The Widow (22 page)

He needed to think about something else. Like that photo that was nagging at the back of his mind. Now that he'd lied to Gregory and quit his job there was no way he could saunter into the offices and have someone print him up a copy of that photo. No way he could even access it with his computer smashed on the ground, and he wasn't in the mood to run right out and buy a new one.

He closed his eyes, bringing the picture up in his memory. It was one of his gifts—an almost photographic memory, both for pictures and words, that had saved his butt a million times.

He could see it quite clearly. The harried expression on Lauretta's face as she tried to calm the old lady, the doubtful one on Tomaso's. She looked like Madame Antonella, he realized with a start. Lauretta was younger, stronger, but there was a definite resemblance.

It wasn't that obvious. Maybe it was something as simple as Pompasse going for the same type. Maybe he hooked up with Lauretta because she happened to look like his first model.

Or maybe Lauretta had already been there, at her mother's side.

He stared at the old lady's face. She was the key to everything, he thought suddenly. The look of malevolence on her face was extraordinary, almost eerie. And there was one more thing that wasn't right.

The wedding ring. In the picture, Madame Antonella, the woman who had been Pompasse's first mistress and never married, was wearing a wedding ring. A wide, old-fashioned band on her strong, aging hands.

It was nothing, he tried to tell himself. Plenty of women wore rings on that finger. Hell, she and Pompasse might have even exchanged rings at one point—what the hell did it matter?

But it did, he knew it as well as he knew his own name. The answers to everything lay in that thick gold band on an old lady's hand.

And he wasn't leaving Italy, and Charlie, until he had those answers and knew she was safe.

 

It was late morning when Charlie drove up to La Colombala. The place looked deserted. The Rolls was still in the barn, but there were no other cars. Olivia's rental was gone, and so was the small Fiat that Lauretta favored.

There was no one on the terrace, and the table wasn't set. The windows overlooking the valley were still closed against yesterday's rain and this morning's chill, and the sun hadn't yet warmed the flagstones under her bare feet.

The house was silent and still, and she walked through the empty hall to the kitchen, suddenly famished. It wasn't until she was halfway through a slice of buttered bread when she thought about why she had left.

Her appetite vanished. She could hear someone approaching, the heavy, measured tread on the worn tile flooring. She held her breath and then released it as Lauretta appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, Signora Charlie!” Lauretta cried, looking distraught. “Why have you come back here?”

“Is something wrong?” Charlie demanded. “Did something happen to my mother…?”

Lauretta shook her head. “Everything is fine, little one. Your mother has driven Mr. Richmond into town to get airplane tickets. He's going home, and he's taking that Gia with him.” She gave a disapproving sniff.

“And where is Gia?”

“Gia's off shopping. She needs new clothes to go to New York, she says. That one always needs new clothes. She won't be back, and you shouldn't be here, either. I told you it upsets Madame Antonella too much. She's old, she needs peace and quiet and no disturbances.”

Charlie made a face. “You know I honor and respect Madame Antonella, but I'm not going to have her drive me away from here. She can stay in her cottage and not see me, but I'm going to stay here as long as I want to.” She felt childish and resentful and she didn't care. She was tired of doing what everyone else wanted, and she wasn't going to be driven away from La Colombala no matter how desperately she wanted to go.

Lauretta's face was mournful, and she shook her head sadly.
“Poveretta,”
she murmured. “I tried to warn you.”

“Warn me of what?” Charlie demanded. And then she realized someone had come up behind her. For a moment she froze. The shuffling tread, the wheezy breathing. It was the same from yesterday afternoon, in the studio. Whoever had tried to hurt her then had come back. And it was too late to get away.

“I'm so sorry, Signora Charlie,” Lauretta was muttering.

She turned and looked into Madame Antonella's face. It was creased with hatred, and in her gnarled, sturdy hand she held a long, vicious-looking knife.

For a moment she froze. And then she turned and made a break for it, dodging past Lauretta toward the kitchen door. Only to be stopped by Tomaso, his familiar face dark with sorrow.

And then everything went black.

I
t was his damned Irish blood, that was it, Maguire thought as he drove hell-bent toward Geppi. He'd spent thirty-five years happily free of premonitions and dark forebodings—the only thing the slightest bit psychic about him were his excellent instincts.

But it was more than instinct riding him today, and it pissed the hell out of him. Something very bad was going to happen, and Charlie was at the center of it. He had to get to her in time, before it was too late, and the damned car he borrowed had about as much pickup as a turtle. It made the Fiat seem more like a Ferrari.

He'd gotten off to a late start, as well—he'd had a couple of things to check up on before he took off, and the Italian records system was not made for easy access. In the end he'd given up—if there was a record of a marriage between Aristide Pompasse and Charlotte Thomas thirteen years ago in the town of Geppi or anywhere nearby, he couldn't find it. But he suspected that it had never existed.

It was late afternoon by the time he reached the villa. His car was neatly parked by the old barn, and she'd left the keys in it. The day hadn't warmed up much, so he didn't expect to see her sunbathing on the terrace, but neither did he expect the house to look so closed up and deserted.

