The Rich Shall Inherit (32 page)

His sharp expression melted into a smile and Mike smiled back in relief. For a minute there, he’d felt himself in the dock, ready for sentencing, but now Lieber looked like everybody’s favorite uncle.

“You’re doing a good job,” he told Mike, “at last we know
who
Poppy Mallory is, even if we don’t yet know what she did to amass such a fortune.” He paused. “You say you’re off to Venice tonight?”

Mike nodded. “I was going to go to Paris first, to speak to Claudia Galli, but when I called, all I got was a message on her answering machine, saying she was out of town and wouldn’t be back for a week. I thought I’d go straight on to Venice instead.”

“An interesting claim, the Gallis,” Lieber said reflectively. “Don’t you think it strange, Mr. Preston, to find such intrigue within a single family?”

Mike shrugged. “In my experience, it’s far from strange. The only thing that rivals a family for duplicity and machinations is a large corporation. Believe me, there’s not much to choose between them. Let’s not forget that most murders are committed within the family circle.”

Lieber chuckled. “Well, at least Poppy didn’t murder her father, though God knows he sounds as though he deserved it.”

“I prefer to think she threw the knife at him in panic,” Mike said soberly. “From what I know of her, Poppy Mallory wasn’t that kind of woman.”

“Ah, but then what kind of woman was she?” demanded Lieber.
“That
is the enigma you still have to prove, Mr. Preston.”

On the plane to Venice, Mike knew he was right. He still didn’t know the real Poppy Mallory. Poppy—the woman.

It was the week before Christmas and Mike had decided that if he was going to have to spend the festive season alone in Venice,
then he might as well do it in comfort at the Hotel Cipriani. The hotel’s private launch met his flight and soon he was speeding across the lagoon to the island of Giudecca. As he disembarked he turned to gaze at the hauntingly beautiful view across the lagoon of the Doges’ Palace and the Piazzetta looking like a medieval stage set in the bright afternoon sunlight.

The Cipriani welcomed him into its unostentatious luxury, and over a sybaritic late lunch of spiny-shelled crab and melt-in-the-mouth tortellini filled with a mousse of chicken, Mike thought about Aria Rinardi and Orlando Messenger. Two of Poppy Mallory’s would-be heirs, brought together by a catalyst in the shape of Antony Carraldo, the mystery man of the century.

The one thing all the claimants had in common was that they all needed the money. Orlando was sick to death of pandering to his rich lovers, and yet he was unwilling to give up that same rich life-style. He wasn’t about to “suffer” for his art. And although Mike hadn’t met her yet, it seemed that Aria Rinardi wanted to buy her way out of marriage to Carraldo by giving Poppy’s money to her mother—she wanted freedom. Lauren Hunter needed the money so she and her baby sister could lead decent lives, and maybe she’d get to go to Stanford. Pierluigi Galli needed that money to shore up his toppling business empire. While, according to Lieber, Claudia had “needed” it the way she’d always needed money—just to enjoy it.

The one question that no one seemed to ask was where Poppy got all that money. If the story that she’d had a baby and been disowned by her family was true, then what had she done, alone in Europe?

Returning to his room, he called Francesca Rinardi.

“Pronto?”
a clear, impersonal voice answered.

“The Baronessa Rinardi?” he asked.

“Sì. Who is this?”

“My name is Mike Preston. Johannes Lieber asked me to contact you.”

“Lieber?” she asked, a sharp edge to her voice. “What is it you want, Mr. Preston?”

“Mr. Lieber wanted me to discuss the situation with you, about Poppy Mallory’s will,” he replied briskly. “Obviously nothing has been resolved yet, but we are investigating each story closely.”

“Be here this afternoon at five,” she commanded, hanging up abruptly.

*  *  *

Mike approached the Palazzo Rinardi on foot through the Campo Morosini rather than from the Grand Canal, but he thought it beautiful, despite the peeling rose-colored stucco. A fierce old woman, in a black dress covered with a crisp white apron, answered the door, acknowledging him with a nod of her head. “This way, Signore,” she said, hobbling through the entrance lobby to the hallway, grumbling about her arthritis as she went.

“It’s up the stairs,” she told him, “the big double doors facing you at the top. The Baronessa is waiting for you—but it’ll save my legs if you can announce yourself.”

“There’s no need to come up, Fiametta,” Francesca called in a silvery voice from the top of the stairs. She smiled dazzlingly at Mike. “Please come up, Mr. Preston. Fiametta will bring us some tea, won’t you, Fiametta.”

The old woman hobbled away, still grumbling to herself, and Francesca sighed as Mike walked up the beautiful marble stairs toward her. She was wearing a green woolen dress with a fuchsia cashmere shawl slung carelessly over her shoulders. Her cool, symmetrically beautiful face was perfectly made up—not too much that it was obvious, and just enough to enhance her beautiful green eyes and rather tight-lipped mouth. Mike thought she looked very expensive.

