I called Hazel next. I reached her answering machine. I tried again a few minutes later, with the same result. Theer's no point in leaving a message when you're calling from a payphone in Italy.
Luckily Betty was home and answering.
“This is Camilla MacPhee. I hope I'm not calling too early.”
“What a surprise, dear. And a pleasant one. It's not early for me, I just got in from my morning walk. Are you planning another visit?”
“No, I'm in Italy. I do have a question for you.”
“For heaven's sake! Are you really calling from Italy? Did you find Violet? I hope this isn't bad news about her.”
“I need to ask you about Harrison Jones.”
“You're calling me from Italy to ask about Harry Jones? Goodness.”
“Bear with me. Mrs. Parnell, I mean Violet, has been to see the site where he was shot down, she has visited the partisans who sheltered him, and she's still on the trail of something. Was there any kind of unusual story about his plane being shot down?”
“Not that I know of. What sort of thing do you mean?”
“I'm not even sure. Only one parachute was deployed. Maybe that was it. Do you ever hear any negative stories about Harry Jones?”
A headmistressy chill drifted down the phone line. “I certainly did not.”
“I wondered if there was anything odd about his escape with the partisans.”
I still felt the nip in Betty's voice. “I know that sometimes people do things that they wouldn't do at home. Harry was a wonderful boy, valiant and patriotic and very loyal. I think the only thing he ever did that didn't measure up was to jilt poor Violet. That's just my opinion, but in my career, I needed to be a pretty good judge of character, and Harry was, and is, very honourable.”
“Okay, it was just an idea.”
“You should be careful what you say, dear.”
“Sorry, just trying to make sense of this situation.”
“Even so, you must do that without causing harm. I can't believe Violet would want that.”
I felt a knot in my stomach, and not just because of Betty's preachy tone. Dr. Hasheem had warned about possible paranoia and personality change. What if Mrs. P. was not in danger but dangerous? I chose not to mention that to Betty.
“Point taken,” I said.
“I'd be happy to try to help. If I think of another reason for Violet to inquire about Harry, I'll certainly let you know.”
“Thanks. I'll be back in touch.”
I waited a bit and tried Hazel's line for the third time. I got the answering machine again. Hazel was obviously a woman on the move.
By this time, my tire was fixed, and I could get the hell out of Florence. Hazel would have to wait.
* * *
Mrs. Parnell's traits, like loyalty and comradeship, might have been on hiatus, but she could still give lessons in strategy. I was disadvantaged by not knowing what she was seeking. And therefore, I had no clue where she'd gone. I was back to speculating about the list of towns. I puzzled over the map, calculating distances to each of these places from Florence.
Whatever she was looking for, she would still want to avoid me. She knows the way I think. Would she conclude that if I could track her down in Florence, and if I knew about Berli, I might also know about the other towns on the list? If so, she'd want to outwit me. She'd put herself in my mind. Normally, I'd head for Pieve San Simone, because that was closest, although it wasn't far from Alcielo. Mrs. P. could safely assume I would never opt for Montechiaro, because it was in the middle. That was a compromise and not my style.
Decision made. Montechiaro it was. I edged the Ka into traffic and aimed for Montechiaro, even if it did seem just plain wrong. According to my calculations, it was less than two hours south east of Florence.
During the drive, I kept looking through my rearview for signs of the black Mercedes. Even though the only thing I saw was a small bright blue Citroën, which had been behind me for a long way, I couldn't let down my guard. People can change cars. I put the accelerator to the floor and shot forward. The Citroën kept pace. In fact, it seemed to be trying to overtake me. The driver kept honking his horn and waving his arm out the window. Under the circumstances, I didn't plan on putting myself at some stranger's mercy. Since I was in a strategic mode, I whipped off the autostrada at the next exit, without signalling. I raced along the secondary road until I came to a village. Just over the crest of a hill was a cross-roads with three choices. I made a plan. I made an illegal turn and tucked the Ka behind a stone building. I watched as the Citroën slowed at the crossroads, then sped off in the wrong direction, raising dust in the late afternoon sky.
* * *
Montechiaro is the opposite of Florence. I found no traffic, no tourists, few buildings and not a whole lot going on. A few scattered farms with crumbling stone outbuildings, a half-dozen chickens pecking here and there, and a dusty road leading to a prominent hilltop villa. Vineyards snaked up the hill to meet the building. A pair of goats hung around. No big deal, as far as I could see.
The sole farmer I met did not speak English. Probably had no cousins in Canada. He stared as I tried my missing nonna routine on him. As far as I could tell, he hadn't seen Mrs. P. or the Volvo or a black Mercedes. No sign of a pesky Citroën. I pointed up the hill and asked about the villa. Turned out I should have called it il Palazzo. Well, pardon me.
I hopped back into my Ka and prepared to storm the palace. I chugged up the long road to il Palazzo Degli Angeli. As I got closer, I saw that this was no mere villa. Four stories high in the centre, the building was layered like a wedding cake, with pillars that would do any classical Greek proud. A spectacular ornamental pool at the approach set the tone. Classical marble statues watched over the shimmering pool and immaculate property.
If Alvin had been there, he would have said Lord thundering Jesus. I just gawked.
I parked the Ka next to an elderly, dust-covered Fiat 500. The two cars looked like a pair of dinky toys left outside by some royal child. I felt pretty small myself approaching the massive door at the top of the wide marble staircase. My sisters would say it had serious curb appeal. It felt like the setting for a fairy tale except for the lack of passing peasants and the presence of the security sticker by the door. As I raised my hand to knock, the door swung open and a most elegant man said “Buon giorno, signora.” He was about forty, long, thin and slightly lopsided, giving the impression he'd been painted by Modigliani. On him, it looked good.
I trotted out my well-worn missing nonna tearjerker, repeating the word for cardiac crisis three times. I flashed the poster. He switched effortlessly to English with a hint of Oxford and enough Italian inflection to make it sexy. If you could bottle that and sell it, you'd make a fortune.
“Come in, please. I am Claudio Degli Angeli,” he said.
“Camilla MacPhee.” I extended my hand and gave him my firmest handshake. He winced. Too bad. You never want to let the palace-dwellers get the upper hand.
“Let us go into my office, and you can sit and explain your problem in comfort. Your grandmother is missing and ill? How dreadful. Have you contacted the authorities?”
“No luck there yet,” I said.
I followed him through a grand hallway flanked on both sides by vast sparsely furnished rooms and twelve-foot shuttered windows. Our footsteps echoed on the marble floors. I spotted a grand piano in one of the rooms as we swept past. You couldn't complain about overcrowding here. Cheap reproduction prints of Renaissance paintings hung on the walls. Maybe that was typical palace chic. How would I know?
When we reached a much smaller room off to the left, he stood back to let me pass. At least this one had armchairs with faded, comfortable-looking upholstery. A high, antique secretary-style desk with many drawers and stacks of paperwork dominated the room. I took the seat I was offered, and Claudio Degli Angeli stayed standing.
“Nice place,” I said.
He shrugged. “What is left of it. It was once very splendid. May I offer you an aperitivo?”
I had begun just to say yes to all offers of food or drink in Italy. Refusals, even polite refusals, just slow things down.
He poured a bit of cognac from a crystal decanter and handed me a delicate snifter. He was definitely not the kind of guy to pop beer caps with his teeth.
He bent elegantly into his chair and raised his own glass. I raised mine back at him. After a graceful sip, he said, “Yes, I have seen your grandmother, although aside from needing a cane, she did not appear to be suffering from any physical or mental impediments.”
“Trust me,” I said, “she's in big trouble. What did she want here?”
“She warned me about people who might follow her and pry,” he said.
“I bet she did. She doesn't want to be found. And you're right, she's in good mental shape. She is also in danger. She has a blocked artery. Plus someone is pursuing her.”
“She's not really your grandmother, is she?”
“Possibly not. Grandmothers get attention here in Italy, and as they say, when in Rome…”
He laughed out loud. I think we were both surprised by that laugh. It seemed to do the trick.
He said, “Of course, we are not in Rome.”
“Nevertheless, someone really is after her. Someone with a black Mercedes who has killed a partisan.” I paused. People who lived in palazzi could quite easily drive Mercedes-Benzes. Great. Here I was in the bowels of a building in the middle of nowhere. My Ka could be disposed of in an outbuilding, and no one would ever know what happened to me. I took a swig of the cognac. What the hell. Too late to back out. “So,” I said, “what was she looking for?”
“She wanted to know about the Palazzo.”
“Did she ask anything about the second World War?”
