A Rather Curious Engagement (15 page)

Over the next couple of days, Jeremy and I regrouped at the villa, discussing our options amid all that banging, hammering and sawing that the workmen were doing. By now Jeremy had recovered his old can-do, warrior spirit, since the boat was back where it belonged and the insurance papers had come through.

While he worked out the boat repairs with Gerard and Claude, I borrowed his car and went to local libraries to do some fast research and mighty nimble footwork. Killing two birds with one stone is a dreadfully strenuous activity: I had to dissuade Jeremy from going back to London and giving up on our Plan; and, I simply had to get the bottom of Le Boat-Jacking. The police had already investigated the crew, and the other bidders, but turned up nothing, so the trail went cold. Therefore, I felt I must find out all I could about the history of
Penelope’s Dream
.

Because not for a minute did I believe that we had simply been the victim of a delinquent’s prank. And, much as everybody wanted to just put the whole thing behind them, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the story wasn’t over. So I wanted to be ready when the next shoe dropped. And I wanted Jeremy aboard.

“Come on,” I coaxed, trying to engage his curiosity about the theft. “Dontcha wanna find out who took our boat?”

“Penny,” Jeremy said in a strained voice. “We told the police everything we know. We even told them about Rollo, just in case he had anything to do with it, which I doubt.”

“Yeah, and did you see their faces when we described Rollo?” I said. “The older cop especially. He started looking at us funny, as if
we
were a bit fishy.”

“My point exactly,” Jeremy said. “It’s a great big world out there, little girl, and the cops have seen and heard it all—money-laundering, insurance scams, you name it. If
you
start acting peculiar, they’ll soon be giving us the fisheye.”

This intrigued me momentarily. “You think the cops are now thinking,
Perhaps this couple isn’t as dopey as they look. Perhaps Penny and Jeremy are really the brains behind a ring of con artists?
” I asked.

“They will if you keep acting like a Girl Detective,” Jeremy cautioned. I could sort of see his point. You know how it works. The minute you start telling people about your strange relatives, well,
you
start to sound strange for having them. And there is just something about Rollo that actually does make you end up doing things that technically you shouldn’t be doing, like sneaking into hotel rooms and crossing the border with priceless art.

“So just let the police do their job,” Jeremy said. “And stay out of it. Don’t go looking for trouble, because if you do, you will surely find it.”

“But now we’ve got
our
reputations at stake—” I objected.

“Leave it to the cops,” Jeremy said firmly. “I want to put this whole mess out of my mind for awhile. Then I’ll figure out what to do.”

That sounded ominous to me. “What do you mean?” I prodded.

“I mean, I might just sell this damned unlucky boat and go home,” he said.

“Back to your old life?” I said, as if I could not believe my ears.

“Yes, my dull old life,” he retorted. “Where I may not have had a yacht, and a flooded-out Riviera villa, a townhouse in Belgravia and huge investments . . . but, on the other hand, at least I used to have a job, a purpose in life, and, most magnificently of all, my sanity.”

I knew he was just letting off steam. Surely. But, I couldn’t take any chances.

“Oh, come on, brace up!” I said, invoking his staunch English heritage of sailors and pirates and explorers and empire-builders. “When the smoke clears, you’ll see that there are great adventures to have, and many pleasures ahead.”

“Fine,” Jeremy said, “I’ll keep the Victrola and sit in my parlor on Sundays, listening to Mozart.”

I seized this opening. “Would you settle for Beethoven?” I asked eagerly, knowing it was his favorite composer. I saw the gleam of interest in his eyes.

“Oh?” he said idly. “Where?”

I bounced onto the seat next to him. “Lake Como,” I proclaimed, emboldened.

Jeremy looked startled. “Lake Como! Great,” he said, “we can extend the wreckage of our luck to yet another country now.” I ignored this.

“They’re having a classical music festival featuring Beethoven this year. Plus, I heard that Lake Como is just beautiful, a really enchanted place,” I said.

“I
know
Lake Como is beautiful,” Jeremy informed me. “I went there as a little boy. By any chance have you been talking to Mum?”

“Nope,” I said. “I just heard it’s a secluded, perfect spot to chill out.”

