The Rich Shall Inherit (79 page)

She remembered sometime later … was it the next week, the next year? She couldn’t recall.

“I must write my will, Luchay,” she said as they sat together at her desk after supper. “Of course, I don’t need to worry about Rogan,” she added confidently, “he’ll take care of everything when he comes home. But I must write this while I remember—because you know, Luchay, sometimes I don’t even recall that I have a daughter.”

This is my Last Will and Testament
, she wrote in her tremulous hand,
made this fourth day of November, 1933. I leave everything to my child. I’ve never known her, but she is my daughter. Angel Konstant Rinardi will tell you who she is.
She signed it in slow, careful letters, but the trembling hand betrayed her with a splutter of black ink.

“Oh, and a note for my son!” she cried, taking a fresh sheet of paper.
Rogan
, she wrote.
Sometimes my memory defeats me, and in case I don’t remember when I see you, I’ve written this will because you didn’t know about my daughter. I wanted to make sure she was taken care of too. But, of course, you will make sure of that.

“I’m tired now, Luchay,” she said, walking slowly to the big white bed. “Tomorrow we’ll call the lawyer; we’ll give him this to take care of, and then I know I can sleep without worrying about my children anymore. They will have their inheritance after all.”

As the Swissair flight circled Los Angeles, Mike stared at the familiar grid of neat houses and blue swimming pools glinting in the eternal sunshine, and the endless lines of cars snaking along the broad freeways that bound the city together. He’d spent two weeks in Venice, replaying his tape recordings and analyzing his notes made at the Villa Castelletto, thinking angrily that he’d come to another dead end. Had Poppy really gone to her grave without seeing Rogan again? And without knowing her daughter? And if she didn’t know, then who did?

He’d recalled Hilliard Konstant’s sardonic glance as he told him excitedly of his find in the attics. “Have a glass of manzanilla,” he’d said gleefully, “and tell me all about it.” Hilliard was Greg Konstant’s son; he was the only person alive who’d known Angel and her three children, and yet he claimed he remembered nothing at all about them. He’d bet that the old man had been playing a game with him all along, giving him the freedom of his big mausoleum of a library and telling him to get on with it and find out for himself! Now he had most of the story—but he was sure that Hilliard knew the rest. And that’s what he was in L.A. to find out.

He thought of the meeting he’d just had in Geneva with Lieber; the lawyer had confirmed that Orlando would not be informed that he was one of the heirs to Poppy’s estate until they knew the identity of the daughter, and the name of the other heir or heiress—if, in fact, there was one.

“But let us not forget that when we tell Orlando that he is Poppy’s great-grandson,” he’d said, “we must also tell him the name of his great-grandfather. Franco Malvasi. One of the most notorious Mafia chiefs of the past century!”

Mike remembered Lauren Hunter, maybe still half hoping to inherit. He’d thought about her quite a lot over the past few weeks, and he’d tried to analyze why. It wasn’t pity he felt for her, and Lauren wouldn’t want that; she had shouldered her responsibilities and, with love as the motivating force in her life, Mike knew she would work things out. It would be tough, but Lauren would do it. All he knew was that he’d never felt like this before in his life, and, as the plane touched down on the tarmac and taxied toward the terminal, he knew that for once the past and Poppy Mallory would have to wait. He was going to see Lauren.

It was four in the afternoon and Denny’s was pretty quiet. Mike saw her at once; she was taking an order from a customer with two small boys, and she was smiling at them as she carried the booster seats for their chairs. She wore her long reddish-blond hair loose today, swept up at the sides in a couple of tortoiseshell combs, and in her short black skirt and white blouse, she looked pretty and efficient. Lauren smiled again, patting the head of the smallest child as she turned away. Then she saw him and her beautiful smile grew wider. “Hi,” she called, walking over to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to be in L.A., so I came to see you,” Mike said honestly.

She blushed, but he could tell she was pleased. “Thanks again for the teddy bear,” she said, “it really made Maria’s Christmas.”

“I’d like to meet Maria,” he said, “she sounds like a great kid.”

“Would you really?” Lauren asked eagerly, but then her eyes clouded. “Well, I’m not sure,” she said, “you know how it is … Maria has her schedule and I have mine. It gets pretty complicated with the babysitters and all.”

“What time d’you finish here?” Mike asked abruptly.

“At four-thirty—in half an hour.”