“Yes.”
“About the Canadians?”
“That is correct.”
I looked around. “Were they here?”
“Very much so. They commandeered the Palazzo during the offensive. The officers used the Palazzo as Headquarters.”
I gathered from his tone this was not a good thing.
“What happened?”
“It killed my grandparents. Indirectly, of course. They lost so much. They could never return here. Even after many things were recovered.”
“Was the Palazzo bombed? It doesn't look like it's been rebuilt.”
“Not bombed. Stripped.”
“What?”
“Furniture, artwork, china. Rugs. All worth a fortune, family heirlooms. Gone.” He snapped his fingers.
“You mean looted?”
“Of course, I do.”
“You said many things were recovered.”
“Larger things, furniture. The grand pianos. Much of the china. The artwork and the silver, pffft.”
“That's unbelievable.”
He shrugged. “It was war. I can understand that. Those men had been crawling through icy mud, sleeping with corpses, having shells explode next to their sleeping trenches. War erodes the veneer of civilization in many individuals.”
“I am sure that the Canadians were never involved in looting.”
He smiled at me, a sweet, sad expression.
“Signora, let us agree to disagree.”
“Did she mention any names? Did she mention Harrison Jones.”
“I had no way of knowing names. My grandparents wouldn't have known names either. They weren't even here. They took refuge in Switzerland until after the war. It was safer there. They heard about what happened from the staff who survived the war.”
“The staff, that's an idea. Would any of them be alive now?”
“They are long in their graves. No one around here remembers anything. In fact, there are very few people in the area. Most have moved to cities, you must have noticed it's very sparse. It's hard to get good help nowadays,” he said with a sly smile. “I don't suppose you'd like a job?”
I returned his grin. “So you couldn't tell her anything.”
“On the contrary, I was able to tell her quite a bit.”
Why does everyone find it necessary to play stupid games? I felt like booting his skinny aristocratic backside.
“Perhaps you could just tell me what you told her, and then we can save ourselves some time and aggravation,” I said.
He chuckled. “My apologies. Your friend wanted to know what had been taken from the Palazzo. We had extensive records of what was taken, what was definitely or most likely destroyed, and what my grandparents believed to be stolen.”
“What was that?”
“Mostly paintings, small sculptures, objets d'art, religious articles. Silver, as I mentioned, although that could be melted down easily. The paintings were cut from their frames and rolled. I have read that the soldiers hid them in their bedrooms, then mailed back to Canada.”
“That's terrible. I can't believe it.”
“What can I say? It could be worse. My family survived the war. The Palazzo was still standing and continues to stand. We lost almost everything. We managed then, and we continue to manage. The Palazzo is a lovely spot for a wedding or a special event or party. We can support corporate functions beautifully. State of the art electronic access, of course.”
“Did she show you any pictures?”
“Yes. They didn't mean anything to me.”
“Do you know where she's gone now?”
“I have no idea. Would you like your drink topped up?”
“I'm good to go,” I said, getting to my feet. “I have a long drive in something called a Ka. I'm thinking of upgrading to a Mercedes. What kind of vehicle do you drive?”
“A Fiat 500. You parked next to it in the driveway. When I have the choice, I prefer to walk.”
* * *
The trip to Pieve San Simone might have been a beautiful drive in the daylight, but it was a least two hours south west of Montechiaro. As my trip wore on, it was getting too dark to be driving comfortably on unfamiliar secondary roads. It wasn't too dark to see a Citroën show up in my rearview though. I spotted the headlights; the blue body might have blended with the night. Were there blue Citroëns all over Italy? Just in case, I used a few evasive manoeuvers, being grateful in one way for the tangle of unpaved back roads in Tuscany. I sat in the Ka, behind a cluster of trees, until I felt confident. I was getting tired and hungry. Pieve San Simone was far enough away that, finally, I took my chances and roared off. I found no trace of my pursuer on the way. Maybe it had just been all in my mind.
When I finally got there, Pieve San Simone was an unremarkable small town. Of course, unremarkable in Tuscan terms is still pretty damn amazing to a Canadian. I'd been on the road a long time and hadn't stopped to eat, or find a bathroom. I was starving, cold and miserable.
I scanned the cars parked at the periphery of the Pieve San Simone piazza. I didn't know what kind of car she had taken in the end, although my money was on a Volvo. There were plenty of Fiats, no Volvos. On the bright side, there was no sign of a black Mercedes or a pesky Citroën. The piazza is the centre of community life in Italy, and all around the Pieve San Simone piazza were shops for food and clothing, services, now closed until the morning. More important, there was a trattoria, an osteria and two gelaterias, and they were hopping. When you want information, go where you find food.
First, I found a bathroom. Then I went to the payphone in the piazza and called Hazel. Still no answer. Alvin was next on my list.
“Did you get any better results from the security cameras?” I said.
“I'm fine, thank you very much, Camilla. I did get to finish going through them. I wish that on you some time. Six cameras going twenty-four hours a…”
“Get to the point, Alvin.”
“Okay, I tracked down the Super, and we found some more shots of the guy we saw in the corridor. And get this, he was caught on the camera at least three times. You can see his face clearly. Anyway, I got the best shot printed out. Maybe the best thing is to fax it to you.”
“Great, let me check my car fax.”
“Doesn't your hotel have a fax?”
“I don't have a hotel. I'm in Pieve San Simone—it's not the most cosmopolitan place in the world. I don't even know if the hotels will have private bathrooms.”
“Pieve San Simone? Hey, that's good, because…”
“I'll find a hotel, and I'll call you with the fax number. If they have one, which I doubt. In the meantime, keep trying Hazel's number. She's not answering, and she didn't mention going away or anything.”
“Wait, Camilla…”
“I'll call you back later. Gotta eat or I'll die.”
When I pushed open the door, the osteria was jammed with people, chatting away, drinking red wine and beer. I knew the food would be fast and plentiful and most likely good. I chose the lasagna, a green salad and a glass of red wine. I settled into a rough wooden chair at a wooden table and wolfed my meal. I was lucky I'd picked this place.
Afterwards, I had an espresso and asked about a place to stay with a fax. Everyone seemed to think the Albergo Maxim would be the best place for me. The Albergo Maxim was not far, up the hill from the piazza.
“Very good hotel for Americans,” someone said.
I wasn't sure what that meant. Not good for Italians? Expensive? Lousy food?
“I'm Canadian,” I said, pointing to the flag sewn on my backpack.
“Even better for Canadians,” was the answer. This was repeated in Italian so everyone could have a good laugh. Anything I can do to entertain. I put on what I figured was a good-natured grin.
After I listened to the location of everyone's cousins in Canada, I said, “Maybe my nonna has checked in there. We got separated in Florence. I am trying to catch up with her. She's been sick.”
The official English speaker translated that to the group. Everyone looked interested. La nonna continued to be magic.
I pulled out the picture, which made its way around from table to table. O la nonna, people said. Poverina..
No one seemed to have seen Mrs. P. The consensus was that I would almost certainly find her at the hotel.
Ten minutes later, the nice young woman at the reception desk of the Albergo Maxim shook her head, making her silver and crystal earrings sparkle. Tears glistened in her eyes.
“I haven't seen your grandmother. We're not supposed to give information about guests, but if you are looking for your nonna…” She shrugged to show that where nonna s are concerned, all bets are off.
I smiled encouragingly.
“Sorry, no signora Parnell here. Perhaps she is staying at a pensione, or in another town?” Her forehead creased with concern at the thought of the wayward nonna.
“How about signora Wilkinson?”
She gave me an odd look and shook her head.
“Don't worry,” I said soothingly. “I'll find her.”
I got the fax number and checked in.
“You have a nice room,” the woman beamed. “Beautiful. It is on the third floor. Very big bed. Unfortunately, our elevator isn't working tonight.”
Oh, well. I hauled my stuff up the three flights. One way to work off the vino, although I was glad I travelled light. The room was opulent in a late sixties kind of way, all red velvet and dark polished wood. I resisted the urge to lose myself in the seductively large bed. Instead, I took a quick shower, changed, and slashed on the Graffiti Red as a concession to the relentlessly groomed Italians.
I made my way to the first gelateria. There were three in close proximity, and to my surprise, they were all doing business, despite the fact it was November. Suited me. I like ice cream. I love gelato. I had a nocciola in the first one. No one there had seen Mrs. P.
I tried gianduia, a mix of praline and milk chocolate, at the second spot. Strike two on the Mrs. P. front. The gelato was world class, though.
