The Rich Shall Inherit (58 page)

Poppy glanced down at her blue cotton dress. “But it’s late and I’m not even changed …”

“It’s only a simple place; you don’t need to change, and anyway you look beautiful. Please say you’ll come.”

Luchay skittered angrily up and down his perch as Poppy put her hand in Franco’s and they walked from the room.
“Poppy
cara.
Poppy
chérie.
Poppy darling,”
he screamed,
“Poppy, Poppy, Poppy …”

The little inn was full of simple rustic charm, with ancient oaken beams and whitewashed walls and long, low windows flung open to the dusky summer evening, smelling of hay and
roses. The innkeeper’s daughter served them delicious pink trout fresh from the stream and a salad just picked from the garden, speckled with fresh herbs; and the innkeeper himself came to pour their wine, cool and straw-colored and smelling of fruit.

Poppy looked at Franco across the candle-lit table. “I feel drunk on fresh air.” She smiled. “I’d forgotten what it smelled like … it’s so good, I can even taste it!”

“You work too hard,” he said, frowning, “You’ve let Numéro Seize become your entire world.”

“But I have no other life,” she replied, astonished. “What else would I do?”

He made no answer, merely summoning the waiter for more wine. But later, as they walked in the garden, he said, “Why don’t you buy a house in the country, a retreat of your own? Just see how much you are enjoying this place tonight, its summer beauty, its simplicity.
You
need the contrast, Poppy, if you are to keep your sanity.”

She turned to look at the low, whitewashed inn lost in its soft green garden, alive with fruits and flowers and the sounds of chickens and birds, and fragrant with scents of herbs and blossoms. Suddenly her heart longed to own it. But there was just one flaw. “I’d have nobody to share it with,” she said simply.

Putting his hands on her shoulders, Franco turned her to face him. “Share it with me, Poppy,” he said quietly, “let me buy it; it will be
our
retreat, a place where we can escape, from my world and from yours. I promise you I’ve never said this to any other woman in my life.
Poppy, I love you.
I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I had to wait for you to heal from your wounds. Oh, yes,” he added somberly, “I know everything about you, I know who you are and where you are from … everything.”

Poppy’s hand flew to her mouth and she stared at him, agonized. “Then how can you possibly love me if you know?” she gasped. “There are things in my life too terrible even to be told.”

“Then we are equal,” he said quietly, “because there are things in my life that are too terrible ever to be told. But surely, all that matters is that I love you …. Poppy, if you tell me you love me, I shall be the happiest man in the world.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured uncertainly, “I don’t know what love is … I thought I knew, but I’ve been wrong. What I feel for you … is that love, Franco?”

“I hope so, my darling,” he said, taking her in his arms; and then her mouth was soft and pliant under his, and her body
seemed weightless as he held her close, and he wanted to go on kissing her forever.

Poppy opened her eyes as he took his mouth from hers, gazing at him starry-eyed with rapture. “Oh, yes, I do love you, Franco,” she murmured. “I truly do.”

“Then stay with me tonight,” he whispered, “let me love you, Poppy.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered, “I know nothing of ‘love’ … only …”

“We’ll start anew,” he told her, “there’ll be no bad memories, just you and me in a little cottage room with our windows open to the clean night air and the stars. Oh, and I’ll love you, Poppy, I promise you I’ll love you.”

Later, upstairs in that clean little cottage room, in a simple wooden bed with plain white cotton sheets and with windows open to the starred blue heaven, he helped her undress, removing each garment from her slender body as though he were uncovering a work of art, caressing her gently, wooing her with endearments and compliments until she was swooning in his arms. As they lay naked under the cool cotton sheets, her body responded to his practiced persuasions, trembling with a newfound passion as he stroked and cajoled her, until finally he entered her and they were one.

And it was as Poppy had always imagined after all; she
was
lifted on the eagle’s wings … she
did
soar into another realm … and she knew at last that this was true love.

The next morning as they drove back to Paris, dizzy with happiness, Franco said enthusiastically, “We’ll look for a country house together, it’ll be an adventure.” He glanced at Poppy, but she was staring straight ahead, frowning. “Is there anything the matter?” he asked solicitously. “Do you have a headache from the heat?”

