Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (42 page)

“Meaning,” she said with quiet disdain, “that it did have a bearing.”

“Meaning I refuse to conceal any part of the truth from you, starting from this moment. I would like to see what can be done with the perfume if the formula ever comes to light. I wasn’t too interested at first; in fact, I was skeptical that there could be anything to it. But reading Violet’s journal, seeing that the whole story just might be legitimate, made a difference. There is potential there.”

She wanted to believe him; that was the worst of it. But how could she? Her tone acerbic, she said, “I’ve decided to keep the formula for the shop if I find it.”

“It would be a shame to bury it away again. You don’t have the money or the organization to take advantage of what you would have.”

“That doesn’t make any difference. The perfume was fine just as it was for more than a hundred years.”

He made a small gesture of negation with his head that he stilled abruptly. “All right. Whatever,” he said. “But right this minute there are people trying to see that you don’t get it. There seems to be a connection with Camors Cosmetics, and that makes me responsible if something happens to you. I don’t intend to let you out of my sight until this thing is settled.”

“Which will put you in a nice position to make a grab for it if it does turn up.”

He looked at her with cold, quiet fury in his eyes. “I hope to hell you do find the formula. I promise that if you do, it’s yours to do whatever you like with, as long as you like, if I have to camp on your doorstep for the rest of my life to see that nobody tries to stop you.”

She gave him a straight look. “Now there’s a real threat.”

He made no move to disavow the words, which seemed to indicate that he meant to stick around whether she found the formula or not. After a moment he stepped closer. “I’m trying to help, that’s all. Can’t you believe that? Can’t you trust me?”

She wished she could; it would have been so much easier. But there was too much doubt and pain and confusion inside her, and experience gave her no reason to think it was worth trying.

“I don’t think I can,” she said.

Rone felt as if he had been through a junk dealer’s car crusher. That it was his own fault didn’t make it any better. He had been trying for days to think of a way to tell Joletta who he was, especially since the meeting with Natalie. Joletta had every right to be angry. The way she had stood there flat-footed and let him have it had been something to see. He would have been even more admiring if her wrath had not been directed at him.

He wished that he could start over, from the beginning, there on the street in New Orleans. He would introduce himself and invite her out to dinner, then tell her in plain words exactly what she was up against. How would she have reacted if he had done that? he wondered. Would she have told him to hit the road, or would she have allowed him some sort of entrance into her life. Would she have trusted him enough to let him help her?

He wanted that trust with a desperation beyond anything he had ever dreamed.

Too late.

He couldn’t worry about it now. It was going to take everything he had to keep Joletta from having him thrown into an Italian jail in the next few hours. Not that he intended to molest her, but he felt fairly sure that his idea of keeping a close watch on her and her own idea of it were two different things.

He would not think too much about the difference, or he might lose his sanity.

It was time he did something to try to redeem himself.

He said in neutral tones, “All right then. So what are the plans for today?”

“I have no plans,” she said, her voice tight.

Rone had been prepared for the cold glance that went with her admission, but not for the dejection in her eyes. He frowned a little as he said, “I’ve been thinking about the Canaletto Allain bought, the one showing the house where he and Violet stayed. I’m not sure what good it would do to see it, but it might be worth a try.”

“We have no idea what became of it.”

True, but if you’ll remember, there was a small sketch of a house and a bit of the canal in Violet’s journal, on a page next to where the painting was mentioned. Dollars to doughnuts, it was a detail from it.”

A flicker of interest crossed her face. “If that’s so,” she said slowly, “we wouldn’t have to find the same painting, just one that has the same stretch of canal, only with a few more identifying features.”

Rone took his hand from his pocket and clasped the back of his neck, easing the tension that had gathered there as he gave a nod. He had been right in guessing that an interest in her search would be the way to reach her. His tone carefully neutral, he said, “I suggest we visit a museum or two, possibly the Palazzo Pesaro.”

Joletta gave him a level look, but did not object. He was lucky, he knew, that she was a reasonable woman, and a fair one.

They wandered up and down gritty, marble-floored galleries, turning their heads this way and that until their necks were sore. It was amazing how much there was to see, and astonishing how little had been done to protect it all. There were few paintings or pieces of sculpture that one could not walk right up to and touch. It was almost as if there was such a wealth of artwork in Italy, and the problems of protecting it of such magnitude, that after safeguarding a few of the masterworks, the authorities simply threw up their hands.

It was Joletta who found the view that came closest to matching the sketch made by Violet. The painting was not a Canaletto, however, but one by J.M.W. Turner. She claimed to prefer Turner’s more brilliant colors and blurred effects, as if the scene had been viewed through rain, over Canaletto’s work, with its perfection of line and soft, clear colors. Rone declined to argue, since he was certain she was only trying to get under his skin. That she was succeeding was a fact he did his best to hide.