In the third one, which was full of teenagers, lots of booze bottles on the wall and a blaring television, I hit pay dirt. I ordered a pistachio. You have to get your greens somewhere.
Everyone seemed anxious to practice their high school English. A young man came forward.
He took the photo and stared at it with a look of importance on his handsome face. He turned to his friends and asked all the right questions. This triggered a storm of responses and a half-dozen parallel conversations. I did my best to concentrate on the conversations. People pointed. Unfortunately, they pointed in all four directions and some minor combinations, such as south south west.
After five minutes, it became apparent that some of these young people had seen Mrs. Parnell. A consensus emerged, and the young man made the announcement with pride. That afternoon, Mrs. Parnell had been seen up the hill, although not the same hill as the Albergo Maxim.
“Great!” I said. “I think she may be visiting a friend. I don't have the name of her friend.”
That struck them as odd. Not knowing the names of your nonna's friends was apparently peculiar.
“She was here during the war,” I said. “I have heard the stories many times. I wish I knew her friend's name.”
That had the ring of truth to it, I suppose. A few more comments were offered. None of them useful.
“You've helped a lot,” I said. “Grazie a tutti,” I added to the group.
No one seemed to remember exactly which street Mrs. P. had been seen on, only that she had been on foot, using her cane. This was not seen as anything unusual, since everyone in town walked everywhere. Someone had noticed her pausing to smoke a cigarette, which got a chuckle from the crowd, then she'd set off again, full of energy. A quiet girl piped up and said she'd seen the old lady driving a Volvo on the road near the top of the village. That got a laugh too.
I poked around town looking for her and her Volvo, because what else could I do? There's plenty of life in Italian towns in the evenings, and this evening was cool but dry, no nasty fog. People were still calling greetings to each other. Finally, after showing the photo to everyone I met, and walking till my feet hurt, I figured I wouldn't find her that night. I crossed the piazza to the payphone again. I got my own answering machine on the first ring. I left the fax number at the Albergo Maxim for Alvin.
As I crossed the empty piazza again, I noticed three black Mercedes. Maybe it was a convention? Maybe this was the most popular car in the country. There were just as many Fiats, and now, a blue Citroën, with no sign of the driver. Time to head to the hotel. That luxurious bed seemed like the best and safest idea.
There was nobody at the front desk when I crossed the lobby and headed up the stairs. I reached the landing and stopped. What was that? Someone was puffing up the stairs behind me. Holding my key, I raced up the stairs two at a time. Footsteps thundered behind me. I reached my door and fumbled with the key. Sometimes adrenaline works against you. I managed to open the door when the voice yelled, “Slow down.” I fell back against the door, and we both tumbled into the room. I only managed one gargling scream. Then I recognized the middle-aged, sandy-haired man who had landed on me.
I got to my feet with some dignity and shouted, “What the hell are you doing here?”
He picked himself up off the rug.
“You bastard,” I added.
Ray Deveau caught his breath. “What did you call me?”
“You heard me. Running off to Mexico with some bimbo.”
“What? What is the matter with you? Did I make a wrong turn? Is this Mexico?”
Of course, at that moment, I began to see a small hole in my theory.
“Why didn't you call me?” Ray dusted off his knees and sank onto the bed.
“Do you have high blood pressure?” I said. “Your face is all red.”
“No diversionary tactics, please.”
“I did call you,” I said.
“You didn't.”
“Did. Umpteen times. At home, at work, on your cell.”
“It doesn't work over here.”
“Mine neither. Your work message said you were on vacation, and your daughters said you went to Mexico with some woman.”
“They said what?”
“Well, they implied it. I guess.”
“And you believed that?”
“You had to be part of the conversations to understand. It made sense at the time.”
“A tip for the future. Don't let teenage girls be your major source of information. Particularly if the girls in question have lost their mother not that long ago and aren't interested in the old man finding anyone to replace her in his affections.”
“Okay, point taken. What are you doing here, Ray?”
“What do you think? You're racing all over Italy, reporting murders and hit-and-runs and attacks. Alvin can be really irritating, by the way.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. I've been calling him regularly. That's how I found out you were here. He was supposed to tell you to get in touch with me.”
“I guess he did, in his own Alvin way. Maybe I wasn't listening. Never mind.”
“I've been on your trail since Florence.”
“By any chance, have you been driving a blue Citroën?”
“I knew you were trying to give me the slip.”
“I didn't realize it was you. I'm sure glad it was.”
“Well, that's good. I'm really glad to see you too. Especially alive. Hey, is this a queen-sized bed?”
“Yes,” I said, flopping down on it. “That's romantic.”
“Yeah, good luck finding a waiter with a margarita in this burg.”
* * *
“I didn't realize that you snored,” Ray said in the morning.
“Right, like you don't.”
“How would you know? You were sawing logs all night. With your mouth open too. That some kind of test for me?”
The day had gotten off to a good start. It felt great having Ray there. He was bound to have theories about the best way to find Mrs. P., and since he was a cop, I was less likely to get arrested in the process.
Over breakfast, I filled him in on everything that had happened from the time I'd arrived in Italy. I didn't even skip over the embarrassing incident in the car rental garage. I told him what I'd learned and what I'd concluded, which was not much.
“It must have something to do with this Harrison Jones. Alvin is working on getting information on him. He's going to try to find Hazel. She's a gossip, and she might have something interesting to add. Alvin has a few things to do. It's better to keep him busy and, face it, we need all the help we can get,” I said.
“Let me make some calls after breakfast,” Ray said. “We'll find out about this guy.”
Who needs margaritas on the beach when you have a guy who'll make a call without being badgered?
We were on our third espresso when the young woman from the front desk rushed into the dining room waving a piece of paper.
“This is great. It's the fax from Alvin,” I said to Ray.
We leaned over to get a good look at the two faxed pages.
“Well, it would be great if you could make out the image,” I complained.
“No kidding. Just a blob, and this must have used up most of the ink in the hotel fax machine,” Ray said.
“So we're no further ahead. So much for digital images. They're always a bit fuzzy anyway.”
“Digital? He has it in digital form?” Ray's eyebrows shot up. “Why doesn't he e-mail them to you?”
“How am I supposed to get e-mail in Italy? I can't even get my cellphone to work.”
“Internet cafés are all over the place. There's one right on the piazza.”
“Really? I guess I didn't notice.”
“I'll do it for you.” Ray scribbled on a piece of paper. “Give Alvin my e-mail address, and we're in business.”
“I'm glad you're on the team, Ray.”
Ray might have been on the team, but when I got to the payphone, apparently Alvin wasn't. No answer. I left a voicemail and hoped Ray's e-mail address didn't get mangled.
Ray was leaning against the wall in the hotel lobby when I rejoined him. His arms were crossed, and he looked a lot more relaxed than I felt. He said, “Where to next?”
“We'll be knocking on doors here, trying to find out if anyone saw Mrs. P. in town. After that, there's only the one town left. Alcielo. It's not far from here, the next town of any size. If we don't find her there, I don't know what to do.”
At least the weather had turned. Ray and I were heading into a mild, sunny November day, no rain, no fog, just perfect. Ray had already checked us out. I suppose he'd updated the records, paid the double rate and settled up for our breakfasts. As I passed, the desk, the girl with the twinkly earrings waved and called out, “Signora MacPhee, I have made enquiries about your nonna. Someone suggested she may have been visiting the American gentleman staying at the Villa Rosa. Of course, it might be someone entirely different.” She stopped and shrugged. If she wondered where Ray had come from, she never mentioned it.
“Where's the Villa Rosa?” I said.
She beckoned us over to the desk, drew a map on the hotel stationery and offered a few tips on not getting lost.
“Do you know this man?”
“No.”
“Are you certain he's American?”
“No, he's not from here for sure. Not English either. He is very rich, and he speaks Italian with an accent. I thought…”
“Is his name Harrison Jones?”
The earring swayed as she shook her head. “I do not know his name. One of the maids has a sister who keeps house for him. Wait here, please, I will ask.”
“This could be it, Ray. Let's get over there. And we'll take the two cars. She can't get away from both of us.”
Ray chuckled. “I still can't believe the old girl tricked you like that.”
“Glad someone thinks it's funny. She won't succeed with a stunt like that again,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
Our helper bustled back in two minutes, waving another piece of paper. She said, “Here it is. I have no idea how to pronounce it.”
Ray and I stared at the neatly printed name.
“Who the hell is this Guy Prendergast?” Ray said.
I felt a flush of excitement. “He's a man from the past. And you know what? I think he might be dead.”
