The Rich Shall Inherit (76 page)

The villa in the hills near Vicenza looked cool and white and dilapidated under its encroaching mantle of greenery. “Just the way Montespan was,” Poppy cried delightedly, “when we first saw it.”

The crumbling pillars flanking the entrance were surmounted by stone peacocks and overgrown with moss, and the iron gates bearing the name “Villa Castelletto” creaked rustily, refusing to open more than a crack. Laughing, they squeezed through, running up the winding overgrown driveway to where it ended in a circle in front of an imposing portico. Hand in hand they walked up the four wide shallow steps to the tall oaken doors. The handle gave under Franco’s touch and she looked at him, surprised. “The caretaker is a village woman; she was told to come here this morning to clean up and make sure there was food in the kitchen. See, she left the key in the lock.”

It felt deliciously cool after the heat outside, and slipping off her shoes, Poppy walked barefoot across the hall peering into rooms. The decor probably hadn’t changed in a hundred years; there were heavy red velvet drapes with dangling gold tassels and massive pieces of gothic furniture, interspersed with fragile painted Venetian cabinets and intaglio tables. The floors were marble downstairs and polished wood upstairs, and the tall ceilings were painted with allegorical scenes of maidens and shepherds and cupids.

She thought of Montespan, the simple country farmhouse with its fake mementos of a life that never existed and its memories of sadness and loss. A little flicker of hope crept into her mind; maybe this wouldn’t be for just a few days, maybe it would be a whole new beginning….

“I’m starving,” she cried, her eyes sparkling with happiness, “let’s see what’s in the kitchen.”

There were baskets of produce, eggs, pasta, bread, and wine. Tying an apron around her waist, Poppy cooked omelets and pasta and made a salad, while Franco filled their wineglasses and munched the bread hungrily. They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, eating their meal, looking up at each other now and then, and exclaiming how good it tasted. “It’s like old times,” Franco said, with a satisfied sigh.

“Better,” Poppy replied, “because now we know the truth about ourselves.” She remembered suddenly why she was here, and that they were not far from Venice—probably close to the
Villa d’Oro—and she longed to tell him about her daughter, to ask his help. But the moment wasn’t right. She would wait.

The days passed in dreamlike succession; they breakfasted on the sunny morning patio overlooking the tangled green gardens and sometimes afterward they would wander into the village to buy provisions and wine. Then they’d sleep away the hot afternoon, wrapped in each other’s arms, still warm and moist from their lovemaking. The rusty iron gates still refused to open and the big green car stayed outside, awaiting their evening’s pleasure, when, freshly bathed and cool again, they might drive to a country restaurant for a simple supper of salad and risotto and cool, prickly Venetian wine. The woman came to the house every morning to clean, but they never saw her. “She’s the house ghost,” Franco exclaimed, laughing as they returned home once again to find it immaculate; the beds were even turned down and there was a carafe of water on the bedside table.

But it was the nights that Poppy thought were so magical, lost from reality, together in their dusty, opulent green-shrouded villa. The soft night world outside their open windows seemed tangible as velvet and the moist warmth of her skin, the coolness of Franco’s lips on her body, the scent of flowers and of their lovemaking, made her feel like a luxuriant jungle cat. She wanted nothing in the world more than Franco’s arms around her, his body close to hers, his breath mingling with hers.

The scented nights slid by quickly; though she refused to count them. She had almost begun to believe that small flicker of hope that told her there was a life for them together, that Franco could escape from his world and she from her past, when he said to her, “It’s time to go back, Poppy. Back to reality.”

They were in bed. The sheets, crumpled from their lovemaking, were flung back and they lay side by side, hands touching, fingers entwined as their bodies had so recently been. The shrill continuous chirp of the cicadas filled the silence that fell on the room.

“After all,” he said gently, “these were only stolen moments.”

“Sometimes I think that’s all there are—stolen moments. And dreams,” Poppy answered bitterly. “When we are young we dream good dreams, we dream that we are going to have it all. As we grow older we realize that we’re only going to get pieces of those dreams, little bits to treasure, here and there. The trick is to recognize the stolen moments, to take them when you can—and
remember them. Because they are the only thing that makes life bearable.”

