Good Blood (32 page)

“I had a talk with Francesca, you know,” he said, stirring in sugar. “Yesterday. They’re holding her in Turin. I drove up there to see her.”

“And she talked to you?” Gideon said. “I’m surprised.”

“So am I, to tell you the truth. But I had to at least ask her some questions-you know, to try to make sense of things. They’ve got her in a kind of a… not really a cell, but like a dorm room, only the door is metal, and it has a window in it. Somebody stood outside and watched us the whole time. They said I couldn’t see her at first, but I called Caravale and he got me in.” He was stirring, stirring, his mind 7,000 miles away, back in a dorm-like room in Turin.

“How did she seem?” Julie prompted.

“Like Francesca. Nasty. ‘So you’ve come to gloat, eh? Go ahead, have your fill.’ Those were her first words to me.”

He had spent half an hour in her company, he explained, unable to get her to say anything. She had sat on her cot in silence, with her arms folded, and her eyes half-closed, and a distant half-smile on her face, while he pleaded with her to shed some light on what she’d done. And then, when he had already gotten up and was about to leave, he had stopped just before signaling to get out and had said, in bafflement and frustration: “He was stabbed in the back, Francesca! I can’t even make myself imagine that. That you would stab Domenico… your father… in the back-”

She had jumped up from the cot on which she’d been sitting, her dark eyes alight for the first time. “Yes, in the back, the way he stabbed me in the back!”

“She confessed to you?” Gideon said, astounded.

Phil nodded. He’d finally finished stirring his coffee and lifted it to his lips, but it was obvious he hardly knew he was drinking it. “She got carried away; she couldn’t hold it back. I mean, it just poured out of her. It was horrible-this flood of bile, of resentment. .. it was like I wasn’t even there. I was, like, paralyzed…” He put the coffee down, stared out at the gray murk, and in a quiet, neutral voice told them what had burst from her with so much passion.

When Dr. Luzzatto had finally told Domenico the truth (Francesca said)-that her supposed younger brother Vincenzo was neither her brother nor Domenico’s son-but that Phil was-Domenico had made the mistake of coming to her for advice, for guidance-to Francesca, his own natural daughter; Francesca, whose own husband had been banished from the villa. As she had sat there in the kitchen of her gloomy Modena apartment, watching him wring his fine hands and debate with himself about the proper thing to do and the proper way to do it, it had struck her with terrible clarity that his concerns were all about what this might mean to Vincenzo, to the brat Achille, to the de Grazia bloodline. Not for a second did it cross his mind to concern himself with what a change in heirs might mean to her.

Until that moment she had never, except in occasional moments of pique, begrudged her father his stiff-necked adherence to the old-fashioned view that the entailed de Grazia estate was properly passed from son to son, with daughters-even elder daughters-given no consideration. That was a tradition. But now, for the first time she understood that to Domenico she counted for nothing at all, she was a woman, a zero, someone who might provide a reasonably intelligent sounding board, but whose views, whose own interest in the matter, were of no concern.

And the fact was, she did have an interest in the matter. If Phil actually became padrone, a time of unthinkable retribution would descend on her. She would no longer be mistress of the estate, she would be treated like dirt. It was true enough that Phil had many snubs, many disparagements, even many cruelties for which to repay her. She was ready to admit that. But whose fault was it that she had been brought up to look down on the Ungarettis? Couldn’t her father see it was his, no one’s but his?

No, he couldn’t see. Nor, apparently, could he see that the weedy, churlish Phil, regardless of his precious genes, was a cafone through and through-a boor, a vulgarian-whose commonplace manners and lack of breeding would mean the end of the house of de Grazia as they knew it.

But as they talked-as he talked-it had become increasingly clear that for her father one thing mattered above all else: the de Grazia blood line. There had never been any real doubt in his mind about what course he would pursue. He would convene a consiglio as soon as possible, as soon as Phil could fly to Italy; tomorrow, if possible. He would…

As he spoke, a reddish cloud had come down in front of her eyes like a blood-tinged cloth. He was so proud of himself, of “sacrificing” the man he had always thought of as his son-with tears in his eyes he actually compared himself to the Abraham of the Bible, giving up his only begotten son for the greater good-so completely oblivious to Francesca’s needs that, in a fit of shuddering, uncontrollable rage, she had snatched a knife from the block on the kitchen counter…

“And that’s it,” Phil said with a shrug. “She didn’t tell me how she faked the boating accident, but what’s the difference?”

“I don’t understand,” Gideon said. “Why would she confess to you when she wouldn’t to the police?”

“I’m telling you, it gushed out of her like water. She was white, she was shaking. When she got control of herself, she told me I was obligated-as a de Grazia, no less-to keep it to myself. And if I told anyone, she’d just deny she’d said it anyway, and what proof did I have?”

“And what did you do?”

“I called Caravale first thing, of course. But she’s right. What proof of anything do I have? Still, it ought to be useful to him.”

Julie was shaking her head from side to side. “My God, the whole thing sounds like an opera.”

“Well, we are Italian,” Phil said with his first smile of the morning.

“What about kidnapping Achille?” Gideon asked. “And skimming money from the company all those years? What was that all about, do you know?”