She was standing before the Turner with her hands clasped behind her back and a judicious pucker to her mouth that made him long to do things it would be best not to try in public. He did his best to listen to what she was saying.

“You realize that this may just be a house that looks like the one Violet drew? So many of these old palaces and houses are nearly alike, and one stretch of winding canal looks like any other.”

“True,” he answered.

“Besides that, Violet might have been sketching the house across the street.”

Rone said, “If you have a better idea, I’m listening.”

“No, no,” she said. “I just wanted to be sure you realize we may be wasting our time.”

We.
It was, Rone thought, a nice little word. He said, “So do you want to go and knock on doors, or not?”

“We really need Caesar,” she suggested.

“I think we can manage without him.”

She gave him a dubious look. “Not unless you speak Italian.” She paused a moment. “You don’t, do you?”

A corner of his mouth tugged upward in a smile with more than its share of irony. “There are all sorts of things you don’t know about me.”

“I’m beginning,” she said acidly, “to find out.”

Just wait until tonight, he thought. Aloud, he said, “We have a couple of hours before lunch and the siesta hour to make a start. You ready?”

IT WAS NOT EASY TO FIND THE
right house as it had appeared, even after it was located in the painting. The artist had taken liberties with the perspective, and even eliminated a building or two that did not suit him. Rone swore Turner had also narrowed the curve of the canal. Joletta told him there was something wrong with his eyes.

At the fourth house they tried, a young woman opened the door with a toddler on her hip. She wore a violent pink sweatsuit and Reeboks with pink-and-green shoestrings and her hair was held back by a sweatband. She was talking in rapid-fire Italian over her shoulder to someone in the shadowed depths of a long entrance hall. As she turned to look at her visitors she paused, then switched to accented but perfectly grammatical English.

“This is not a museum or a hotel,” she said. “Please go away.”

She would have closed the door on them if Rone had not put out his hand to catch it. “We are sorry to intrude, but we aren’t tourists. We are looking for information about a man and an American woman we think may have stayed here at this house many years ago.”

“I know nothing of these people,” the woman stated as she jiggled the little boy, who stared at them with huge black eyes under a tangle of golden-brown curls, like some living Botticelli cherub.

Joletta said quickly, “We have reason to think that the lady who owned the house then may have died because of them.”

“Ah,
allora.
” The young woman frowned. “One moment.” She called something over her shoulder. There came the shuffle of footsteps, and an elderly man emerged from the dimness. He was, she said, her husband’s grandfather, who had lived in the house all his days.

He was stooped and spare, so that the black wool sweater he wore to combat the dampness of the house drooped in front. His iron-gray hair had grown wiry as it curled and his smile had a few gaps in it; still, he had not lost his memory. The woman they spoke of had been his ancestress, a widow of small means like a thousand others who had taken in boarders in the last century, before the tourist hotels sprang up across the lagoon. She had died of a heart attack, so the doctors claimed, but in the family they knew better. A terrible tragedy, and a curious one. Money had been paid afterward, as though in reparation. It had caused an improvement in the fortunes of the widow’s heirs. Such a thing was not easily forgotten.

There had been a sister,
sì, w
ith a villa near Florence. This villa had been razed during World War II and a new one built in its place. The garden? But yes, it was still there, if they cared to make the trip to see it. It was unaccountable, the things Americans desired to see.

Success.

Joletta could not quite believe it. To be able to find someone who could actually verify a detail from Violet’s journal seemed a miracle. It was as if time had been made to contract upon itself, bringing the past closer. At the same time the meagerness of what they had been able to learn only pointed up how difficult it was to discover anything of importance about those long-ago events.

When she and Rone left the house, they turned in the direction of the Rialto Bridge. They had agreed to look for a place for a late lunch in the market area. They walked along in silence, past flower vendors and shops selling leather luggage, silk scarves, fans and clocks, and a thousand other temptations for tourists. The sun on the canal was blinding and the lozenges of shifting light it cast on the sides of the buildings had the sharp-edged brightness of mirror reflections. The breeze off the water was refreshing in its softness, and only slightly tainted with diesel fumes from the passing boats. There were few people on the sidewalk, as most Italians paused for their long meal and an hour or two of rest. Joletta and Rone moved along in silence, their urgency gone now that they had reached their objective for the day.

“You know,” Joletta said suddenly, “I’m not sure there’s any point in going on with this. It’s not as if somebody is going to produce a piece of yellowed paper and say, "Here, here’s the formula your great-grandmother left here a hundred years ago because she knew you’d be along for it about now."“