Kiss of Hot Sun (14 page)

I didn’t have to turn the key; the door had already been unlocked from the inside.

In a flurry of panic I burst into Adeline’s room. The bed was empty. She was gone. I checked her bathroom and she was not there either.

I hustled downstairs and for the second time that morning did a quick tour of the ground floor rooms. Now I was searching for Adeline.

I’d locked her in. Obviously she must have had a duplicate key and let herself out. But after the terror I’d seen in the old lady last night, I had to find her quickly and reassure myself that she was safe.

To my astonishment I found her tranquilly discussing the luncheon menu with Maria. The cook, still tearful, was clearly back on duty and ready for work. Luciana, also puffy about the eyes, was hovering in the background.

Adeline swung round on me, alert and smiling. “Ah, there you are, Kerry darling. We might as well have breakfast right away, then.”

She could smile at a time like this! She could even think of eating!

“But I... Look here, we’ve got to talk...”

“Yes darling, what is it?” The question was tossed at me casually. She turned away to speak to Luciana, and my Italian just coped with a rough translation: the girl was being told to take our breakfast out to the loggia where it would be cooler.

Adeline’s behaviour this morning was uncannily calm. It was as if last night’s drama had never happened.

And that, I discovered, was her story. Or very nearly.

“Did I really say those things, darling?” Her laugh tinkled merrily. “I must have been dreaming. Actually, I
was
just a wee bit naughty. I had an extra cognac before I went to bed.”

I simply couldn’t believe my ears. I said stonily: “You were perfectly sober, Miss Harcourt. You were also perfectly lucid.”

“How amusing...!” She might have been playing a dowager duchess on the West End stage. “If I was really as sober as you say, darling, then I can only suggest that perhaps you are... imagining a little?”

“I am not imagining anything. You must surely remember what you told me as well as I do. What about Signor Zampini and Carlo?”

Her eyes first narrowed, and then opened wide in a beautifully contrived expression of bewilderment. “What about Guido and poor Carlo?”

I barely more than whispered it. “You said that he had Carlo... done to death.”

Adeline reacted in the character she’d chosen. Angry astonishment was rigidly contained within a superb dignity. “My dear girl, how can you put such dreadful words into my mouth?” But slowly her expression of shocked, tight disapproval dissolved into a roguish smile. “But of course! You are joking, darling. And I fell into your trap.”

I insisted that I most certainly was not joking, but she simply would not listen. When a moment later Zampini appeared on the loggia, she beckoned him over.

“Guido, our young friend has been teasing me.” To my amazement she went on: “Kerry is pretending that last night I told her a perfectly crazy story about you and I plotting to sell forged paintings to my guests. She even makes out that I confessed to being terrified of you. Think of it, my dear Guido!”

I expected an outburst of fury, but a muted response from this man was even more frightening. He wagged a finger at me, a fat, playful finger.

“You British and your practical joking! Will you never stop?”

What could I say? That I had not been kidding? That I believed everything Adeline had told me, however much she might deny it now?

While I still gaped at him, too startled to utter a word, he turned and stumped off. The grotesque body was trembling with laughter. He eased himself down at a table on the far side of the loggia, and shook out a large white napkin.

Three minutes later Philip came out to join Zampini, giving Adeline a charming smile as he passed. I got no more than a curt nod.

All through breakfast Adeline ate placidly. Each crusty morsel of her roll was thickly dabbed with butter and red cherry jam. She appeared to be completely unperturbed, merely giving me an occasional pursed-lips smile of amused reproof when she caught my eye.

Most of the time I was watching the two men at the other table. Luciana had brought them a basket of rolls and a large pot of coffee. They both tucked in heartily, and seemed to be talking together with real gusto—more friendly than I’d ever seen them before.

Adeline began a desultory conversation. Or rather a monologue, because I contributed next to nothing. From time to time she tried to coax me to eat, pretending to imagine I was refraining through some foolish idea of dieting.

“You modern girls—all you think about is your figure. Now in my day it was fashionable for a woman to have a bit more flesh on her bones."