“Yeah, more or less. She kind of touched on some of it obliquely and I think I can put the rest together. From what I can tell, she was pretty confident right from the first that she’d gotten away with it-with the murder-but after a while, she started to worry that somehow, somewhere, I’d eventually find out who I really was and I’d come down on Isola de Grazia like Attila the Hun, claiming my birthright, sowing strife and destruction, and making life hell for everybody, but especially her.”

“I don’t blame her for being worried,” Julie said. “Dr. Luzzatto could have told you anytime he wanted.”

“No, she was pretty comfortable about that once she saw that he was going to sit by without saying anything and let Vincenzo inherit. Who knows, maybe she talked to him about it.”

“But she did kill him in the end.”

“Yes.”

“But only after Luzzatto found out that Domenico’s death was murder and started muttering to himself,” Gideon said. “And that took ten years.”

They carried the dishes into the kitchen and took fresh coffee into the living room. “Go ahead, Phil,” Gideon said. “She was afraid you’d find out you were Domenico’s son sometime, so…”

“So she started skimming in order to be ready to take care of herself when the time came.” He had perked up with the food and coffee and was looking better, despite a little haggardness from the overnight flight. And his new position in life seemed to be having an effect on him, whatever he claimed. He was wearing a nice, new knit shirt, decent trousers, and new oxfords. Gone were the T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers he’d flown out in.

“She was the CFO,” Gideon said. “It probably wasn’t that hard to fudge things.”

“Right. And Vincenzo hated that part of the operation-he’d rather be out drumming up business-so he was glad to leave it to her. She’s a smart girl, so she worked out ways of putting money in her pocket, a little at a time, when transactions came through. But when the stock market went south and there weren’t so many transactions anymore, that got harder. And she was starting to get nervous anyway; the longer she did that kind of finagling, the more likely she’d make a mistake and get caught.”

“And so she set up Achille’s kidnapping?” Julie said. “Five million euros in one shot, and then no more having to play around with company finances.”

“Yup, that’s the way it looks.”

They were in armchairs arranged in front of the big picture window, and for a while they sat quietly and looked out at the view. Ordinarily you could see all the way to Vancouver Island, and sometimes to the mountains of the Canadian mainland, but today they could barely see as far as the ferry dock. If anything, the murk was getting darker, the rain heavier. It was a good day to be inside. Gideon began thinking about building a fire but was too comfortable to get up.

“What about Vincenzo?” Julie asked. “What are you going to do about him?”

“Nothing,” Phil said, seemingly surprised at the question.

“But you can’t leave him there as the padrone. ”

“Who says?” Phil responded, showing some animation. “You think I want to take over? I told you, I can’t stand that place for more than a couple of days at a time. You think I want to live there? Everything’ll stay just the way it was. Vincenzo’s not perfect, but he’s been doing fine. I’ll visit once in a while, same as always, that’s all.”

“Well, what happens after Vincenzo? Who follows him?”

“Achille, same as before.” He laughed at their expressions. “Don’t look so amazed. I think this kidnap thing has sobered the kid up. He’ll be okay, trust me.”

“But is that legal?” Julie asked. “After all, Vincenzo isn’t really a de Grazia.”

“So? Who’s gonna sue over it? Me? Not likely.”

Gideon whistled softly. “Vincenzo must think you’re out of your mind.”

“Actually, he’s been pretty honorable about it. He offered to pack up and leave, but I told him a little peasant blood was good for the family.”

“I bet he loved that.”

“He’ll get over it. He’s still getting used to the idea that his father’s name is Pietro Somebody… or was it Pasquale Somebody, the one with the warts… or was it Guglielmo Somebody?” He laughed. “I happen to think this whole thing will make a better man of him.”

“I happen to think so too,” Gideon said.

Phil leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, slowly turning his mug in his hands. “Look, the main thing is, I’m the same guy I always was. I’m happy the way I am. I was okay with Emma Ungaretti as my mother, I was okay with crazy Gia as my mother, and I’m okay with this arrangement. I mean, I’m glad Emma really is my mother, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me… if you know what I mean.” He put down his coffee and stood up. “Thanks a lot, people. You’ve really been great. Hey, maybe we can get together-”

“Not so fast, pal,” Julie said. “Let’s get down to important matters. How do things stand with you and Lea?”

A slow, shy grin tipped up the corners of his mouth. “Not too bad. Can you believe this is happening to me? She’s been to the States and she likes it here, and with a little language training, her skills would be usable here too. She’s a kind of hotel consultant-”

“Slow down. When do you see her next?”

“Well, I’m inviting her to spend a week up in Belling-ham. You know, to see the great Pacific Northwest.” The grin spread. “From there… who knows what could happen?”

“Not this month, I hope,” Gideon said as a gust of wind flung a noisy spatter of rain against the window, almost like a handful of pebbles. Just below, a couple of rhododendron bushes, their leaves shiny black with water, swayed and fluttered in the storm. “She’s from sunny Italy. This could be pretty traumatic.”

“True,” Julie said. “You know, you’d better not make it January or February either.”

“Or March,” Gideon said.

“Or November or December.”

“Or-”

“I was thinking,” said Phil, “of the third week in July, three months from now.”

Gideon chewed his lip, considering. “That should work,” he said.