The Rich Shall Inherit (59 page)

“Please trust me, Mr. Preston,” Carraldo urged. “I promise you won’t regret it. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

Mike nodded. He didn’t know why he should trust him, but he did. “I’ll call you,” he promised. “As soon as I know for sure.”

“Thank you,” Carraldo said, sounding tired, “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

He sat back in his gray suede chair, staring at the clouds floating by the windows of the plane like a range of snow-capped mountains. It was almost February—
carnivale
time in Venice. He would throw a big party—an
engagement
party. And then, if she would agree, he and Aria would be married the week after.

Orlando had finished the painting of Pamela’s chalet and he propped it on a little table-easel, ready to surprise her when she woke up. It was almost noon and everyone else had gone out on the ski slopes hours ago. He’d heard them planning on meeting up at the Eagle Club for lunch, but he hadn’t been invited.
Somehow there was an attitude that he was Pamela’s property and therefore she would take care of him, when she felt like it.

The chalet was luxurious in a deliberately rustic, Alpine fashion; a log fire burned day and night in the enormous circular fireplace in the center of the vast living room and the triple-glazed plate-glass windows offered breathtaking views of snowy mountains on every side. The morning seemed to be crawling by and Orlando checked the time again on the gold Cartier watch Pamela had given him for Christmas—a good watch, but not the best that Cartier offered. Like a lot of rich women, Pamela was careful with her money.

The place was like a prison, he thought, prowling its polished floorboards like a caged bear, but there was no point in going back to Venice yet, not until Aria returned. He calculated the time difference between L.A. and Gstaad, wondering whether to call her, but then, he decided angrily, she could wait. Climbing the stairs to Pamela’s room, he flung open the door.

She lifted herself sleepily onto her elbow, pushing the hair from her eyes. “Oh, Orlando,” she murmured, “just the man I’d like to seee. Come here, darling.”

He walked toward the bed, staring at her expressionlessly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Pamela cried sharply. “Sometimes you’re so strange, Orlando, I feel I don’t really know you.”

“Of course you do,” he replied, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Well, then,” she said, watching him, smiling. “Why don’t you join me, it’s very cozy in here.”

“I’ve finished your painting,” he said as he put his arm around her.

“Good boy,” she sighed, relaxing under his caresses. “We’ll look at it later, shall we?”

Sure, Orlando thought, kissing her, of course we will, Pamela … whatever you say, Pamela …

Mike hadn’t really expected Lauren to answer when he called her, she was always so busy working, and he smiled, pleased at the sound of her voice.

“Hi, Lauren Hunter,” he said. “How’re things in California?”

He heard her laugh, a little breathlessly. “Sunny,” she replied, “as usual. But where are you?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’m all alone—except for
Poppy Mallory’s parrot—in her crumbling Italian villa in the middle of nowhere.
And
it’s snowing outside!”

“Poppy Mallory’s parrot!” she exclaimed. “And her villa! How exciting, Mike!”

“Not so exciting,” he grumbled. “I can’t find what I’m after.”

“Then you don’t know yet …? You’re still not sure who it is?”

Her voice sounded hopeful and he smiled. “Sorry, kid, I still can’t tell you. This whole situation is even more complicated than it seemed at first. But listen, Lauren, how are you? And Maria? I mean, you’re okay, aren’t you? No problems?”

“No more than usual,” she replied, sounding puzzled. “Why, what do you mean?”

“Oh … nothing,” he said, then, “yeah, well, actually I do mean something, Lauren. One of the possible heirs has been murdered—you probably read about her in the newspapers, and now another thinks she’s being followed. I’d just like you to keep your eyes open, be aware … you know …” He heard her gasp, and said quickly, “I don’t mean to frighten you, and odds are it’s nothing, but just take care of yourself. Okay, Lauren Hunter?”

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Mike? When will you be back?”

He thought for a moment. “As soon as I can, Lauren. Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied, and he thought maybe she was smiling. “How’s Aunt Martha?” she asked.

“Great, and Maria?”

“Great. I’ve got to go to work, Mike, I’m late …”

“Talk to you soon, Lauren Hunter,” he said, still smiling.