He called out her name as he entered the shadowy interior, but she didn't answer. No one did. The place was abandoned, even Lauretta's domain, the huge old kitchen, was empty.

He looked out the back door, up at the old cottage halfway up the hill. No signs of life there, either. Maybe Lauretta and Tomaso had taken the old lady someplace. Maybe Charlie had gone off with her mother. Or Henry. He didn't like that idea at all, but it was better than what he was fearing.

He stared up at the abandoned church. Charlie had said that someone destroyed another painting and pitched it at her. That meant there might only be one more painting missing. If it was anywhere it had to be up there, and somehow he and Charlie had missed seeing them. If the old lady had taken the paintings herself she couldn't have lugged them very far, and her cottage was too crowded to hold them. He was guessing there was some other place up beneath the church where Antonella had hidden Pompasse's paintings, maybe behind that huge pile of rubble that Charlie said hadn't been moved in decades. Though he still wasn't quite sure why.

The one thing he knew for certain was that Aristide Pompasse had filed for divorce three days before his death. But his divorce was from one Antonella Bourget Pompasse. Not Charlie Thomas.

He took the steep way up, steering clear of Antonella's cottage. As best he could figure, the old woman had stayed watching, the abandoned wife, for the last forty or fifty years, as Pompasse brought in a parade of women to serve as his mistresses and his models. Through it all she had stayed up in her cottage, waiting.

But Charlie must have been the last straw. He had actually dared to marry Charlie, or at least managed a semblance of a marriage, depriving Antonella of her secret position as favorite wife. She must have hated Charlie intensely.

But as long as she was the only real wife, it didn't matter. It was when Pompasse finally decided to break his true marriage that she acted. Killing Pompasse. The problem was, would she stop there? And why hadn't Lauretta realized what she had done and stopped her? Unless that resemblance went deeper than an artist's preference for the same physical type. Lauretta would protect her own mother at all costs. Maybe even at the cost of Charlie's life.

He had no doubt the old lady really was senile. She wasn't faking it—she was old and crazy and very dangerous. But she wasn't nearly as physically frail as she pretended. Beneath her shuffling, madwoman exterior was a strong, cunning monster.

It was getting dark by the time he reached the church. Someone had been there recently—there were more boards across the gaping hole in the center, and the pew where Charlie had napped had been pushed off to the corner. He stepped inside the ruined church, utterly silent, listening for the sound of voices.

All was quiet but for the rustle of the leaves over the missing roof, the faint soughing of the wind through the shattered building. And then the sound of muffled voices began to rise, just barely audible. He moved into the church, making no sound at all, moving to the very edge of the pit and peering down.

It was almost impossible to see anything but the piles of rocks and rubble beneath the gaping hole. The huge mound of rocks at the far end of the passageway had been moved, exposing a thick oak door. The painting and the journals had to be in there.

It was farther down than he remembered—no wonder Charlie had panicked when she'd made her way across the narrow plank. A fall like that could break a few bones if you were unlucky. A fall like that could kill you if you landed just right…

He never felt it coming. Something slammed over his back, something hard, and he was tumbling headfirst into that deep, endless hole, and the last thing he saw was Madame Antonella standing over him, a heavy piece of wood in her strong hands. And then he hit the ground.

 

Charlie woke up slowly, cold and damp and shivering. It was pitch-black, and she tried to lift her hand to see whether she was blindfolded, but she found she couldn't move. Someone had pinioned her arms to her sides, her legs together, in the inky darkness.

She was lying on something relatively soft. She was able to move her fingers, and it felt like an old mattress beneath her, covered with some kind of wool blanket. The smell of the place was horrendous—a sickly sweet odor of decay mixed with rodent droppings. Wherever she was, it hadn't had fresh air in years. If no one came to let her go she'd probably die of the stench before starvation.

At least she wasn't dead—yet. She'd had one last thought as she fell to the floor in the old kitchen. She was going to die, and at the worst possible time in her life.

A week ago would have been fine. Everyone would have wept, but it really wouldn't have mattered one way or another. A year from now would be okay, too. Then she'd be over it.

But she didn't want to die right now, when she was stupidly, crazily in love with that lying, exasperating, treacherous, devious son of a bitch Maguire.

She was crying, and that probably wasn't a good idea, either. She could feel the tears slide down her cheeks, and she turned her head to wipe them on the rough wool beneath her. It was bad enough that she was in love with him. She was damned if she was going to cry over him, as well.

She squirmed again, and the surface beneath her creaked. It was some kind of narrow bed or cot. She reached out her fingers, testing her bonds. It wasn't rope but something thicker, something clothlike and incredibly strong. It was…

Duct tape. Someone had wrapped duct tape around her ankles and knees, around her arms and waist, immobilizing her. She knew where they'd gotten it—she'd sent Tomaso a case of the stuff for Christmas last year when he'd expressed his admiration for it. Under any other circumstances she would have laughed at the absurdity of it.