He put his hand to her face, feeling the hot salt tears on his fingers. “No one gets it all, my Poppy,” he murmured sadly.

She closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they ran across her cheeks, into her ears, into her hair—and onto Franco’s face as he held her close. She thought of what he had said … no one gets it all, and she remembered Angel, the girl who she had felt sure had it all, and she knew he was right. Dreams don’t come true.

“When must we leave?” she asked brokenly.

“Tomorrow.” He’d left himself no time to think about it, no time to change his mind.

Poppy nodded, drying her tears on a corner of the sheet. “Then we still have tonight,” she said, her voice wobbling as she choked back a sob.

“Yes, we have tonight, my darling,” he said, enfolding her in his safe, loving arms.

Poppy looked pale and weary-eyed the next morning as Franco closed the big oaken double doors for the final time, and they walked in silence down the winding gravel drive to the car. She watched somberly as he flung their bags into the trunk of the de Courmont and slammed it shut. “I’ll drive,” he said, “you don’t look up to it.”

She glanced back over her shoulder as they drove off; the villa looked just as it had when they’d arrived, cool and mysterious under the blue sky and its tangle of greenery. Only now it was different, now it contained their memories and the broken fragments of their dreams.

The car prowled smoothly back down the hills toward Verona. “We’ll drive to Milan and then on to Genoa,” Franco told her, his voice sounding different, brisker, more businesslike. “I’ve booked you into a hotel there for the night.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I’ve arranged for a car to pick me up.”

Poppy understood; he was deliberately changing himself into the other Franco, the one she didn’t know. “Very well,” she said in a small voice.

The journey that had seemed to fly by before, now seemed long and tiring. It was raining when they got to Milan and stopped for lunch.

“Damn,” Franco muttered, drumming his fingers nervously on the restaurant tablecloth, “the rain will make us late.”

Poppy pushed away her uneaten food and stared at him sadly. It seemed he couldn’t wait to get back to his fortress again.

She dozed uneasily as they drove through the long gray afternoon, aware of him by her side, but whenever she opened her eyes and glanced up at him, he was staring at the rainswept road, concentrating on his driving, lost in his own thoughts.

She awoke, startled, from a deep sleep as the car stopped suddenly. “We are almost at Genoa, Poppy,” he said, “it’s time to wake up.”

“Franco,” she said wildly, “couldn’t we … isn’t it possible …” Her hands reached out and he pulled her to him. “Don’t Poppy,” he said quietly. “It’s no good. Think of the reality of things. It’s time to go back.”

“I love you, Franco,” she whispered, knowing it was the end.

“Thank you,” he said simply. She noticed that his hand trembled as he turned the key in the ignition again and his face looked shuttered and withdrawn.

Franco knew the road he was looking for but in the heavy rain it was difficult to see exactly where he was. He drove slowly, checking off the landmarks as he came to them; they were an hour late and he knew his men would be anxious. At last he saw the glow of headlights ahead. “There they are,” he told Poppy, half dozing at his side.

She’d just remembered that she hadn’t yet asked him to help her find her daughter; somehow there hadn’t been time … but the headlights were blinding; surely Franco couldn’t see where he was going. “Don’t you think they should turn out their lights now they’ve seen us?” she was asking. And then a hail of bullets shattered their windscreen and she knew no more.

The telephone shrilled suddenly, breaking the silence that shrouded the Villa Castelletto. Mike leapt to answer it, his mind still on Poppy and Franco. He picked up the receiver, expecting Aria to be on the other end.

“Pronto,”
he said, feeling very Italian.

“Mr. Preston?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it, and he frowned. “Yeah, Mike Preston here.” “This is Pierluigi Galli.”

“Galli! But—” He stopped suddenly; he’d been going to say, “But I thought you were in jail.”

“I’ve been allowed out—on bail,” Pierluigi said. “I called the Palazzo Rinardi, and Fiametta told me you were there. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Preston. Unfortunately, I’m not supposed to leave the grounds of the Villa Velata, and as I’m not able to come to you, I would appreciate it if you could take the time to come here and see me. It’s not too far from you.”