Her voice, running steadily on, made no impact upon my mind. I cut right across her. “I shall have to tell the Blunts—you realise that?”

Adeline didn’t attempt to finish what she’d been saying. There was a short enquiring pause, then: “You will tell the Blunts what, darling?”

“That the painting they bought from you is a forgery. Or do you now deny you sold them a painting at all?”

She gave me a little puzzled frown. “George certainly
wanted
to buy one of my nice pictures. But of course I couldn’t possibly let anything go. It would have been unfair to... to Vittorio’s memory.”

The crazy mixed-up atmosphere of the villa made me suddenly vicious. I swooped in with a savage dig.

“Vittorio? Or do you mean unfair to the memory of your Italian ancestor who built this villa two hundred years ago?”

At least I’d managed to startle her for a moment. But then she was smiling serenely again. “So you overheard that little tale, did you? But darling, you cannot blame me if sometimes I stir in a little romance and colour for the benefit of my guests. It pleases them, you
see. And it is quite harmless.”

“Harmless fiction can sometimes prove quite dangerous before it’s done with,” I pointed out coldly.

Her look reproached me for the unpleasing thought.

The sun was slowly mounting higher. Already the heat outside would be fierce, but sheltered by hanging greenery the loggia stayed pleasantly fresh.

The scene was restful normality—comfortable people at ease in delightful surroundings, taking a leisurely breakfast as a prelude to a day of happy relaxation.

In undertones, the men joked. Adeline sipped her coffee. She had composed herself into a picture of elegance and charm, an elderly lady without a care in the world. I had to make myself remember that she was a consummate actress.

Despite the coolness of the shade-splashed loggia, I was sweating. My skin boiled. My tight-stretched nerves were being screwed mercilessly to screaming point.

Adeline was regarding me steadily. Her eyes held a secret challenge.

“I believe that Giles sold George Blunt one of his little harbour scenes. The tourists always fall for them. Of course, one must admit they are very colourful in their simple way...”

“This is absurd!” I stood up swiftly, scraping my chair on the flagstones. “I am going up to the Blunts right now and have it out with them. They’ve got to be protected from themselves.”

Quite deliberately I had been speaking loud enough for my words to carry to Philip and Zampini. But both of them pretended not to hear.

Adeline popped a last bite of roll into her mouth before observing mildly: “George and Rosalind Blunt have left already, darling.”

“Already? But how?”

“Guido drove them down to Taormina first thing. I expect they got a cab from there to the airport at Catania.”

So the Blunts had been hustled out of the villa at daybreak—obviously to get them out of my way. Zampini had worked fast. I wondered what story he’d spun to convince them they must leave Sicily without delay.

“I... I could probably still reach them by telephone,” I said uncertainly.

“I cannot imagine why you should want to contact them, darling. Anyway...” Adeline consulted her watch, “they will be airborne by now, I’m afraid.”

I dropped back into my chair, defeat weighing me down. I didn’t doubt that all other evidence was carefully removed by now. If there had ever been any other evidence.

Whoever would accept a few paintings resembling Raphael’s work, found lying in the attic of the
Stella d’Oro
or in Giles Yorke’s studio, as constituting proof of a criminal fraud? How could I hope to convince anyone that a conversation I’d happened to overhear, in which Adeline had shown absolutely no interest in selling any of her pictures, was all part of a cunningly planned deception?

Still, if I made them stop the racket here and now, wouldn’t that be good enough? Even though I couldn’t actually prove anything, they’d hardly dare carry on once I’d threatened to expose them.

In any case, I guessed there was little enough I could do about the pictures already sold. And even supposing I did succeed in making a public issue of the swindle, would past buyers like George Blunt thank me for it? Would they want their names dragged through the courts? Would they relish the world knowing they’d been fooled by a simple confidence trick?

It was just this built-in reluctance of the dupes to come forward that made the swindle so darned clever. Every single one of those ready-and-willing customers had deserved to get his fingers burned. Every one had been motivated by sheer greed.