She still couldn't believe that they had done this. Madame Antonella was one thing—the old lady had obviously gone over the edge. But why in God's name would Lauretta and Tomaso help her?

“Bloody hell.” The moan came from out of the darkness. “I think she broke my goddamned arm.”

The tears were starting again, damn it. “Maguire?” she asked in a quavering voice.

“You there, Charlie?” He sounded as relieved as she was. “Where the hell are you—I can't see a thing in this pit.”

“I can't see you, either. Follow the sound of my voice.”

“I'm in a lot of pain here, Charlie,” he said in a sour voice. “How about you come and find me?”

“Someone duct-taped me to the bed.”

The silence was so long that she wondered whether he'd passed out. “Now, that's worth moving for,” he said finally, and she could hear the rustle of clothing, the sound of him inching his way closer to her, accompanied by muffled curses and the occasional groan of pain.

She jumped when his hand found her. A moment later there was a flare of light as Maguire lit his lighter. “Forgot I had it,” he said, looking down at her.

The flickering light illuminated him, as well. “You look like hell,” she said, hoping he wouldn't notice she'd been crying. He was covered with dust, his shirt was torn, his face was bruised and cut, and he was cradling his left arm. “What happened to you?”

“The old bitch hit me over the head with a two-by-four and knocked me into the cellar hole. I don't know how I got in here—I don't think she's strong enough to drag me.”

“Probably Tomaso did the honors. He and Lauretta are helping her.”

He flicked off the lighter again, plunging them into darkness.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded.

“To conserve fuel. It's just lucky you stopped me from smoking or there'd be no lighter fluid left.” His hand was traveling over her body in a professional manner, checking out the duct-tape bondage. “You know, a man could find this kind of erotic.”

“Maguire, there's a crazy old lady trying to kill us, and two not-so-crazy, not-so-old people helping her. This is not the time for sexual innuendo.”

“It's always the time for sexual innuendo, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Do you know why they're helping her?”

“I don't have any idea. I don't even know why she wants to kill me.”

“I do.”

She waited, but he said nothing more as he fiddled with something in the darkness.

“Well?” she demanded finally. “And what the hell are you doing?”

“Swiss Army knife, love. Never travel without one.”

“You're a regular Boy Scout,” she muttered.

“Be grateful. I rather like the idea of you tied up. I could have forgotten I had it.” She felt him sawing at the tape.

“Don't you want to turn on the lighter?” she asked nervously.

“I'm afraid I've only got one usable hand at the moment. Don't move and I'll try not to slash your wrists.”

She held still as he hacked away at the tape. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You told me you knew why Madame Antonella wants to kill me.”

“Because she's not Madame Antonella. She's Mrs. Aristide Pompasse. Always was, since 1957. You were never legally married to him, because he never got a divorce. She's the widow, not you.”

“That son of a bitch,” she said after a moment.

“Exactly. Hold still and allow me the perverse pleasure of ripping the rest of the tape off you.”

“Back off, Maguire,” she snapped. “I'm not in the mood.” She was able to sit up, and she quickly unfastened the tape. At least it was attached to her clothing and not her skin, though the bands around her forearms were admittedly painful.

She took a deep gasp of air, then coughed. “This place smells like a garbage dump,” she said.

“Er…I hate to tell you this, love, but that's not garbage you're smelling.”

“Then what is it?”

He flicked the lighter on again, looking down at her. “Let's not think about it,” he said grimly.

“We've got to find our way out of here before they come back.”

“If they come back.”

“Why are you being so cryptic?”

His laugh was humorless. “I'm afraid
cryptic
is a little too apt. This place is a crypt, and what you're smelling is dead people. I imagine they left us here to die, as well. If we're lucky.”

For a moment she couldn't say anything. “And you're such an expert?” she said finally.

“I know what death smells like. I covered battle zones in my misspent youth.” His voice was flat, emotionless, and she remembered those plaques in the bottom of his drawer.

“All right,” she said after a moment. “So we're locked up with dead bodies. That doesn't mean we can't find a way out. Unless you feel like giving up?”

“No, love. We'll find a way out. It's probably after midnight by now, and maybe they won't come back and check on us until daylight. Maybe not at all. But be careful. This place is collapsing all around us. I imagine the old bitch hopes we'll bury ourselves. And the paintings.”

“The paintings?”

“Look around you.” He held the lighter up high, sending tiny shards of illumination into the darkness. “We've found the missing paintings. There are about a dozen here—more than we realized. Worth a bloody fortune. The journals were probably here as well—there's a pile of ashes that looks suspicious. She must have burned them.”

“Why?”

“Too incriminating, maybe. I don't know. We're just lucky she didn't torch the paintings.”

“She wouldn't destroy them. They're worth too much.”

“I don't think Madame Antonella gives a damn about the money. I think she's pissed as hell, nutty as a fruitcake, and she's going to cause some major damage to anyone or anything that gets in her way.”