“No,” she said, “I was just wondering when we’ll use this country house. With me in Paris and you in Naples? It just doesn’t seem to work out.” She glanced at him hopefully, out the corner of her eye, waiting to hear him say that of course she was right, she must give up the Paris house at once and marry him and come to live in Naples.

“Of course I’ll make time to come to France,” he told her calmly, “but anyway, it’s time you had a place of your own, where you can escape from the pressure and the people. After
all”—he threw a smile in her direction, keeping his eyes on the road—“I don’t want you exhausted from overwork, do I?”

Poppy sighed. “I see,” she said in a small voice. “It doesn’t seem very much, though, for two people in love, does it?”

“I’m sorry, Poppy,” he said, glancing at her sharply, “but I can’t leave my business. I must be in Naples.”

“And I must be in Paris,” she replied quietly. “So, there we are.”

Franco looked at her, reading her thoughts shrewdly. “It doesn’t mean I don’t love you or that I wouldn’t rather be here with you,” he said finally, “but my business is in Naples and that’s where I must stay.”

“Then why don’t I come with you?” she asked eagerly. “Why don’t I just give up Numéro Seize and live with you?” She’d almost said
marry
, but she was too proud to suggest it, and the thought lurked in the back of her mind that maybe having created her as Paris’s most sensational madam, Franco wasn’t prepared to marry her.

“That can’t be,” he said harshly, “my life there is separate. Don’t ask me why, just believe me. And I do love you, Poppy, you know I do. I can’t live without you. But we are both busy people, so let’s take the few crumbs of time we can have together and enjoy them.”

The scraps of paper were scattered throughout the house as randomly as Poppy’s thoughts. Mike found them in bedroom cupboards, and in kitchen drawers, tucked into books and stuffed into vases, but after a week he was still puzzling over them. They were fragments of her life and as he’d sorted them out, he’d gradually pieced together the story of Netta and Numéro Seize, and Franco Malvasi.

He stared at Luchay on his stand under the window, remembering that Aria had said the parrot would know the whole story—after all, he’d lived through it. “If only you could talk, Luchay,” he said wearily, “it’s
you
Poppy whispered all her troubles to … God damn it, bird,
you know
about Poppy. You’d know where a woman like that would keep her secrets, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to broadcast them to the world.”

But the parrot simply turned his head away and began to preen his feathers, and Mike groaned. “I get it,” he said, frustrated, “you only talk to Poppy. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Poppy
cara
, Poppy
chérie
, Poppy darling …” the parrot repeated, flapping his wings. “Poppy, Poppy, Poppy …”

The telephone rang, its old-fashioned tinkling sound interrupting the brooding silence of the villa, and Mike kicked the footstool angrily out of his way as he leapt to answer it.

“Mike? It’s Aria.”

The line was crackling and he could only hear her faintly. “Hi, Aria,” he yelled, “how’re y’doing?”

“I’ve just come back from visiting Hilliard Konstant at the Rancho Santa Vittoria,” she said. “I didn’t even know I had a great-uncle still alive until Mama said you’d told her about him.”

“How did it go?” he asked, grinning as he thought of prickly old Hilliard dealing with Francesca’s social elegance.

“It was sort of touchy at first. Mama insisted on renting the most enormous limousine she could find and so we arrived there like a pair of Hollywood starlets. I had the feeling it wasn’t quite Great-uncle Hilliard’s style. But he was very nice to me, he told me he remembered Angel and Maria-Cristina. And Helena, of course. He said Maria-Cristina was the extrovert, always partying and very glamorous, but that Helena kept all her emotions locked inside. ‘Like Pierluigi Galli,’ he said. ‘And people like that are always unpredictable.’ What do you think he meant, Mike?”

“I’m not sure, but Hilliard’s a cagey old boy; first he tells you he doesn’t remember, and then he feeds you these little nuggets of information. I get this feeling old Hilliard knows more than he’s saying.”

“I thought he seemed very lonely, I felt quite sorry for him,” Aria said, “but anyway, despite Mama being so pushy, wanting to know about the Konstants’ money and their land, he was very kind to me. I liked him, and I think he liked me.”

“Of course he did, he couldn’t help it. So how are things with Carraldo?”