* * *
Perhaps the Villa Rosa was named for its soft Tuscan pink colour. It was one of many reconstructed farm houses that dot the hills in Tuscany, surrounded by olive trees and ancient cypress. Although this villa stood on a hill, at the end of a tangle of dirt roads, with the map and travel tips, we had no trouble finding it. Up close, the villa was smaller than most. I glanced around the property for a Mercedes. I saw only a battered green Rover.
Ray scanned the property while I banged on the rustic wooden door until a very tall, stooped man opened it. His brilliant blue eyes were still bright and alert. And his spiky white brush cut, overdue for a cut, contrasted with leathery skin the colour of cognac. He had leather sandals on his feet, a glass of red wine in his hand and a Peter Robinson paperback tucked under his arm. He peered at us over half-moon reading glasses. I recognized the long jaw from the old photo.
Ray stuck out his hand, “Ray Deveau, how you doing.”
“And my name is Camilla MacPhee,” I said, “Are you Guy Prendergast?”
“Sure am. It must be my lucky day to have two English-speaking visitors.” He had a firm two-fisted handshake, just a slight tremor in the thin fingers. Something told me he was not surprised to see us. Had he had a call from the hotel? Or had Mrs. Parnell warned him I might show up? He kept up the pretense of an unexpected visit as he ushered us through the house, an interior of cool tile floors and rough walls in the soft Tuscan pink.
“Don't mind the mess,” he said with a slight quaver in his voice. “I've developed the bad habits of a single man. Perhaps if I'd known you were coming, I might have cleaned up a bit, but probably not.”
Of course, I liked Guy Prendergast's casual approach to housekeeping. Books lay stacked in piles, a half-dozen empty wine bottles clustered in a corner. My guess was his housekeeper spent most of her time in the kitchen and cleaning, since everything that could gleam gleamed. She'd have orders to leave the books alone. As we passed through, I noticed the walls sported some very nice artwork, elegant oil landscapes, which fit in well. We filed past a large rustic wooden table with an open suitcase on top. A second heavy wooden door led to a stone patio, nestled against the vine-covered back wall.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to mismatched wooden chairs. There was nothing casual in the way he kept his plants. Well-tended rosemary, thyme and basil still grew profusely in the raised herb garden. Hibiscus trees hugged the walls. I sniffed the air and found it hard to believe it would ever be winter anywhere. Guy Prendergast seemed very pleased at our visit, although we hadn't given him any idea of what we wanted. He hadn't asked.
Ray and I declined the offer of red wine. Ray relaxed and leaned back in his rickety chair and gazed out at the view of rolling hills and vineyards. I kept my eyes on our host. I wasn't so sure we could trust this foxy old fellow. I sat forward and whipped out the fragile, faded photo of the six young people.
“Will you look at that,” he said shaking his head and chuckling. “What a bunch.”
“Do you remember these people?”
“Who could forget them? Betty Connaught was a bit hoity-toity, too good for the likes of me. The kind of gal who'd say one thing and mean another. Now we'd call her passive-aggressive. Now that Hazel Fellows was a pretty thing, always up for a party, loved to laugh. And Violet Wilkinson, she was the best, just splendid. Never met anyone like her.”
“Me neither,” I said.
He said. “Hasn't changed a bit. After all these years. Still has that look in her eyes. Not to be trifled with, Vi wasn't, then or now.”
I blurted out, “Did you stay in touch with her?”
His eyes flicked away. “Not really. I carried a torch for her all over Europe, but she had her heart set on Harry Jones, that's this fellow here.” He pointed to the first golden boy with the debonair grin. “So there wasn't much point in hoping.”
Something told me there was still a spark left in that torch, even after more than sixty years. Guy Prendergast continued, “By the time I found out that fool Harry had jilted her, she was going out with this Parnell fella. I knew him a bit too. Stuffy as all get out, but he was stubborn. He wouldn't have given up like I did. My own fault. What is it the kids say nowadays? You snooze, you lose?”
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“I tried again after that Parnell fella died. Wrote to her, hoping to get things going. I never heard back. That time I took the hint and found myself a nice girl, got married and turned my attention to making money and raising kids.”
By this time, I'd decided the quaver in his voice was age or illness rather than emotion or nervousness.
“Mrs. Parnell is in Italy now.”
He peered at me over the half-moon glasses.
I said, “She's investigating what happened to Harry Jones in the war. She's visiting people who might know something about him.”
“Really?” he said, taking off the glasses and slipping them into his pocket.
“Yes. And we've been told she came here to see you.”
“Have you. Well, you can't keep secrets if you're a foreigner in Italy. The locals know everything. Walk into the bakery, and everyone behind the counter is already up on what you had for dinner last night.”
I fought down a flash of impatience. “We'd like to get to the point. Mrs. Parnell needs medical help. We have to find her before something bad happens. I want to know what she was doing here.”
“Medical help? What kind?” That was news to him. The dark leathery skin paled at least two shades.
“She's in grave danger of having a cardiac arrest. Her doctor is outraged that she would even consider flying to Italy in her condition. I don't care if she told you to stonewall anyone who came looking for her. She needs help, and you'd goddam well better help us.” So much for the well-mannered guest.
Ray looked more than a bit surprised by my outburst. Guy Prendergast took it in his stride. Maybe someone had prepared him to be yelled at. “I didn't know she wasn't well. I should have guessed from the look of her. Not herself at all. Can't say I blame her. Thing is, we were all so wrong about Harry, weren't we? It had to come out some time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, no one would ever have expected it. He seemed such a fine fellow, way better for a fine gal like Violet than a layabout like me. Something changed him. He…”
We were on to something new now, and I couldn't stop myself from interrupting. “Changed him how? Please get to the point.”
“War does strange things to people. It can wreck your mind and heart. Some never get over it. Some rough and ready fellas grew up on the front lines, came back stronger and tougher. Others hear screaming shells and the shrieks of dying comrades all their lives. They end up wrecks of human beings. Nervous breakdowns, drinking.” He raised his glass and chuckled. “Who am I to talk, with my vino rosso at ten thirty in the morning?”
“One last time, how did Harry change?”
“Well, if you ask me, Harry just plain went bad.”
Ray had been quiet up to this time. He said, “Bad? What kind of bad?”
“First of all, Perce was shot down, then Harry was seriously injured. I guess you know that. They were together all their lives. Harry was always the good influence, and Perce was the wild one, he was always in trouble, some of it serious. I don't think Harry got over Perce dying. Never was the same afterwards.”
I frowned. “I never heard anything about Perce being in serious trouble. Hazel alluded to childhood pranks, that was all. Are you sure? I thought he was such a heroic guy.”
“Well, it would depend on who you asked. His family thought the sun shone out of his arse, if you'll pardon the expression. And Harry did too, always bailing Perce out. He'd have done anything for his buddy. Not everybody felt the same way. Perce was skating pretty close to the wire when he died. Maybe Harry snapped. Maybe he took over where Perce left off.”
“What was Perce involved in?” A cop's tone edged into Ray's voice.
“I couldn't really say. No proof.” He gestured toward the green hills that surrounded the villa. “Wouldn't like to lose all this in a lawsuit.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “A lawsuit will be the least of any of our problems, if you don't start to treat this seriously. We're trying to keep someone we care about alive. You say you care about her too. Tell us what you know.”
He let out a long sigh. “I've already caused enough harm. All right, Perce got mixed up with the wrong people, shady types. The kind who get court-martialed. Or shot because they find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Black market shenanigans, contraband, that sort of thing, back in England. At the time of his death, he was supposed to have been under investigation for some serious activities. That's what I heard from some of the RCAF guys I ran into after the war.”
I butted in. “Let me guess. Did the bad stuff have to do with the looting at the Palazzo Degli Angeli?”
Guy Prendergast picked up his wine, sipped it and frowned thoughtfully. “I don't know about that. There were rumours about looting at the Palazzo. Never saw any of it myself. We were busy trying to stay alive in 1944 and 1945. Having our friends bleed to death in our arms. Wasn't a shopping expedition, let me tell you. Canadian troops were high calibre. Even though the rumour was that the people who owned that Palazzo…”
“The Degli Angeli family,” I interjected.
“That's the name. They were supposed to have been very hospitable to the Nazis. I'm not so sure they really were. Some of the fellas might not have been too sympathetic if they did hear that kind of gossip. Anyway, none of the officers I encountered tolerated any monkey business.”
“Perce could have been mixed up in it?”
“I don't see how. He wasn't anywhere near there. He was an airman, flew bombers.”
“Mrs. Parnell went to the Palazzo. Must be some kind of connection.”
