don’t you think you should tell Carraldo?” he suggested. “He’s the only man I can think of who can help in a situation like this.”

She shook her head emphatically. “If he knew, he’d never let me out of his sight.”

“What about Orlando?”

“Of course I’ll tell Orlando. But he’s still in London. And now a disaster has happened—I have to go to Los Angeles for Christmas with Carraldo and Mama. That means I won’t see him until I get back in about three weeks’ time.”

“I know you won’t agree,” he said sympathetically, “but getting away is probably the best thing that could happen right now. Who knows, by the time you get back, we might have an
answer to the Poppy Mallory jigsaw puzzle. And all this will be over.”

“Really?” Her face lit up. “Do you really mean that, Mike?”

He laughed. “I sure do. I found out quite a lot at the Villa d’Oro. Now I know for sure that Poppy’s baby was a girl and she handed her over to your great-grandmother when she was born. Angel had a baby almost at the same time and she brought the girls up together, as twins. Maria-Cristina and Helena.”

Aria’s hand flew to her mouth and she gasped with excitement. “Then it’s me? I’m the heiress?”

“Well, it’s sure looking that way right now.” He grinned.

“Oh, Mike, Mike!” She ran into his arms, hugging him as though he was some huge teddy bear. “I can’t believe it! You can’t know what this means to me. I’ll be free!” She stared up at him, her face glowing. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Orlando!”

“How much does Orlando know?” he asked casually.

“Oh, everything, of course. I told him the whole story. You see, when I get the money I want to help his career. He’s never been able to work the way he wants to—and now because of me, he will. Isn’t it amazing?”

“Not yet it isn’t,” he told her. “It’s not sure yet. Remember?”

“But almost sure?” she pleaded.

“Almost,” Mike admitted, “but there’s a lot more story yet to come. We still don’t have the evidence that it was Maria-Cristina who was Poppy’s daughter. Until then, you’re not the heiress. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed, but she was smiling. “I won’t tell my mother and Carraldo, I’ll wait until we know for certain. But what will you do next, Mike? Where will you find the evidence?”

“At the Villa Castelletto,” he said. “Poppy’s house.”

Lieber’s office had tried to get in touch with the agent in Vicenza who had the key to the villa, but the man had gone away on vacation, and so Mike found himself at loose ends until he got back. It was the day before Christmas Eve and Aria had already left for Los Angeles. He still hadn’t been able to contact Orlando Messenger, and he debated whether to try his number again, but he’d already called several times without success. Odds were he was still in London; still, it was worth a shot.

“Sì, Sì, Signore, he is here,” the proprietor of the
pensione
told him, “hold on, Signore …”

“Orlando Messenger,” a deep, cultured voice said.

“Mr. Messenger, my name is Mike Preston. Johannes Lieber asked me to get in touch with you to discuss your claim to Poppy Mallory’s estate. I wondered if we could get together over a drink and talk.”

Orlando sounded impatient. “I’m off to Gstaad this afternoon. What was it you wanted to discuss?”

“Mr. Lieber asked me to meet certain of the claimants to the Mallory estate to go over their stories with them,” Mike explained.

“I’ve already told Lieber my story,” Orlando replied abruptly. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time to see you today, Mr. Preston. As I said, I’m on my way to Gstaad. Why don’t you call me again when I get back?”

“Sure,” Mike said quietly. “When will that be?”

“I’m not certain, why don’t you try again in a couple of weeks or so?”

Mike replaced the receiver, and taking out Lieber’s notes on Orlando, he read them again.

He remembered what Lieber had told him in Geneva. “Like Lauren Hunter, Orlando Messenger has no evidence to back up his story that Poppy’s child was a son and he is her descendant,” Lieber had said, “but somehow I couldn’t dismiss his claim, there was a certain ring of truth about it.”

Mike knew that Orlando claimed his grandfather had been Poppy Mallory’s son. His evidence of this was even more tenuous than Lauren Hunter’s, because at least she had the Mallory family name written in her Bible, while Orlando had nothing except the story told to him, he said, by his father.

Mike shrugged. Orlando’s claim was hardly worth pursuing now they knew the child was a daughter, and anyhow the dates were all wrong. Grandfather Messenger had been born too late. Not even a good try, Orlando, he thought, dismissing him. But then he remembered what Peter Maze had told him about his way with women; Orlando used women to get what he wanted, and now it looked very much as though he might be using Aria. She’d told him she was likely to be the Mallory heiress, and Orlando might be making sure he got the money, one way or the other.