Even over the crackling line he could hear her sigh. “Okay, I guess. He threw a big party on New Year’s Eve. Actually it was fun, I met all sorts of movie stars, but the trouble was they all thought I was Carraldo’s girl. It was like being royalty only worse—everyone was very polite and kept their distance. I think they were surprised that I wasn’t loaded with diamonds and sables, but Mama more than made up for me. She’s the toast of Hollywood!”

“I’ll bet she is!” He laughed.

“Mike? I was wondering if you’d found out about Orlando.”

He grimaced, wondering what to tell her. “I called the
pensione
a few times,” he admitted, “they told me he’s gone to Switzerland—skiing, I guess.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “Then I’ll just have to wait until he gets back. Thanks anyway, Mike.”

Her voice sounded very small, and trying to cheer her, he said, “I’m making some progress with Poppy, here at the villa. She sure led an exciting life!”

“Oh, of course, Poppy!” she exclaimed, as though she’d forgotten about her, in her worry about Orlando. “Have you found the evidence yet?”

“Not yet, but I’m trying. I keep asking Luchay to give me a break and tell me where the clues are hidden, but he’s not talking. Except to say, ‘Poppy
cara
, Poppy
chérie
, Poppy darling …’”

“Poppy
cara
…” the parrot began imitating him, and Mike laughed.

“But you were right about bringing him here, Aria. He looks as though he knows he belongs.”

“I just wanted him to relive his memories, that’s all,” she said sadly. “I must go, Mike, Mama’s calling me. We’re going shopping—again. It’s all anyone does around here. Carraldo’s gone off to Houston—looking at paintings, he said, so I’m reprieved for a day or two. Oh, dear, I suppose that’s unfair, he’s been so kind—and especially to Mama because I have the feeling he really can’t stand her. I’ll see you when I get back—soon, I hope. Or you call me first, if you find the ‘evidence.’ I’ll be praying for you!”

Hooking the old-fashioned receiver onto its stand, Mike lay down on the bed—Poppy’s bed—his arms behind his head, thinking about Carraldo. What sort of man was he, he wondered. Did he make his billions legitimately through his art dealings? Nobody knew for sure, and probably no one ever would. But he hated like hell for Aria to be involved. No wonder she was praying he’d come up with substantive evidence.

Carraldo was on his plane, returning to Los Angeles. His face looked gray and there were lines of strain around his mouth. The past two days had been grueling, but no more than he’d expected. The doctors at the Southern Methodist Hospital in Houston were among the best in the world and this time they’d put him through a battery of tests that had left him weak with exhaustion. And he might as well not have bothered, because things hadn’t changed. Their conclusions were exactly what they had been the last time he’d been there, and the time before that. The pain stabbed across his chest again, and with a sigh he took the usual little white pill from his silver box and held it under his tongue, waiting for the relief it would bring.

He thought about Aria in Los Angeles, wondering if their little holiday together could be termed a success. She was polite to him, but she was nervous and distracted and he felt she was counting the days until they returned to Venice. Of course, he knew why she wanted to go back; she had told him Mike Preston was at Poppy’s villa and he knew she was hoping he’d found the
evidence. He also knew exactly where Orlando was, and what he was doing, and he knew that when he wanted to, he could feed that information into Aria’s ear—and that would be the end of Orlando. But he still didn’t have all the information he needed. And he didn’t want to use his usual methods. Picking up the intercom phone to the flight deck, he asked them to put a call through to Mike Preston at the Villa Castelletto.

“We haven’t met, Mr. Preston,” he said formally. “But I’ve heard quite a lot about you from Aria.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike said, surprised. “How can I help you?”

“This may sound strange to you, Mr. Preston, but I’m asking for your trust. Of course, I understand that the information you are searching for is essentially a private matter, between you and Lieber, but I need a favor. When you finally discover who the heiress—or heir—to Poppy Mallory’s estate is, I want you to tell me first. Of course, I know you’ll tell Aria, sooner or later,
but I need to know immediately.
I’m only asking, Mr. Preston, because it is a matter of life or death. That probably sounds very melodramatic to you, but believe me, I mean it.”

Mike hesitated, thinking of Claudia’s mysterious death, and then Aria’s fears that she was being followed. With a pang of fear, he remembered Lauren Hunter alone in Los Angeles….