“Sure there was a connection, and the connection wasn't Perce, it was Harry. I told you he went bad afterwards. His regiment would have been moving up through that part of Italy, not all that far from here really. I'm pretty sure he could have been involved in looting fine artwork and other valuables from there and other places too. Wouldn't be surprised if that's what got him started doing so well after the war.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Parnell this?”
I knew the answer before he opened his mouth.
“Oh, God, what the hell did I start?” He lifted the wine glass and drained it in one serious gulp.
“Okay, so you did. How did she track you down here?”
“I found her. It was awful lonely here after my wife died. Never stopped thinking about Violet. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut and let her have her memories. I was hoping maybe she'd have a place in her heart for me, I suppose. Two lonely people. One independent woman, one foolish old romantic with more money than brains. Did pretty well out of my business, and then got lucky with some investments. Bought up a few old farms around here years back, and they've paid off well too. Timing is everything, and the Brits are crazy for this area. I figured the right art can give you a good return too, and, even if it doesn't, you get to enjoy it. So I started buying pieces, some good furniture, a few oils. A while back, I bought a lovely landscape that would suit this place. You walked by it on the way out here.” He pointed toward the house. “I dealt with an associate of Harry's. Figured you could trust a boy from back home, and the people he dealt with. Fella I got to know in the appraisal business dropped a hint my painting has a very iffy provenance. He hinted it might have been stolen from a church. He turned up his nose when I mentioned Brockbank & Brickle. I had gone through Harry's company for more than one purchase, and let me tell you, I was pretty steamed. I dug around a bit more, the lost art registry, that kind of thing, turned up a bit of mucky business about Harry and his lads. I never had enough solid stuff to go the police, especially here where there are a lot of hands in a lot of pockets.” He peered at us to see if we got the point.
We had. This was something unexpected. I found my eyebrows up. Ray's jaw tensed.
Prendergast said, “What I learned made sense of some of those wartime rumours.”
I bit my tongue. Guy Prendergast sure liked to drag out a story.
He said, “I knew Violet would have nothing but contempt for any dishonest dealings. Vi was all about King and Country. Duty. Straight as an arrow. I always kept tabs on her. I wrote her a letter letting her know I wanted to visit her. No response. I called her, and she said the past was the past. She didn't want to see me.” He stopped and chuckled. “Lots of spirit, that gal. Finally, I figured it was my last kick at the can. Not too many Canadian visits left in the old fella, far too comfortable here at Villa Rosa. To make a long story short, I made a trip to Ottawa, and I just dropped in on Violet, caught her unawares. I hauled out everything I knew about Harry and spilled the beans. I even had some photos of him and his boys in later years, with an Italian dealer known to be a slippery customer. I showed her that to prove Harry's no matinee idol now. Vi and I had been friends back in Canada, and I was hoping once she'd let me through the door, maybe one thing would lead to another, you know. Thought that might be more likely to happen if she didn't still half-worship that damned scoundrel. I figured I didn't have anything to lose, except the plane fare, and that's only money you can't take with you. I must have been nuts.”
Ray was sitting forward on his rickety chair, drinking in every word. He'd be registering it all in his police officer's brain. Sixty years of unrequited love. There seemed to be quite a bit of that going around.
I said. “What happened when you told her?”
“She threw the photo into the garbage and tossed me out like last week's trash. Not physically. She said I had nothing to go on. Talked about slander, libel. Threatened me with her cane. Still quite the woman. You never want a gal like that to get mad at you.” He chuckled sadly.
I didn't dare glance at Ray.
“When was this visit to Canada?”
“Just got back, not even a week ago. I'm not unpacked yet, suitcase is still on the table. Evelina never would have put up with that.”
“Then Mrs. Parnell turned up here last night.”
“Yes.”
“And what happened?”
He chuckled again. “Vi's not the type to turn down a glass of sherry. Not like you young pups, no staying power.”
“Why did she come here to see you, if she was so angry?”
“She'd given it some thought. Said she did a bit of research and decided I might be right after all. Wasn't too happy about it. Needed to know more about what he'd gotten up to. Wanted details, names.”
“Is she still in Pieve San Simone?” I glanced at the house. What if she were hiding in it? There'd been no sign of a car.
“She went on to Alcielo. Next stop. If I were that miserable bastard Harry Jones, I'd be shaking in my boots.” Guy Prendergast threw back his head and guffawed.
“He's near death in an English nursing home.”
“That a fact?”
Ray said, “Any idea where in Alcielo?”
“Annalisa's, I imagine. Wouldn't be surprised if she had a word with Sergio either.”
Before I jotted down Sergio and Annalisa at the end of my long list of Italian names, I asked. “Do you have last names?”
“Sorry. Alcielo's a small Italian town. Everyone knows them. Sergio's in restoration. Well, Annalisa's got a finger in a lot of stuff. Well, she did. She's getting on now, as we all are.”
I leaned over to Ray, “People might be on Mrs. Parnell's trail. Alcielo's not that far from here. I'll go ahead and find her. You stay here and get Mr. Prendergast to fill you in on Harry Jones’ sins.”
“That won't be happening, Camilla,” Ray said. “We'll stick together. We'll be back to see Mr. Prendergast as soon as we make sure Mrs. Parnell's safe.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” Guy Prendergast said, struggling to his feet. “Hold on, what people might be on her trail?”
“We don't know. Whoever they are, they're connected somehow.”
He slumped back. The chair rattled and came close to tipping. “Thash terrible. Maybe I should come along too. I know Alcielo, and I speak the lingo.”
“No,” Ray and I blurted together.
I added, “Thank you. We'll be back if we need more information. Please be careful, and don't let anyone in.”
Ray glanced meaningfully at the empty wine glass. “In fact, don't drive anywhere.”
* * *
Alcielo, when we finally squealed into it, turned out to be a medieval fortified hill town, plunked in the middle of the sprawling tobacco fields. It had an almost magical quality. Alcielo meant something like “to the sky” or “to heaven”. That fit the place. Too bad I wasn't there to be charmed. I pulled the Ka into the piazza, stepped out and stretched as Ray parked the Citroën next to me.
“You ask around for Sergio and Annalisa,” Ray said. “There's an internet café right across the piazza. I'll see if Alvin sent that guy's photo. Don't go off by yourself.”
“Of course I won't.”
“I mean it. Do not. And don't bother to get huffy either. You ask in the shops. As soon as I check this, we'll head to the police station and see if we can get some help with finding Mrs. Parnell without alarming her. Maybe we'll have some luck on the Harry Jones front too. I want to take that photo image with me. The police will know who Sergio and Annalisa are too.
I said. “You know what? I'm not sure I trust and believe this Guy Prendergast. Maybe Mrs. Parnell's not here after all. What do you think?”
“I'm a cop. We don't really trust anyone.”
“That's a bad attitude. Do you trust me?”
“To do the most cautious and sensible thing, no. To go right out on a limb regardless of consequences, absolutely.”
“Sorry I asked. Okay, I'll make a phone call while you check the e-mail. Considering the circumstances, I don't think it's too early to call Canada. Alvin and I have been trying to reach Hazel. She seems to be out all the time, so early morning might do the trick. She might remember something more about this Guy Prendergast. I'll run the Harry Jones stuff by her too for a reaction. I'll try Betty too.”
“Sounds harmless.”
Betty's answering machine picked up. Since I was unreachable, there was no point in leaving a message. The phone rang on and on in Hazel's house, no answering machine this time. Just as I was getting ready to hang up, a breathless voice answered.
“Hazel?” I said. “Glad I caught you at home. We've been trying to reach you. Look, there's something I need to ask you about. It has to do with Harry Jones.”
“Who is speaking, please?” The female voice sounded middle-aged yet oddly shaky, although I figured that might have been the phone line.
“Camilla MacPhe,” I said. “Who is this?”
“Val Desrochers. I'm Hazel's step-daughter.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “May I speak with Hazel?”
“I'm sorry, she's…”
“Look, it's urgent really. Tell her it has to do with her old friend Violet Parnell. I'm sure she'll take the call.”
“I'm sure she would if she could,” she said.
“Let's let her make that choice,” I snapped.
“She can't. She's in hospital. ICU. She's been there for a couple of days.”
“ICU? What happened?”
“We don't know. One of the neighbours heard the phone ringing and ringing and eventually decided to check on her. He found the door open slightly. He came in and found her unconscious. They called the ambulance, then contacted us.”
“I'm sorry. That's awful. She seemed so lively. Did she have a heart attack?”