Replacing the receiver, he drew the gray-blue silk curtains, shutting out the snowy night, and threw another log on the blazing fire. Slumped in Poppy’s deep comfortable wing chair with a glass of red wine in one hand and an enormous ham and cheese sandwich in the other, he finally admitted defeat. He was exhausted—and he’d exhausted all the possibilities of the Villa Castelletto. He ate his sandwich morosely, washing it down with the wine; there was no doubt about it, he was at a dead end and he didn’t know where to look next.

Hooking his toe under the footstool he’d kicked away so angrily earlier that day, he propped his feet on it and stared into the fire, wondering how many long winter nights Poppy had spent alone like this, sitting here in this very chair, just gazing into the flames and reliving her past. Damn, he thought as the footstool wobbled, he must have broken it when he kicked it,
and it was probably a priceless antique! Groaning, he picked it up and examined it. It looked like a normal enough piece of Victorian furniture, with a heavily carved mahogany base supported on four lion’s-paw feet and a needlework top of pink roses on a dark blue ground. He wiggled it cautiously, inspecting it for damage. Then suddenly he noticed a small gold keyhole. “Luchay,” he said, stunned, “I think I’ve found Poppy’s hiding place!”

He rummaged quickly through the desk searching for the key, but without any luck, and then he thought about how long it would take him to search the huge house with all its cavernous rooms—and still maybe not find it. Hurrying to the kitchen, he slammed around in the drawers until he found a screwdriver, and then he headed back up the stairs, two at a time.

The lock was a good one; it took quite a bit of prising until, with a splintering sound, it finally gave. Mike stared at the neat little pile of childish exercise books, probably bought years ago from the store in the village. He hardly dared open them. “Is this it, Luchay?” he said, awed. “Are we finally going to know the rest of Poppy’s secrets?”

1907, PARIS

Greg Konstant was at the end of his annual pilgrimage to Europe and another round of useless visits to the embassies, the consulates, and the police of Rome and Venice and Florence. He had spent more futile weeks just wandering the streets, never seeing the beauty of the ancient cities, endlessly searching the faces of the passing crowds, hoping against hope for that miracle to happen when he would suddenly see Poppy. So many times he’d caught a glimpse of wild red hair, or a fraction of a profile, or a particular long-striding walk that seemed familiar, and he’d hurried after his dream only to find it once more in pieces as the girl turned, glaring at him suspiciously. He’d apologize quickly, saying he’d thought she was someone else, someone he knew … an American girl. “Her name is Poppy Mallory,” he’d say eagerly, “she’s about your age, perhaps you know of her?” But they always shook their heads and hurried on.

“I don’t know why you keep on coming back,” Angel had said to him tiredly. “Poppy has chosen to disappear and it’s time you accepted that.”

“I’ll never accept it until I know the reason why,” he’d replied stubbornly. “Poppy would never just ‘disappear.’ Something must have happened to her.”

He was in the Ritz bar in Paris, sitting over a lonely drink and worrying about Angel. It was obvious that his sister was not happy with Felipe, though she did her best to disguise it. It seemed to him that Felipe became more autocratic and demanding each year, treating Angel as one of his beautiful possessions rather than as his wife, though he did make an effort to tone down his sharp, disparaging tongue when Greg was around.

“That’s because he’s afraid of you,” Angel had said with a weary smile. “He knows which side his bread is buttered on and you and Papa control the purse strings. Without the Konstant money, Felipe is just another impoverished aristocrat, long on titles and short on cash.”

“Do you still love him?” he’d asked angrily, ready to whisk her back to California on the next boat if she said no.

“Sometimes I wonder if I ever really did,” she’d replied sadly. “But I can never leave him, Greg—because of the children.”

He’d seen how Angel’s face lit up whenever her two little girls were around, and now there was two-year-old Aleksandr, the apple of her eye. They were the only elements in the empty socialite life Felipe had imposed on her that brought the old sparkle of true beauty back into Angel’s face. She was a slender, elegant woman now, smooth-haired and haunted-eyed, and always immaculately dressed, but though she was only twenty-seven, she might have been any age. She had lost all her youthful bounce, her joie de vivre. Life was no longer “fun” for Angel.