“It is indeed,” Jeremy admitted. “Especially on an island there, the Isola Comacina, with just a restaurant and the ruins of old churches, and old olive trees. Nobody really lives on it. I pretended I was a castaway, on my own island. I remember feeling as if no harm could come to us because nobody would ever find us there, hidden among the mountains.”

“Boy, that sounds great,” I said. “Frankly, I could use a little calm and beauty.”

He looked at me with affection and said, “Yes, if you’ve never been, then you should see it sometime. You would love it, too.”

“Not sometime, this time,” I pressed. “We have bigger things to figure out besides the yacht alone, you know. We can’t let day-to-day events pull us back into old habits.”

“You’re right to say that we need to gain some perspective,” he admitted. He looked at me and said with self-reproach, “This hasn’t exactly been a picnic for you, either. Here I am so busy feeling sorry for myself that I failed to notice. After all, it’s Penny’s Dream, stolen from you as well as me. You could use a breather yourself.”

“Exactly!” I cried. “The cops will keep an eye on the boat, and so will Claude and the crew, now that they’re working on it. When the repairs are all done, we’ll let cooler heads prevail. Then we can decide whether to keep the yacht or sell it. In the meantime, a little Beethoven music ought to improve our brain cells.”

“Yes, well, I must be losing my mind,” Jeremy said slowly, “because what you say is actually making sense to me.”

“Great!” I said, pouncing on the idea before he could change his mind. “Let’s leave tomorrow! I’m really looking forward to taking a break from all this.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. I mean, there actually was a Beethoven music festival going on at Lake Como. And I have always wanted to go there. And it made sense, really, to get away from the Riviera for a bit. However, I had one other teensy little reason for wanting to go there. I would certainly share this with Jeremy. But first I wanted to be sure that I was on the right track, and that my info was correct and up-to-date . . . and that the Count Hubert von Norbert, previous owner of our yacht, was still currently residing in a castle near the Alps . . . at Lake Como.

Lake Como was unlike any lake I’d ever seen. I think of lakes as ... well, round. But Lake Como is shaped like a dancing frog, as if Matisse had painted it. It’s the third largest lake in Italy, but you’d never know it because of those long skinny legs; and even at the “torso,” or widest part, it’s only about three miles across, yet it’s also one of the deepest lakes in all of Europe. It is surrounded by magnificent Alpine mountains, and its shores are covered with evergreens and great big blossoming shrubs, which are reflected by the lake, giving the entire place a glowing emerald color. Green lake, green pine-covered mountains rising like protective walls, their peaks shrouded in misty, milky-white clouds at whose summit one might suppose that Zeus and all the other gods of Olympus were enthroned.

The town of Como itself sits at the “toe” of the left “leg.” It is a busy, bustling city that we drove beyond, because we had booked into a Grand Hotel at a quieter town farther up this leg. The beautiful old hotel seemed to be waiting just for us, perched high up above the lake. Our taxi pulled into the gravel driveway on the left side of the road. As we climbed out, I saw that, to our right, directly across the street, our hotel had a wooden pier extending out on the lake, with an outdoor restaurant on it. Beyond this was a gangway leading to a big “float” with a sizeable swimming pool atop it, so the whole pool just sat there serenely bobbing on the lake.

The bellhop waited patiently as I stopped in my tracks and gazed, open-mouthed, at the way the late afternoon sun was reflected in the swimming pool and the beautiful outstretched lake, and beyond, at the stunning view of the other coastline across the “leg” with its matching mountains, villages and hotels.

“Oh, Jeremy!” I breathed. “Let’s sit here and watch the sun set over the lake!”

“Erm, mind if we see our room first?” Jeremy said with amusement. We crunch-crunched across the brief gravel driveway, went into the hotel, and entered a glass elevator that took us up to the beautiful golden Belle Epoque lobby.

“You know, they shot the movie
Grand Hotel
right here, with Greta Garbo and John Barrymore!” I enthused, as we made our way to the front desk, which had a fleet of pretty Italian women wearing identical scarves made of the silk that Como is famous for. The receptionists were busily checking their guests in and out. When our turn came, they handed us a big heavy gold key with an enormous gold tassel. Then we went in another glass elevator, which was flanked by dramatic curving stairs . . . in case you felt like floating down in a chiffon gown to meet your date like a movie star.