“A head injury. She must have tripped and hit her head on the corner of the fireplace hearth.”
I remembered that raised hearthstone in Hazel's living room. I shook my head at the image of pretty little Hazel crumpled against it with blood spreading on the cream marble.
I said, “That's terrible. It's a good thing the neighbour looked in.” I figured the phone calls must have been from Alvin. Maybe a couple from me.
Val's voice choked up. I waited until she could speak again. “Yes, it was. We don't know how long she was here alone, but she was very dehydrated,” she said. “We only got together once a week for lunch, and the rest of the time we stayed in touch by phone. I feel so guilty. She always insisted she didn't need a babysitter. She was so independent. She was getting ready to head for Florida.”
“She mentioned she liked her independence. I can't imagine anyone trying to interfere with her freedom,” I said.
“I wish I had. She might have died here alone. Perhaps we should have insisted she move to a residence with more supervision.”
“I'd like to keep in touch and see how she's doing. You may hear from me again or from my assistant, Alvin Ferguson. Is there a number where we can reach you?”
“MacPhee, you said? C. MacPhee?”
“Yes.”
“Your name was on the phone display. Quite a few calls. We wondered who you were.”
That must have been Alvin calling from my place. I'd been meaning to switch my new phone number to unlisted, but now I was glad I hadn't gotten around to it.
“When I visited Hazel, we talked about the war and some people we needed to contact.”
Val seemed to have regained control of her voice. She said almost cheerfully, “Oh, the war years. She would have loved that. Sure, you can call me.” She gave me her number, and I copied it down.
“Please let me know how she's doing,” I said.
She said, “Will do. I have your number on the phone. We'll let you know how it goes.”
“You'll have to leave a message. I'm out of town. And I hope everything goes well. Hazel seemed to me to be a very strong person.”
“She is. If anyone can recover from this, she'd be the one.”
After the phone call, I took a deep breath. I stood on the sunny piazza, thinking dark thoughts. The open door sounded a lot like our discovery of Mrs. Parnell's apartment. What if Hazel's so-called accident was a deliberate attack? My heart started thundering. Was Betty in danger too? Was it open season on elderly ladies who knew Harry Jones? I tried again. I left a message. “Betty, be careful of anything connected to Harry Jones or Guy Prendergast. Make sure you don't let anyone into your apartment. Please call my assistant as soon as you can. He'll fill you in. I'm in Alcielo in Tuscany, and I'll try to reach you later. Please be careful.”
Of course, next I had to fill Alvin in. At least he answered the phone. “Listen carefully,” I said.
“Me first. I have something to tell you.”
“It can wait. Hazel's in critical condition in the hospital.”
“Lord thundering Jesus. Critical condition!”
“Exactly. She was found unconscious. She'd hit her head on the fireplace hearth. The neighbour found her, because the front door was open, and the phone was ringing incessantly.”
“That must have been me. I told you I kept calling.”
“And it's a good thing you did. Otherwise the neighbour might not have gone in until too late.”
“The open door, that's what happened with Violet.”
“Exactly. And that's just creepy.”
“That reminds me, Camilla…”
“Hang on, Alvin. Another thing. Betty doesn't answer her phone either.”
“You think something happened to her too?”
“I have called quite a few times.”
Alvin said. “You think the same person who ransacked Violet's place hurt Hazel?”
“I don't know. It seems like a strange coincidence. It might mean there is more than one person involved. We have bad things going on over here too. They might be connected.”
Alvin said, “How?”
“Don't ask me, I've been wrong about everything so far. And there are liars everywhere, apparently.”
“Wait a minute. I've got something to…”
“Hold that thought. First I need you to keep checking on Betty and make sure nothing's happened there. I'm really worried. Then, as soon as you can in the morning, get down to Kingston with that picture and talk to Hazel's neighbours. See if that creep was anywhere near her. You can get in touch with her stepdaughter, Val Desrochers, to see how she's doing. If Hazel's okay, and I sure hope she is, maybe she can identify the guy. I'll call you back when I have anything to add. Write down this number,” I said, reading it out carefully.
“Got it, Camilla,” Alvin said, after a bit of scratching. “Don't hang up. I have good news.”
“What's the good news, Alvin? Were you successful in emailing the photo to Ray?”
“That's done. The big thing is that I found a lot of info on this Harrison Jones dude. He's a big deal in the art and antiques business. He was the Managing Director of a couple of English companies. Brockbank & Brickle is the main one. They're respectable international dealers. Art and antiques. Sort of like a smaller version of Christie's or Sotheby's. He made a pile of money from various things. His companies have diversified into different kinds of import/export. If the antique market's soft, then they have other interests. Lives in…”
“Hampshire,” I said. “I knew that.”
“He married into the Brockbank family, which had a solid business. That's about it. Not much help, really.”
“Any scandals?”
“I didn't read about anything like that. They sound like very respectable people. Why do you ask that?”
“Today Ray and I met Guy Prendergast, who suggested Harry Jones may have ‘liberated’ some stuff, maybe lots of stuff during the war. That he'd turned into a sleazy sort.”
“That's bad. But it's also a long time ago. This Harry Jones guy is in bad shape. I called the company and spoke to his personal assistant. I said I was doing a project for business school on international art dealers.”
“What did you learn?”
“She doesn't think he'll live long. She started to cry when she was talking about him. She was really excited about my project and wanted me to talk to one of his sons. They run the business now. I guess they're in their fifties. Now that Daddy's sick, they're finally taking over.”
“Sons. I hadn't thought of that. They might have something to lose if there was something fishy.”
“Yeah, but they're middle-aged respectable business people. They wouldn't run off and start killing old people on two continents because of a few rumours.”
For once Alvin was being sensible, and I had to agree. “You're right. These days it takes a lot of hanky-panky to have any impact. Even major firms like Christie's and Sotheby's have weathered scandals. I seem to remember smuggling charges in one case. I don't remember against which firm, which sort of proves my point. Anyway, it was serious stuff, but no one ran around killing people.”
“It's true. Even if people do get convicted and go to jail, they still come out and get back to business. Some of them go on TV and make some more money.” I could tell this was a sore point.
“Right again, Alvin. It would have to be something huge and awful. Nothing that Guy Prendergast alluded to would do more than keep the legal counsel busy. Hard to prove complicity. Face it, no one will arrest old Harry Jones if he's dying. And the Jones sons wouldn't even have been born until after the war. They couldn't have been looting anything. I'll keep thinking about what this all might mean. See what else you can find out. And don't forget to check in on Betty and call Hazel's step-daughter.”
“I'm on it. I think we're getting somewhere.”
* * *
I met up with Ray outside the internet café.
“Hey, I see you managed to stay out of trouble for twenty minutes,” he said. “Good going.”
I let that slide. After all, the man had many excellent points. I liked the way his sandy hair ruffled in the breeze, and I loved that grin. I filled him in on Harry Jones and his sons, and the situation with Hazel.
Ray nodded. “I think we should find out a bit more about these people, without making too many waves. The cops have access to stuff that Alvin won't. I'll make some calls. I know a few guys with international connections too. It's a bit early to call Canada now. Let's give people time to get to work. Hey, you look pretty upset.”
“Now I'm worried about Betty as well as Mrs. P. and Hazel.”
“Let's go sit somewhere. We'll work on our plan.” Ray put his arm around me as we crossed the piazza yet again. I was damned glad of that arm.
The midday sun was flooding the piazza, and people spilled out of homes and businesses. Tourists and locals alike took advantage of the good weather after the rain and fog. Everyone was sporting sunglasses. Ray stared in the window at some T-shirts his girls might like, and I took advantage of a small boutique to buy a pair of ridiculously pricy sunglasses for myself and a pair for Ray. I figured we had to bring something back from Italy in addition to Mrs. Parnell. We found an inviting trattoria. The waiter was setting up patio tables for lunch, and it was warm enough to park ourselves and soak up the November sun. We snagged a table with a good view of the bustling square and ordered lunch. Ray suggested a glass of Chianti was what I needed. He decided he'd have one too. The wine arrived almost immediately. Despite the weather, the presence of Ray, and the prospect of food and drink, I was not in the mood to waste time. I hauled out the poster of Mrs. Parnell and showed them first to the waiter and then to the other diners. While the poster was making the rounds, I studied the images that Ray had printed out from Alvin's e-mail.
I stared at a male face, late twenties perhaps, with dark thinning hair, slim build and beautiful chiselled bones. It was definitely the man with the box in the corridor near Mrs. Parnell's place. That must have been why he seemed familiar. Was there something else? A scrap of memory wiggled tantalizingly, yet refused to emerge fully. Alvin had sent three photos of him, once in the stairwell, once entering the front door and once in the elevator.