“Good. I’ll meet you then.”

“Okay,” she agreed, half reluctantly.

Even though the sunshine was bright, it was a cool day for Los Angeles and Lauren was wearing a red fake-fur bomber jacket. “My Christmas present to myself,” she told him when he admired it.

Mike remembered Aria’s beautiful sheared green beaver, which had cost a fortune and which, if she wasn’t the heiress, Carraldo
was going to have to pay for, and he thought how unfair fate could be. “Okay,” he said, “what next?”

“I have to pick Maria up from the baby-minder.”

“Great. Let’s do it. I’ll follow you in my car.”

She lived in a walk-up apartment in an old block just off Ventura Boulevard in Studio City, and Mike helped her upstairs with Maria’s stroller and baggage while she carried the baby.

“She sure is pretty,” he called as the baby smiled at him over Lauren’s shoulder.

“The prettiest,” she agreed firmly.

It was one of those typical small L.A. apartments, open plan with a combination living/dining room and kitchen. “There’s just one bedroom,” Lauren told him, “and a bathroom. That’s it. But it’s big enough for us at the moment, isn’t it, Maria? Would you like some coffee,” she asked, “while I fix her supper?”

“Sure.” He took a seat on a stool at the kitchen counter, watching as Lauren put a pot of coffee on and began preparing Maria’s food. He thought she looked better, a little rounder and a bit glossier, as though she was looking after herself a bit more. It suited her. She was a lovely girl—or would be if she could ever lose that faint frown of worry.

Maria was in her playpen, crawling around and testing her budding teeth on her toys. She was surely a cute kid, Mike thought, with all that dark hair and such big blue eyes. Maria caught his glance and smiled at him, waving a small Raggedy Ann doll by its leg.

“Hi,” he called, “hi there, Maria.” She smiled at him again. “How old is she now?” he asked as Lauren placed a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Almost eighteen months.”

“She’s cute. So, where d’you want to go for dinner? French, Italian, Chinese, Japanese?”

Lauren laughed. “How did you know it was my night off?”

“I didn’t,” he grinned, “I was just hoping.”

“I’ll have to get a babysitter,” she said doubtfully, “and I don’t really have anything smart to wear.”

“I hate getting dressed up, anywhere that takes blue jeans is good enough for me.”

She sighed, but she was smiling at him. “You’re a very kind man, Mike, you know that?”

“Not me.” He grinned. “I’m the tough investigative journalist, remember?”

“I remember. I was going to ask you about Poppy, but now you can tell me over dinner.” She put Maria in her high chair and he watched as she began to feed her. There was something puzzling about the baby, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something that wasn’t quite right …

“I’d better go,” he told her. “I’ve got a few calls to make. I’ll pick you up about seven-thirty?”

“Great,” she said, “I’ll be ready.”

They went to a little French place on Melrose and Lauren was so obviously thrilled that it made him feel good. She was wearing a simple dark blue jersey dress with a wide leather belt that emphasized the smallness of her waist; her long reddish-blond hair was brushed into a smooth fall and she wore just enough makeup to enhance her gray-blue eyes.

“You can’t imagine what a treat this is,” she told him honestly. “I haven’t been anywhere this nice since before Maria was born.”

Mike noticed she didn’t say “before my Mom died,” but “before Maria was born.” Lauren had a positive attitude and he hoped it would help when she heard that she wasn’t the Mallory heiress. She listened, fascinated, as he told her the story of Poppy, or as much as he knew of it so far.

“Poor Poppy,” she said at last, “everything seemed to go wrong for her. What happened in the end?”

“I don’t know yet,” he replied with a sigh, “but I think I know who does. That’s why I’m back in California. I’m going to see him tomorrow. But you see, Lauren, I’m afraid there seems no hope now of your being related to Poppy. The Mallory name must have been just a coincidence.”

“I didn’t really expect it anyway,” she told him honestly. “It was a long shot—sort of like winning at Las Vegas. I hope Aria gets the money; she sounds as though she needs it.”

“Not more than you do,” he said, thinking of the baby. “Lauren, what’s wrong with Maria?”

She dropped her fork, shocked. “What do you mean?” she asked nervously.

He took her hand across the table. “There is something wrong with her, isn’t there? Why don’t you tell me?”