It was an easy solution just to let it go. But I’d warn Adeline that they must stop at once. I’d face up to Zampini and threaten him with exposure if he didn’t promise an end of this wretched business.

And Philip—exactly where did he stand in the scheme of things? Was he working with the others in some subtle way? Was the story he’d told me about being a buyer for an American art collector as much a lie as his earlier yarn that he was employed by an electric switchgear firm?

Seeing him now, so friendly with Zampini, how could I possibly believe anything else?

It was crazy for me to stay here any longer. I’d have to leave the
Villa Stella d’Oro,
leave Sicily, leave Italy. I’d
have to go back to London and try to put this whole unhappy episode out of my mind.

My trip to Italy had started so excitingly. At first it had been such fun with Monica in Rome. But now it was ending in disaster. To go home and forget was the only sensible thing to do.

Bit by bit I was lulling myself into taking the easy course. I was kidding myself along with false reasoning. I was playing a con trick on myself.

But I saw through it. How could I keep quiet about what I knew? How could I go away as long as Carlo’s death was still not fully explained? Adeline had definitely accused Zampini. She pretended now that she had never said so, but I wasn’t imagining a single thing about that conversation in the night.

I ought to remain here, waiting and watching. I ought to hang on at the
Stella d’Oro
until one or other of the swindlers slipped up; until I got some tangible evidence about Carlo’s death.

Yet against this strong argument, I wondered if it wouldn’t be foolish to stay on. The police were apparently quite satisfied that Carlo’s death had been a vengeance killing. Surely they ought to know? They understood local attitudes and Sicilian morality far better than I did.

So far I hadn’t eaten a thing for breakfast. That wouldn’t do at all. If I were serious about giving the gang a false sense of security, I’d have to behave normally.

I reached out and took a roll from the delicate wicker basket. Carefully, I buttered a fragment and put it in my mouth. It was like chewing dry chaff.

Adeline watched with approval. “There’s a sensible girl, Kerry.” Did she mean for eating something? Or did she mean for bowing to the inevitable?

As I took a mouthful of coffee to wash down the bread, I caught Adeline’s nod towards the two men. Even her smallest movements were always distinct and very expressive. What I read into this little gesture was satisfaction that things were under control.

She was telling Zampini that I wasn’t going to argue; that I was accepting the situation.

I wondered if Philip was included in that message.

It became hotter than ever as the morning dragged on. Life at the
Villa Stella d’Oro
dissolved into a fantastic dream sequence.

Zampini’s behaviour had changed dramatically. Now he was full of wreathing smiles that cracked his face. He even tried to flirt with me, using a quaintly formal raillery.

Philip hung around all the time. He observed Zampini’s extraordinary antics without seeming in the least put out. I wondered bitterly why I even thought he should have been.

I went through my routine jobs with a mechanical lack of interest. The villa was usually cool indoors but today it felt stirringly oppressive. The kitchen was unbearable, the big oven adding fiercely to the stunning heat. Red-eyed, Maria and Luciana carried on with a forlorn resignation that was unutterably sad. I wished there was some comfort I could offer them.

The flowers had to be done each day and that promised to be a happier job. But when I went outside the sun savaged me, its searing brilliance climbing right into my eyes.

Pietro was nowhere around. I discovered him eventually stretched out asleep under a tree at the end of the cypress walk. It was so unusual to find the old man slacking that I hadn’t the heart to waken him. Anyway, did I care any longer about the
Stella d’Oro?
The flowers could wait.

I was close by the garden pavilion, fluted columns arching to a white dome. Its soft pool of shadow tempted me inside.

I had scarcely sat down when I heard a scrape of feet on the steps. Guido Zampini was following me in.

Panic took hold of me, a sudden terror of being alone with this man. But then I remembered that old Pietro was dozing within earshot. He was bound to hear if I cared to yell out. And anyway, we were barely fifty yards from the villa itself.

I steeled myself to face Zampini with a show of calm.