“He's wearing different clothing in each of these,” Ray said. “Must have been there several times.”
“Yes, Alvin said he'd been back three times. He was looking for something all right. There's something about him, I don't know what.”
“Could he be the same man in the Mercedes? The one who was supposed to be Mrs. Parnell's son.”
I shook my head. “I didn't see him. Anyway, this guy's in Canada, so that's not likely.”
“Don't forget we were both in Canada a few days ago, and now, we're in Italy. It can be done. Plus the clothes that guy's wearing look kind of foreign to me. The cut of the jacket.”
I stared at the pictures. All men's clothing looks alike to me. “Do you think they're Italian designs?”
Ray shrugged. “I don't know what they are, but I'm betting he didn't get them back home.”
“That's a good point. Maybe he is Italian, and when he lucked out with Mrs. P.’s place, he followed her over here. I don't think he's the guy in the Mercedes. I got the impression he was an older man. They thought he might be Mrs. Parnell's son, so my father or uncle.”
“I suppose it was a stretch anyway,” Ray said. “How would he know she came here?”
“It could be because she began to contact people, and maybe one of them couldn't be trusted.”
“I'll take these with me when I go to the police station. I'll also forward them to a colleague at home to see if he can get a lead on the guy.”
“Very efficient. I might have to keep you on staff, Sgt. Deveau,” I said. “Okay, I could take them to Dario. He could show them to the old guys in the village, and maybe Orianna, or someone else in Berli, might have seen him. That would help.”
Ray studied his glass of Chianti. “Don't forget Guy Prendergast back at the Villa.”
“Good point. Let me see, who else? That boy Fabrizio might be able to identify him as the person who bribed him about signor Falcone's whereabouts. If his mother would let me near him.”
Ray leaned back as the waiter delivered two plates of tortellini with butter and sage, a dish that really should be revered the world over. He said, “But…”
“I know, I know, these people are all in different towns, and that will mean a lot of driving. Still, it has to be done. No choice.”
“There's an easier way. We just forward them to anyone who has e-mail. That might cut down the travel.”
“I should have thought of that. Pays to have a cop around,” I said. “I'll call Dario and Orianna. Dario will have e-mail for sure. He's a modern guy.”
“Great. Do me a favour. Drink your wine, finish your tortellini and then do it.” Ray raised his nearly empty glass and smiled. “Five minutes more won't make any difference. I don't get that much of your time, and you won't be getting food like this back home.”
I hesitated. What if five minutes did make a difference? “How about I make the calls first, then we can relax?”
“I realize there's no point in arguing.” He signalled to the waiter for a refill. I like a man who takes things in his stride.
“Good. The phones are right over there,” I pointed. “I'll be back in a flash.”
I never made it. We were distracted by a flurry of activity. We had a bite on the nonna poster.
“Si. Si. Si. Si!” a girl squealed.
No question about it, our Mrs. P. had hit town. Several people had seen her. I listened to at least four exuberant Italian conversations at once. I had trouble following and Ray sat baffled. “Restaurazione” was the key phrase. That fit well with what Guy Prendergast had told us.
“A restaurant?” Ray said.
“Restoration.” I asked the girl and her companions, “Is there a Sergio here? A restorer? And someone named Annalisa?”
A couple of lively conversations followed. I caught every tenth word or so. Sergio and restauro figured prominently.
I saw people shaking their heads when they spoke of Annalisa.
“Aspetti, signora! Aspetti,” someone said. “Aspetti qui.”
“They're telling us to wait here,” I explained to Ray.
“Good. Eat your lunch while you're waiting.”
We worked our way through the tortellini and the Chianti while someone else worked to track down Sergio, and, with luck, Mrs. P. Whatever they did would be faster than anything I could.
Ray was getting keen on dolce when a young woman arrived, escorted by two of the people who had been sitting in the trattoria. She was barely five feet, with wild corkscrew curls and jeans that must have been spray-painted on. Her fashionable square glasses would have looked hideous on most people. She was thin as a whippet. It was hard to imagine she had ever eaten a plate of pasta.
She held out her hand and smiled luminously. “I am Lucia Giansante. I understand you want to speak to my father.”
“Is he Sergio the restorer?”
“Yes. Sergio Giansante of Giansante e Figlia Restauro.”
“Giansante and daughter, that's nice. A family business.”
“Third generation. My grandfather started it. It was an unusual occupation then. Now as you can see, Alcielo is a centre for restoration of all kinds. It is because of the special history of this town.”
“I take it business is good.”
“Si, restoration is a big business all over Italy now. We are starting to realize what we have and how we must preserve and protect our heritage. We are learning to be more respectful. What we have been as a society is reflected in our buildings and our artifacts, our art. We have lost so much.”
Interesting enough, but I didn't need another digression. I pushed the picture of Mrs. Parnell toward Lucia. “I'm told you may have seen my grandmother.”
She hesitated.
I nodded in Ray's direction. “Sergeant Deveau here is a police officer.”
She paled slightly. “Earlier today, she came by.”
I jumped to my feet, “Is she there now?”
“She did not have an appointment, and my father has gone to Milano to meet suppliers.”
“Where did my grandmother go?”
She stared at me, her eyes huge behind the square glasses. “I told her he would be back tomorrow morning, and she could see him after lunch.”
“And?”
Lucia continued to stare. “She said she would return.”
“We have to be there too. She needs to be seen by a doctor. She has a heart condition, very serious,” I said. “Do you know where she's staying?”
The curls flew as she shook her head. “Alcielo is a small place. Someone will know.”
I didn't want to let go of this fluent English speaker. “Do you know someone named Annalisa? Perhaps also in restoration?”
Was it my imagination, or did she curl her lip slightly? “Of course. Annalisa Franchini lives in the village, in the upper part. Everyone knows her.” Lucia gestured toward the top of the hill. “She isn't a restorer, though. Far from it. I haven't seen her for quite a while. They say she has been very sick for a long time. She may be away visiting her family in the mountains. Your grandmother asked about her too. Perhaps one of her neighbours will know.”
Ray said, “We'd like to be there when Mrs. Parnell shows up.”
Lucia shrugged. “No problem.”
I said, “And we'd like to talk to your father too. Before she does. If you see my grandmother, don't mention that we're coming. I wouldn't want her to think we were alarmed. She's very independent.”
Lucia gave me strange look number two. “I must get back and unlock the shop before I lose out on any business.” With her wild curls blowing in the breeze, she hurried up the hill, made a sharp right turn and disappeared.
Ray said, “See, everybody lies.”
“Did she lie? How do you know?”
“You did. Don't want your grandmother to think you're alarmed. Cute. So we've got time to kill.”
The waistband of my jeans felt smaller than before lunch. “Not really. I need to move a bit to burn off this meal. We might as well explore the town. Maybe we'll learn where Mrs. Parnell's staying and find out about Annalisa while we're at it. First, I've got to call people about the e-mail.”
I reached Orianna in Berli. She didn't have e-mail. She was keen to learn about what I'd found out. I took the time to fill her in. Vittorio didn't answer his phone, nor did Maria Martello. I felt a shiver when I thought today might even be signor Falcone's funeral. Signor Braccio's son, the police officer, would most likely have e-mail. I called the daughter and worked hard at the ensuing Italian conversation. Yes, she thought her brother had a computer, but she didn't know anything more than that. She suggested her father would love to hear from me, because he was very bored and unhappy. She was sending meals for him, even though her sister-in-law was going to be very offended by that. What else could she do? She gave me the telephone number. No one answered. I saved Dario for last.
“Ah, Camilla, bella,” he said. “How are you? Are you coming back to see me? What's happening? Did you find your nonna, la poverina?”
I told Dario what I'd been up to. “No luck so far. Do you have e-mail? I have a photo attachment for you to show the people in your village.”
“E-mail, si, certamente. Why don't you bring the picture yourself? I'd like to see you. Everyone would like to see you again.” He dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “Or maybe I can come there.”
Somehow I didn't think that would go down well with Ray.
“I don't know how long we'll be in Alcielo. E-mail's best. I'll see you another time.”
“Sure, bella. Send it, send it. I will ask zio Domenico and everyone else,” he said. He gave me the address slowly and carefully. I'd never heard anyone make an e-mail address sound sexy before. Some people just have the knack.