Mike’s eyebrows rose in surprise, first that they’d allowed Pierluigi out on bail—as far as he knew, the police had no other suspects for Claudia’s murder; and second, after their abortive meeting in New York, he couldn’t imagine what he wanted to tell him. It had been his opinion that beneath Pierluigi Galli’s still facade ran very deep waters. The man was so secretive, he might have been cast in the mold of the perfect spy. Still, if he wanted to talk, Mike was surely going to listen—even though it was snowing like hell outside.

“Give me the directions,” he told him. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

The drive took four hours in the snow and Mike had had no
sleep—he’d been up all night with Poppy, and he was cold, tired, and hungry when he finally arrived at the Villa Velata. He parked the car and stood for a minute looking at the house. The snow-covered mountain cast a shadow over it, the shutters were closed and damp was creeping up the brown stucco; it was the most unprepossessing place Mike had ever seen, and he wondered if maybe Pierluigi hadn’t traded one jail for another.

Pierluigi himself answered the bell. “No one will work at the villa,” he told Mike with a faint sardonic smile, “not since Claudia died. So you see, I’m left to fend for myself.”

Mike glanced at him, startled; he hadn’t thought that they would be alone, and after all, this man was an accused murderer.

“Don’t worry,” Pierluigi said calmly, “I’m not going to kill you, Mr. Preston, I merely want to talk to you.”

He showed Mike into the study. There was a large rolltop desk against one wall; its drawers had been flung open and there were piles of papers everywhere.

“Please forgive the mess,” he said, “but I’m still searching for the evidence that will prove my claim—that I’m Poppy Mallory’s legitimate heir. Take a seat, Mr. Preston. A drink? You probably need one after your long drive. It’s freezing out today, though the temperature in here doesn’t seem too much higher!”

He threw another log on the smoking fire and Mike watched him covertly. Despite his recent incarceration, Pierluigi was as immaculately dressed as the last time he’d seen him: pristine white shirt, dark suit, a plain black silk tie … in mourning for his sister, Claudia? But his time in jail had left its scars; he was thin, the well-cut suit hung on him, and his hand trembled as he poured the drinks.

“And have you found the evidence?” Mike asked, sipping the whiskey and waiting for it to reach his frozen fingers and toes.

“Not yet.” Pierluigi looked him in the eye. “I really wanted to ask you the same question.”

Mike stared at the amber-gold liquid in his glass; it was a beautiful glass, fine yet heavy—whoever had purchased it had had good taste. “If I had,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you.”

Pierluigi sighed. “Mr. Preston,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I would be willing to be very generous to a man who could prove that my sister and I were the true heirs.”

Mike glanced at him, surprised.

“Shall we say, half of Poppy Mallory’s fortune?” Pierluigi suggested.

Mike placed his glass gently back on the table and stood up. “I think it’s probably better if I leave now,” he said coldly.

Pierluigi sighed. “This is not exactly the way it seems, and it’s important to me, Mr. Preston.”

“Poppy’s fortune seems to be important to a great number of people,” Mike said, walking to the door, “but that doesn’t mean to say it necessarily belongs to them.”

Pierluigi’s pained dark eyes met his across the room. “You see,” he said, “if it were decided that my sister and I were, in fact, the Mallory heirs, I would like the money to be used to create a charitable foundation in her memory—a charity to help young people … to see that they get to college. Education is the savior of all of us, Mr. Preston. It’s only in the private power of the mind that we are finally free.”

Mike shook his head, puzzled. “There’s nothing I can do to help you,” he said.

Pierluigi escorted him to the door in silence and their goodbyes were brief. Mike looked back once as he drove away; the door was closed and the shuttered house, forever in shadow, looked even more brooding and secretive.

He thought about what had just happened. Pierluigi had offered him a bribe—an enormous bribe—to get his hands on Poppy’s fortune, and yet, even though his business needed finance badly, he hadn’t wanted the money for himself. He was willing to give it all away. But Pierluigi was also an accused killer; maybe he’d figured he wouldn’t need the money now anyway … all he wanted was a memorial to Claudia. But if he’d loved his sister that much, then why would he have killed her? Mike remembered Pierluigi’s haunted eyes. Maybe there was no motive, unless it was that he’d loved his sister very much—and maybe too well?