Inside our room was a narrow hallway with a closet to the left, and a marble bathroom to the right. Beyond this was the main part of the room, with shuttered windows, a great big bed, a chest of drawers, and comfortable armchairs. The bellhop quietly brought in our bags. I flung open one of the shutters, and stared rapturously at the picture-book view of the mountainous sky, with its soft mysterious clouds, the lovely lake beyond, and, in the gardens below, some big green shrubs that were covered with giant rhododendron blossoms in pink and blue, practically the size of a cheerleader’s pom-poms. There were slender gnarled trees that attracted swooping, chirping birds, whose balletic moves made the whole place look like a garden from a fairy tale.

We went downstairs again, and entered the bar, which had outdoor tables on a balcony. You could gaze over the wrought-iron railing at the street below, and the lake and the floating pool beyond, which rocked and tilted gently like a swimmer’s float whenever a passing speedboat ruffled it or whenever the wind rippled its tides. We ordered
bellinis
, a cocktail made of champagne and the juice of fresh peaches. We smiled at everyone, and they smiled at us, because there was something about the nature of the place that made people happy and relaxed, as if they’d found a sheltered little corner of paradise, attended by waiters who had the calm courtesy and patience of angels.

Across the lake, we could see lights coming up on the beautiful town of Bellagio, so named from the Latin “Bi-lacus” which means “between the lakes” because the pretty town sits right at the—well, the lake’s crotch of the frog’s legs. Just north of Bellagio is the “torso” of the dancing frog.

And as we sat gazing out, the breeze stirred our senses and there seemed to be a whiff of magic in the air, because the wind had made its mysterious daily shift—from the afternoon
breva
which comes upward from the south to north—to the
tivà
which does the reverse at night. The waiter explained this matter-of-factly to us. But if you happen to be sitting there just at the moment when the wind makes that shift, you could swear that the spirits are speaking to you, ushering in your deepest wishes, or foretelling a great change in store for you.

“Mmm,” Jeremy said, sensing this, and closing his eyes. “Wonderful. ”

“And tomorrow,” I said enthusiastically, “we can go exploring the lake by boat. There’s plenty of ferries to take us anywhere we want to go.”

“Fine. I’ll take you to my secret island for lunch,” Jeremy promised.

“The Isola Comacina?” I asked eagerly. He looked surprised.

“How did you remember that name so easily?” he asked.

“I looked it up,” I said quickly. “This place is so rich in history,” I enthused. “Prehistoric bears used to roam around this lake. And later, royalty from ancient Rome on up to Victorian England, had villas here where they threw wild parties and had secret escapes from their castles. And Lake Como inspired so many great artists—Shelley and Wordsworth and Verdi and Liszt all created masterpieces while hanging around here.”

“And don’t forget the infamous guests as well—like Mussolini, who very nearly escaped over the mountains into nearby Switzerland . . . almost,” Jeremy said, his eyes still closed. But then he opened one eye and peered at me knowingly.

“So. Are you going to tell me now or later?” he inquired.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“Why are we here?” Jeremy asked firmly. “And don’t tell me it’s to relax. That’s all very well, but I know how that head of yours works, and you wouldn’t haul me all the way up here just for Beethoven. You’re no ordinary tourist, at least, not when you’ve got that look in your eye. You’ve picked up the scent and you’re on to something. So, what is it?”

I wasn’t entirely sure I liked having a man getting to know me so well that he could see through my best nonchalant act. I mean, I thought I’d been pretty discreet. But, since it was clear that the jig was up, I told him. “It just so happens that the guy who owned
Liesl’s Dream
lives on Lake Como,” I announced. “In an old castle somewhere around here. His name is the Count von Norbert. The lady at the front desk told me everyone knows him, because he’s been here a long time, ever since he came over from Germany during World War Two, to escape the Nazis. They say he’s old and frail now, and is a bit of a recluse.”

“Aha!” Jeremy said. “I just knew it somehow had to do with the yacht.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, slightly insulted. “If you knew that, then why did you go along with me?”