“Poor Fiametta,” she said, “I’m afraid she’s getting too old for the job. But you see, she’s been with the family for more than half a century, and when you have a servant that long you can’t just dismiss her. She has no life other than with the Rinardis.” She held out her hand. “I’m Francesca Rinardi. I’m afraid I don’t know exactly why you are here, Mr. Preston, but welcome to the Palazzo Rinardi.”

“You
have a very beautiful home, Baronessa,” Mike said, looking around the shabby, elegantly proportioned room, noticing the painted ceilings and the portraits, the heavy, worn silk drapes, and the priceless bibelots scattered on the tables.

“An inheritance like this can be a great burden,” she sighed. “As you can see, the palazzo needs a fortune spent on it to restore its original beauty. I’m afraid the Rinardi family no longer has that kind of money. So you see,” she added, smiling disarmingly at him, “what a good cause Poppy’s fortune would go to.”

Mike took a seat on a yellow brocade sofa opposite her. “I
suppose that if her claim is successful, then Aria would be the one to decide what to do with her money.”

“Aria is a child!” Francesca snapped, her smile fading. “I am her legal guardian. But naturally she would want to restore the palazzo that has been in her family for four centuries.”

“But if she didn’t?” he persisted.

She shrugged irritably. “Aria always does as I think best—ultimately.”

Fiametta appeared in the doorway, a tea tray in her gnarled hands, and Mike leapt to help her. “Thank you, Signore,” she said, glancing at him with her sharp, blackbird eyes.

“There was no need to help,” Francesca said coldly. “Fiametta is perfectly able to carry a tray of tea. Of course, when we have Poppy’s money, then her life will become easier too. We shall be able to afford proper servants again. Fiametta was my husband’s nanny; she knew Paolo’s mother, Maria-Cristina. Of course she’s an old woman and her memories are a bit vague now, but perhaps you’d like to talk to her later.”

“That would be helpful,” he said. “Tell me, Baronessa, do you have any other evidence on which to base your claim? All we have is your statement that Maria-Cristina was Poppy’s daughter, but you don’t say why you believe that—other than that the other daughter, Helena, never married.”

“As a girl, Maria-Cristina was wild,” she said, pouring tea, “like her mother, Poppy. Always doing the wrong thing, marrying the wrong men, making the wrong decisions. Although I hate to say it about my own child’s grandmother, she was no better than she ought to be. Helena never went anywhere. Angel, her mother, kept her by her side; she doted on her. There was no doubt that Helena was the favorite and now you see why. It was because Maria-Cristina wasn’t Angel’s own child at all, she had simply tried to help her old friend Poppy Mallory. And as for Aleksandr’s claim, it’s nonsense. There was no reason for Poppy to leave any money to ‘her son’ in her will, because she didn’t have one.”

“But you have no written evidence?” Mike persisted. “No documents?”

Francesca sighed again. “Mr. Preston,” she said, “all we have is a parrot! Come with me and I’ll show you.”

He followed her up another flight of stairs to a spacious room on the next floor. Two easels were mounted by the window and
a big table was littered with an artist’s paraphernalia. And, on an immense golden stand by the window, was a large green parrot.

“This is Luchay,” Francesca told him. “He was Poppy Mallory’s parrot. Apparently when she died some old country lawyer showed up at the Villa d’Oro and gave the parrot to Helena and Maria-Cristina. Eventually my husband Paolo had it and now, Aria.”

“But that stand,” he exclaimed, “and the cage—they’re works of art!”

“Solid gold, Mr. Preston, and those stones are real. Those rings around the bird’s legs are emeralds and diamonds! These finials on the stand—made by Bulgari, I believe—are studded with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, as well as lapis lazuli and turquoise. Poppy must have been besotted by that damned bird. And the ridiculous thing is that none of it can be sold because that was what Poppy had decreed. Besides, they are too famous ever to try to break down and sell off the stones separately.”

Mike frowned as she bent closer to the bird. “Luchay,” she called. “Say ‘Poppy,’ Luchay.” But the bird just shuffled on his stand, turning his head away.

“Of course the parrot is very old now.” She shrugged. “But occasionally he speaks her name.”

“Thank you very much for talking to me, Baronessa,” Mike said. “I think I understand the situation better now. It’s always easier to meet people and discuss things face-to-face.”

“Are you employed by Mr. Lieber then?” she asked. “He said he might put a private detective onto the case.”

“As a matter of fact, no. I’m a writer. Mr. Lieber and I thought we might be able to help each other.”

She glanced sharply at him again and then smiled warmly. “Mike Preston! Well, forgive me for being so businesslike. Of course, I didn’t realize you were the famous writer.
You
must come to dinner and meet my daughter, Aria. Where are you staying, Mr. Preston … or maybe I’d better call you Mike, now we intend to get to know each other better.”