Lauren looked at their clasped hands and then at him. His eyes were understanding; she felt she could trust him with her secret. “I don’t know exactly what it is,” she said quietly. “I think there’s something wrong with her mentally. She just doesn’t
respond, you see, and she doesn’t try to talk. Most kids her age are already saying ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ and trying out new words and sounds, but Maria is so quiet.”

Now he knew what had puzzled him. The baby had never made a sound the whole time he was there. “What are you doing about it?” he asked.

“Nothing. I’ve been afraid to admit it, even to myself, I even have nightmares about it. You’re the first person I’ve told,” she added, tears lurking at the corners of her eyes. “I’m afraid they’ll take her away from me, you see, and put her in one of those homes. I can’t afford to pay for treatment or special doctors. I suppose I’m just putting off the evil day, but I can’t lose her, Mike, I just can’t! Maria’s all I have left.” She looked at him pleadingly. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I was wrong, but I don’t think it’s done any harm. After all, she’s only a baby.”

“I’m sure you haven’t harmed her,” he said, “but at some point it’s only fair to find out what’s wrong, and whether she can be helped.”

Lauren hung her head, staring at the napkin she was twisting in her fingers. “I know,” she said in a small voice. “It’s just tough to face it alone.”

“Look,” he said, his heart melting under her glance. “I’ll find out the name of the best doctor for her to see. I’ll make an appointment for you, he’ll examine her and maybe do a few tests—then at least you’ll know what’s wrong. It’ll be my pleasure to pay for it, Lauren.”

She looked at him hesitantly—in one way what he was offering was tempting, but in another it was frightening, because the truth might be more than she could face. But he was right, it was Maria’s life she had to think of, not her own. “I couldn’t let you pay,” she said quickly, “that wouldn’t be right.”

“You’re not letting me. Maria is. Let’s call it a birthday present.”

She smiled. “It’s not her birthday.”

“Let’s pretend,” Mike said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow about the appointment. And then I’m off to Santa Barbara and the Rancho Santa Vittoria, to get the truth out of old Hilliard Konstant.”

Hilliard had aged in the three months since Mike had seen him. “I’m fine, just fine,” he said even more irritably than Mike remembered. “What are you doing here? Come to tell me you’ve
found Poppy Mallory’s heiress, have you?” A malicious grin flickered across his face as he poured two glasses of manzanilla. “I missed you, you know, young man. I got used to having you in the library, poring over my books.”

“Yeah, but I have the feeling you could have saved me a lot of time,” Mike said bluntly.

“I suppose I’ve you to thank for sending that abominable Italian woman here to see me. Paolo Rinardi’s wife?”

“Francesca,” Mike said with a grin, imagining the two of them drinking sherry together. “But the bonus was that you got to meet Aria.”

“She’s a nice girl,” Hilliard admitted thoughtfully. “Strange to think I still have some family after all. I wasn’t much interested before, and I guess I just never gave much thought to the Italian side. Of course, she’s Maria-Cristina’s granddaughter, pretty like her, too, but I doubt if she has the same temperament. Aria doesn’t look the wild sort to me.”

“I thought you didn’t remember Maria-Cristina,” Mike said.

Hilliard’s pale eyes narrowed slyly. “Well, you know, some days I remember things, some days I don’t. It’s one of the privileges of growing old.”

“Okay, truth time, Hilliard.” Mike put down his glass and faced him, challengingly. “I’m going to tell you exactly what I’ve found out about Poppy and then you can tell me what you know.
Exactly what you know.
Is it a deal?”

Hilliard drained his sherry, and then rubbed his hands together delightedly. “Go on then,” he said. “I’m dying to hear.”

He listened carefully as Mike told him the story, asking a question here and there, and nodding in agreement occasionally as though it tallied with things he already knew.

“And so you see,” Mike said finally, “I’m at a dead end again, Hilliard. I know one daughter was Poppy’s, but I still don’t know which one.
But I believe you do.”

“I didn’t know about the son, Rogan,” Hilliard replied slowly. “Does that mean there’s someone else claiming the money now?”

“There is, and his claim is valid. He’s Poppy’s great-grandson.”

“I didn’t know about Numéro Seize and all that stuff either,” Hilliard said. “And I’m sure my father and Angel didn’t know. But she knew about the Mafia boss. Not the details, but she’d read about it in the newspapers. I heard her telling one of the daughters—Maria-Cristina, I guess.”