It was almost Christmas and everybody seemed to be going somewhere except him. Mike debated whether to fly back to the States—there was still time, he could be there by Christmas Eve. He could spend it with Aunt Martha. Or Lauren Hunter, in L.A.
… Somehow that lovely girl, with her gallant smile and fearless blue eyes, just refused to leave his thoughts.

In the end he spent Christmas at the Cipriani, working. He typed up his notes and tried to fathom what had happened to Poppy after she’d left the baby with Angel. He couldn’t wait to get to the Villa Castelletto.

Aria called him from L.A. right after Christmas. “Great to hear from you,” he said, “how are you?”

“I’m okay,” she replied. “I think.”

She sounded depressed and he tried deliberately to be cheerful. “Enjoy all that sunshine while you can,” he said, “it’s cold here, and raining.”

“It’s raining here too,” she said, laughing. “Mama’s furious!”

“How’s Carraldo?”

“He’s … kind,” she said. “Mike, I wanted to ask you a favor. I was expecting Orlando to call me. I haven’t heard and … well, I was wondering if maybe they had lost the number I left for him at the
pensione.
Every time I call they say he’s not there—no message or anything. I haven’t seen or heard from him since before Christmas, and I’m so afraid he’s angry because I’m here with Carraldo. Could you telephone, Mike, and find out where he is? I’ve got to speak to him.”

She sounded on the verge of tears, and he said quickly, “I’ll see what I can do,” feeling like a heel because he knew very well Orlando was in Gstaad. But she had enough to handle right now, alone there with Carraldo and her mother. There would be time enough to sort out Orlando when she returned.

“Thank you,” she said, “all I want is to speak to him. Another thing, Mike, when are you going to the Villa Castelletto?”

“Soon as I get the keys; the guy’s away at the moment, I have to wait till he gets back.”

“If you leave before I get there, would you do me another favor? I know it may sound strange, but the villa was Luchay’s home, too, you know. He lived there all those years with Poppy. I really wanted to take him back there—not because he’ll talk or anything; but he’s so old now, Mike, and I know Poppy must have loved him very much. I thought it would be nice for him to go back there, one last time, just to see the villa again. Would you take him with you?”

“If you insist.” He sighed reluctantly, envisioning the journey with the parrot in the back of the car.

“Please?”
she asked again.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, “of course I will. I must admit, I’m curious, too, to see how he reacts. Anyway, when are you coming home?”

“Nobody’s saying,” she said dispiritedly. “Soon, I hope.”

“L.A. can’t be that bad!” he replied with a grin. “Any mysterious footsteps and black cars?”

“None, thank God,” she said firmly.

“Okay then, baby, take care of yourself,” he told her.

“You too, Mike. If I don’t hear from you—or Orlando—at least I’ll know you tried. See you when I get back.”

Orlando, you little shit, he thought as he put down the phone, you’re living up to your reputation, all right.

Luchay huddled in his big gold cage, fluffing out his feathers against the cold, as Mike paced the gravel driveway at the bottom of the steps leading to the Villa Castelletto, waiting for the agent to arrive with the key. There was a smell of wood smoke in the air and an edge of ice on the easterly wind that promised snow, and the tangled gardens looked bleak and lifeless, hiding the sweet juices of spring in their winter hibernation.

“Come on, God damn it,” he grumbled as a blue Peugeot estate car crawled slowly up the rutted drive and parked next to his Fiat. A florid-faced man in a heavy tweed overcoat stepped out, locking the door firmly behind him, though God knew who he imagined was going to steal it, Mike thought irritably; the villa was completely isolated on top of its hill. It was a three-mile trek to the village where he’d stopped to pick up some provisions of coffee, milk, crusty bread straight from the baker’s ovens, a large piece of Parmesan cheese, slices of ham, and several bottles of hearty red wine. Enough to last him through a smallish siege should the snows come and bury him in the Villa Castelletto.

“Mr. Preston?” the florid man called. Who the hell else was he expecting, Mike thought sourly, frozen after his half-hour wait in the cold. “Sorry I’m late,” the man said, hurrying up the path, “but I got held up at the office. My name is Fabiani. I’ve brought the key.”

He struggled with the enormous lock until, finally, it gave, and grabbing Luchay’s cage, Mike stepped inside. To his surprise the villa was pleasantly warm.

“Mr. Lieber instructed us to keep the house at a constant temperature, sir,” Fabiani told him, “there are still some valuable antiques in here belonging to the Mallory estate. Mr. Lieber also
had us do some of the more necessary repairs on the house—the roof was leaking badly in a few places and no doubt you’ll notice the stains on the ceilings, but that has now been fixed. The heating has been put back in order, and of course now there’s a caretaker who comes from the village every morning to stoke the boiler and see that all is kept in order, and his wife cleans up the place a couple of times a week.”