“I’m at the Cipriani, Baronessa.”

“No more formality, please, just call me Francesca. How about tomorrow evening, about nine? Would that suit you?”

“That suits me fine, thank you,” he replied. “I’ll look forward to it. Just one more thing, though; you mentioned I might have a word with Fiametta before I leave.”

“Of course,” she cried. “Better come to the kitchen, though, it’ll save time. Follow me.”

Fiametta looked up in surprise; Francesca rarely came down to the kitchen and she glanced around now, her nose wrinkling at the smell of the garlic Fiametta was chopping.

“Mr. Preston would like to have a few words with you about Poppy Mallory,” Francesca called loudly, though Mike hadn’t noticed that the old woman seemed deaf. “Mr. Preston is from Mr. Lieber’s office—the lawyer in Geneva,” she added, emphasizing the words. “I told him you knew Maria-Cristina.”

Fiametta nodded. “Very well,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth and sitting down at the table.

“Fiametta will show you out when you’ve finished, Mike,” Francesca said conspiratorially. “I’m afraid I have to fly. I have an appointment. Until tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, shaking her cool, smooth hand.

“What is it you want to know?” the old woman asked, glaring at him. “Why can’t those lawyers just take her word for it. Maria-Cristina was Poppy’s daughter, she was Paolo’s mother, and she was Aria’s grandmother, and that’s that.”

“I wish it were that easy, Fiametta,” Mike said, sitting opposite her at the kitchen table. The garlic smelled good and strong and there were little piles of chopped herbs and vegetables on the table next to it. “Smells great,” he said appreciatively.

“I’m a good cook,” she told him, “I learned as a young girl. Of course, Venetian cooking is different from the rest of Italy. Better! Lots of good rice instead of always pasta. You should try my risotto, Signore, it’s the best in Venice.”

“Maybe I will,” he told her, “the Baronessa invited me for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Huh, then you’ll not be getting risotto; she’ll want something fancier to show off with, she always does.”

Mike nodded; it seemed there was no love lost between the old woman and her employer. “Tell me about Maria-Cristina,” he suggested. “How old was she when you knew her?”

“She was a grown woman, and a selfish one; full of her own self-importance and too busy with her own affairs to bother much with her boy, Paolo. Maria-Cristina was flighty, always running off with some man or another. She’d been married once, you know, to an American—Bill Aston, he was called. ‘Paul’ was his son—until she got divorced and brought him to live here.
Then we always called him Paolo. Bill Aston was a wealthy man and he cut them both off without a cent. Of course, she didn’t care, her family was as rich as his. So you see he wasn’t even a Rinardi by name, until his cousin Aleksandr refused to take the title. And then it went to Paolo as the next living male relative. This was before Pierluigi was born, of course, and before Aleksandr married. I’ll bet
she
didn’t tell you all this, did she,” she said, jerking her head toward the door. “No, of course she wouldn’t; it’s not true to think that Paolo’s name goes back centuries, along with this palazzo. And poor Helena, Maria-Cristina’s sister. She was always a strange one, under her mother’s thumb, I thought. She never spoke much, and they said in the end she’d gone completely off her head.”

“Was there ever any mention of Poppy?” he asked.

Fiametta shook her head. “Not that I can recall, though everyone seemed to know the rumor that one of Angel and Felipe Rinardi’s children was not theirs.”

“Were you there when the lawyer brought Poppy’s parrot to the house?”

“Oh, yes,” she said eagerly, “I was there. He was a little countryman in an old-fashioned black suit. It was a hot day and he was sweating like a pig—I can see him now, the sweat dripping down his face and the parrot cage clutched in his hand.” She laughed at the memory. “What a sight to turn up on your doorstep. Anyway, he told his story to Maria-Cristina about Poppy Mallory’s dying and wanting to give the parrot to the Rinardis. ‘What on earth do we need with a mangy old parrot!’ she exclaimed. And then she saw the cage! She swung it around, inspecting it greedily—she liked jewels, that one, and the poor bird began to screech. He was making a terrible racket. Just then Helena appeared from the garden. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What sort of bird is that that’s singing so beautifully?’ ‘What do you mean,
singing,’
Maria-Cristina asked her scornfully. ‘The damned bird’s making an infernal row!’ Helena looked at the poor frightened bird and her big blue eyes were full of tenderness—she was a nice girl, good-hearted, you know, even if she was doted on and spoiled by her mother. But I’ll never forget what she said. ‘No, Maria-Cristina, you’re wrong,’ she said, ‘he is singing. He’s singing especially for me.’ Her sister looked at her and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she thought that at last she’d gone completely mad. But she was always gentle with her. ‘Then you take him, Helena,’ she said, ‘the parrot is yours. It’s a present
from Poppy Mallory.’ And that’s the only time I ever heard Poppy Mallory’s name mentioned in that household.”