Ray handled the forwarding of the photo. As soon as the e-mail was dispatched, Ray and I left the piazza and began a labyrinthine trip through the centre of Alcielo, during which I could have sworn we doubled back on ourselves three times. There was no concept of a block, no space between buildings which all seemed to be three stories high, at least. Some structures seemed to have other buildings constructed on top of them. I wasn't sure I was seeing that right.
“Look at that,” Ray said, pointing. “That overhead passage connecting both sides of the street has windows in it. And laundry hanging out.”
“Obviously someone's home sweet home.”
The streets split in unexpected locations, one going down, another going up. Some had stairs built into them, others felt like long curving ramps, vanishing into blind corners. The old-fashioned lamps seemed like electrified versions of the gas lamps from a hundred years earlier. We puffed up hills and down stairs and down hills and up stairs. At one point, we arrived at a solid, wooden door that must have been there for centuries. Behind the door was a shop with two wide windows filled with furniture and beautiful objects that would have made my sisters melt. The sign said Giansante e Figlia Restauro. An alley no wider than my shoulders ran between the building and its neighbour. I peered into it, half expecting to find Mrs. Parnell, however silly that may sound. Except for the pile of boxes stacked there, the alley was empty.
Ray and I meandered around, leaning into each other. We didn't find a single soul who spoke English, but my Italian was enough to confirm that no one had seen Mrs. Parnell, and that, certamente, Annalisa Franchini lived at the very top of the town. She was out of town. From the expressions, I gathered there was something special about signora Franchini. Whatever it was, nobody seemed to miss her.
At the top of the hill, a pair of elderly ladies gestured toward Annalisa's house. It was a narrow three storey, with a smartly painted front door, bits of brass, newly restored stone facing and cast iron pots of bright flowers on the steps and in window boxes. No one was home. “È partita! È partita la donna!” the ladies shouted helpfully.
Ray was still chuckling when we reached the centre of a reconstruction project on top of the hill, although work had stopped for mid-day. He said, “Enough fun for today. I'll head over to the police station, introduce myself, and see what kind of reaction I get. I realize you hate that idea and have been stalling me. Still, it's got to be done.”
“I do hate that idea. They have a lot of different police jurisdictions over here. Do you even know whether you want to talk to the carabinieri or the state police? They're practically in competition with each other. Be careful, that's all I have to say. I've heard horror stories.” I ignored the look he gave me. He is, after all, a cop.
Our first enquiry told us the posto di polizia was situated on the opposite side of town and up another serious hill. On the way down, Ray stopped to examine some official-looking signs, with the architect's renderings of the reconstruction work for the medieval fortifications. “There's access through the underground passages,” he said.
“Gives me the creeps,” I said.
He gave me a nudge. “Want to explore it?”
“We're not on holiday,” I snapped. “Shoot, I'm being a jerk, but I can't relax. I wouldn't blame you if you had gone to Mexico with another woman.”
“That's never going to happen. And I'm not in any kind of race, Camilla. I know Italy has a lot of memories for you, and that's on your mind too.”
That came as a surprise, since I hadn't really talked much about being here with Paul, just mentioned we'd spent our honeymoon here.
He glanced down at me. “We'll do what we have to. I want you to think about this: your friend has played you like a violin. Is that going to affect the way you feel about her afterwards?”
I said, “I don't care. She'll have had her reasons. I just don't know what they are. Maybe I'll never find out. She is my friend, and she didn't ask me to chase after her. She didn't ask me to do anything. So I guess I deserve whatever I get.”
He raised a sandy eyebrow but kept a straight face. “Even getting locked in the supply cupboard at the car rental?”
“I was never in danger of anything greater than embarrassment. Face it, I was a legal aid lawyer for years, I eat embarrassment for breakfast.”
Ray's grin broke through. “Yeah, you criminal lawyer types. You've all got it coming.”
“Don't push your luck,” I said. “I'll just rub those Italian cops the wrong way if I go with you, so I'll mosey around town while you make contact.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Saving me the trouble of telling you that you'd only get under their skin. You have to be careful on other people's turf.”
“Right. Careful's not my best thing. There will be someone who speaks English there. If you're stuck, you can find me and I'll go back with you to translate. I'll try to behave.”
“Don't go far.”
I continued to make the rounds with my poster. A woman with two string bags full of groceries frowned at the image of Mrs. Parnell. She smiled, showing shiny new-looking dentures. She pointed across the hill to the hilly part of the old town we had just walked all over.
Oh, just great. What was all this hobbling up and down steep roads going to do to her condition? Should I head up there again myself? Before I settled on a course of action, I spotted Ray stomping towards me. His mouth was clamped in a thin line.
“Need an interpreter?” I said.
“Nope. The guy I spoke to had a good handle on English. Cousins in Prince George, it turns out. They hung on to the poster. They'll keep an eye out for Mrs. Parnell. I've been firmly instructed to leave it to them.”
“Did you tell them everything? About the hit and run and the attacks at home?”
“Well, sure I did.”
“The black Mercedes?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mention Sergio and Annalisa?”
“I told them everything, Camilla. And I was politely reminded I'm a foreign national. I was pretty well put in my place. They said I have to be careful not to defame anyone. Defamation's a pretty serious crime over here, apparently.”
“I can see how that could be convenient in certain lines of work.”
“No kidding. Anyway, he gave me the name of a few good restaurants, and suggested that we find one this evening.”
“Like we couldn't find a restaurant in this place. There's a new one every ten feet.”
“The point was that we should cool it and let them make enquiries. And that's what we'll do.”
Speak for yourself, I thought.
Ray yawned. “They know the locals. Let's give them a chance. They also suggested the Hotel della Collina.”
“That means the hotel on the hill. Hill number three actually.”
“Figures. We'll get settled and have an early dinner. The time difference is catching up with me. Let's head for the payphone first. I'd like to touch base with my girls.”
“I'd like to check in with Alvin once more. In case.”
That was easier said than done. I left a message giving the name of the hotel.
The cop at my side didn't have any better luck. His home line was busy.
* * *
What the Hotel della Collina lacked in red velvet and dark furniture, it made up for with a huge modern bathroom. I enjoyed a long shower without actually touching the walls. I emerged some time later, towelling my hair, to find Ray crashed on the orange-patterned bedspread, snoring. Jet lag. You gotta love it. I decided to let him sleep a bit. I didn't feel like being cooped up in the hotel room though, so I headed back to the square and the payphone to try Alvin one more time.
People were still straggling through the streets making their way home from work and school. The lovely day had been replaced by the now familiar creeping mist. Off the square, you could see it swirl around the old fashioned lights. They shone eerily through the shadows.
The police hadn't told me not to do anything. I figured I could continue to ask these locals if they'd seen Mrs. Parnell. I hustled across the square, which was filled with cars, and headed to the side of the hill where she had last been seen. Ray and I had been all over the area, and I didn't really expect to see her out on the street. Never mind, I had to do something. I set off up the narrow street.
The dark doors and shuttered windows allowed no glimpse into who lived there, just the odd glimpse of warm light hinted at lives lived behind these stone walls, at people sitting down for dinner, or homework or television.
A young couple passed me, leaning into each other, laughing, glancing back at me and shrugging in unison. I felt a pang. I wished Ray were there with me at that moment. I could have happily leaned on him in the fog and gloom. As the young couple reached the top of the hill, I heard another burst of laughter. They rounded a corner, vanishing into the light and warmth of a restaurant.
It seemed a bit odd to be knocking at strangers’ doors and asking in my bad Italian if anyone had seen my grandmother. I considered it anyway. I was low on choices.
Huxtable Hall
1 Huxtable Crescent
Toronto, Ontario
September 7, 1954
Dear Violet,
Please accept my condolences on the death of your husband. Car accidents always seem so senseless. How terrible for you that he was travelling in England at the time. I would have written sooner, but I just learned the sad news recently. You have always been strong and brave. You will weather this too, just as you did your war service. Do not let anger at your personal tragedy prevent you from living a productive life. I have seen that happen too often.
I know that you will be a dignified widow, unlike some. You have probably heard that Hazel, after creating the most awful scandal by marrying a man more than twice her age, has remarried again in Kingston. Someone in the military this time, a Murphy, if you can imagine. Who knows, with a name like that, he might even be RC! Tongues are wagging. Hazel wouldn't care about that, as long as she had a new hat to wear. Consider yourself lucky that you managed to move to Ottawa in time. With your education and interesting job in the government, you would find her most tiresome.
I have continued on with my own education, which has led, in turn, to a promotion to Assistant Headmistress here at Huxtable Hall.
Yours truly,
Elizabeth Connaught, B.A.