The twins were eight years old. Maria-Cristina was the fairer one with sparkling dark blue eyes, while Helena had golden hair with Felipe’s moss green eyes. Maria-Cristina was lively and alert, but Helena was quieter and more inward. And young Aleksandr was a sensitive little boy, very much under the domination of his father.

This time when he was staying at the Villa d’Oro, Greg had noticed that Helena was behaving strangely. At first he’d thought she was just being disobedient when she didn’t answer him, but Helena was a polite, well-brought-up girl, and even allowing for childish pranks she would never have ignored a grown-up.

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed before,” Angel had told him sadly when he asked. “It’s quite simple. Helena is deaf.”

“Deaf?” he’d cried, appalled. “But why …? How …?”

“I first noticed it when she was just a few months old—it was the contrast between the two girls, you see.”

“But surely there’s something that can be done! After all, she’s only a child.”

“If there were, don’t you think I would have done it?” Angel had retorted bitterly. “I took her to the best ear specialist in Rome—and then to Milan, and then Paris, and London. I took her everywhere, Greg. And every doctor told me the same thing. There is a malformation of the timpanic bone and the pressure causes deafness. By the time she is twenty, Helena will be totally deaf.”

Greg had stared horrified at the lovely blond child romping on the
lawn in front of them, laughing and shrieking with delight as she and her sister chased the brown-and-white spaniel puppies he’d bought them as a present. He recalled Angel, playing with her little black dog Trottie, dead many years past now, when he’d been the adoring older brother. How perfect she had been; she’d had beauty, charm, affection, the gift of love … the good fairies had given the young Angel every gift at her christening, only to take them away later.

“I’ve hidden it from everyone—except Felipe, of course,” Angel said. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I’m always around to help her, so no one really notices. I answer the questions she doesn’t hear, or I turn her to face the other children and tell them to speak more clearly … I just can’t bear anyone to know.”

“But what about when she’s older?” he asked worriedly.

“No one will ever hurt her,” Angel cried fiercely. “She will live here where she’s loved, surrounded by these beautiful gardens. I’ll find tutors so she will learn to lip-read, we’ll strive to keep her speaking voice as normal as possible … it
will
work, you’ll see,
it will!”

It was ever since that fatal Grand Tour of Europe nine years ago, Greg thought bitterly over his drink in the Ritz bar, that things had begun to go terribly wrong. Not even the Rancho Santa Vittoria was quite the same now.

“Greg Konstant? It is you, isn’t it?”

Greg frowned at the man in front of him, puzzled. “Good God,” he exclaimed, his face clearing, “it’s Charlie Hammond, isn’t it?”

“Charles James Hammond the Third, Harvard class of ’95.
You
old reprobate, you mean you didn’t recognize me? After all the carousing we did together in Boston?
You
can’t say we didn’t paint that town red once or twice—or maybe even thrice! And what are you doing, alone in the Ritz bar in Paris? Waiting for a lady, I’ll bet.”

Charlie Hammond took a seat opposite Greg and summoned the waiter for more drinks. He was a tall, good-looking man of thirty-three, with wavy brown hair and matching brown eyes, and he was very much at home in the cosmopolitan environment of the Ritz.

“My favorite watering hole,” he said, glancing around to check who else was there. “This is always the first place I make for in Paris.
You
can always guarantee you’ll meet someone you know in the Ritz bar; it’s never failed me yet. Still, I must admit I didn’t expect it to be
you
, Greg. Why, we haven’t seen each other since our college days—ten years, is it? A bit of water has flowed under my bridge
since then, I can tell you, and yours too, I’ll bet. I just got in today—here on banking business, old fellow. You remember?”

“Of course,” Greg replied, smiling, “the family bank in Philadelphia.
You
always swore at college you’d never end up in it—you were going to be a boat builder, if I remember right?”

Charlie grinned as he downed his whiskey. “Well, you know how it is … just too hard to escape from the grip of the family, old fellow. But I still build those boats—and sail them. On weekends and summers, of course. But you were always going to be a rancher—never wanted anything else except to run that great estate in California.”

“That’s me.” Greg shrugged. “I never changed.”

“Then what the hell is a California rancher doing alone in Paris?
You
can’t pretend you’re here to buy cattle or sell hides.”

“I’ve been visiting my sister in Venice. I always come through Paris on my way back.”