The Knotty Bride (12 page)

A month ago? He became Brandon’s personal lawyer a month ago? What is Brandon up to? Why didn’t he mention he had hired Rupa’s husband as his lawyer?

“What we’re going to need here is an expert in criminal law and I’ve made a few calls. In the meantime, I think it might be a good idea to have a look into Signor di Meo’s assets in the years that followed Signor Buschi’s death.”

“Why?” Alice asks skeptically and I lean in closer to Dario to hear the answer.

“The Italian government must know the same thing that you ladies have just told me. I don’t think they know about Signor di Meo seeking out the Buschi heir, how would they? And I definitely don’t think they knew he had knowledge of the existence of a will. So here’s what I suspect; the sale of Villa Buschi must not have been on the up and up. I would suspect that if we look at Signor di Meo’s assets after the house was sold, we might see an increase in his bank account or something. And I don’t believe the story about back taxes.”

Alice gasps at this revelation. I, however, am tracking right along with Dario Brunetti because I remember something Signor Fini said almost a year ago. We were talking on the phone on a cold November day and he said that, when the Italian government found out about the will and the heir, they went to freeze the assets “from the real estate agent.” That’s when they found some kind of “irregularities” surrounding the sale of Ca’Buschi.

My words tumble out one after another as I relate this information to Dario.

“Yep, it sounds like the real estate agent was pocketing some good money from the sale.”

“But,” Alice states firmly, “I met with the man from the tax office myself, he came to Villa Buschi and showed me how much Carlo Buschi owed. When I saw that there was no other choice, I was happy for Signor di Meo’s help in finding a real estate agent to sell the house.”

Dario and I are quiet. Now I know why Alice is here. In the government’s eyes, she must look like an accomplice. No use sugar-coating it. “You were duped, Alice,” I say sadly.

“Yes, I believe you were duped into complicity too,” Dario concurs. “If we have this all figured out straight, what I expect is this; there was probably some sort of kickback to Signor di Meo from the auction company that sold the house. I bet the state must have found something suspicious in di Meo’s bank statements, which is why they moved to arrest him. If they found something, then I’m sure we can find it too. I would hazard that the tax agent, who showed you a statement for back taxes owed, was a fraud. Signor di Meo, his cousins, and the auction house effectively swindled the rightful Buschi heir, whomever she is, out of part of her inheritance. The bottom line is Signora Bettonina doesn’t belong in here and if I can, ladies, I intend to get both of you out of this jail within hours.”

These words make me so happy that I want to dance a jig of joy.

“Right, well, I’ve got work to do.” Dario stands up to call the guard. Soon, he disappears back through the door that leads to the police office.

Shoot! It’s only now that I realize the one who must have followed the paper trail and uncovered this whole fraud was Signor Fini. If I could get a hold of him, maybe I could get Alice and me out of here within minutes rather than hours.

“Guard, please,” I yell down the hall, “I need to make my one phone call!”

Turns out in Italy, there’s no such thing as one phone call. Darn, and now Dario is gone.

Yet, somehow Signor Fini found out that Alice and I had been arrested and he sprung us after an intense discussion with the police. That same evening, we gather in Brandon’s library feeling somewhat shell-shocked as Signor Fini explains exactly what he knows.

“Allow me to start at the beginning for those of you who don’t know me,” Signor Fini says looking around the library at all the befuddled faces. Brandon, Jason, Anna, Carla, Elenora, Uncle Tommasso, Aunt Alice, Dario, and I sit stoically on two opposing leather sofas in the library. We stare up at him as he paces back and forth like a tiny Columbo. “As Signora Bilbury knows, I’ve been looking into the paper trail behind the sale of the villa for a long time.”

I nod. My day in prison has left me hardened and I shoot everyone a shrewd look. Brandon decides I need a drink at this point so he heads over to the library’s mini bar. It’s a glorious, modern thing that runs along the back wall of the library. It’s all safely tucked away in a teakwood cabinet until you open a door. Then voila, a full bar with spotlights appears. Soon, I hear the gentle tinkling of glass on glass as Brandon pours a dark liquid from a crystal decanter. A minute later, he comes around my side of the sofa and hands me a snifter of something that smells alarmingly like tractor fuel.

“Drink up,” he whispers, “it will steady the nerves.”

How ironic it is that at the end of Fini’s speech today, it’s going to be Brandon who needs a stiff drink, not me.

As soon as Brandon moves off to pour more drinks, I lean over the side of the sofa and surreptitiously pour the tractor fuel into a beautifully up-lit potted palm.

“…as I was saying, I was initially tasked with finding the Buschi heir and returning the money from the sale of the villa. Money that we set aside by law when the villa was sold. Anyway, after many nights of staring at pieces of paper relating to the sale of the villa, I found something strange. Namely, I found out the villa was sold “due to back taxes.” Looking into the matter, I quickly learned no back taxes were owed on the villa. The story of back taxes was all a fabrication of Signor di Meo and his cousins.”

A murmur of disbelief rises up from the others on the couch. I, however, want to jump up and shout, “Ah ha! I knew it!”

As soon as everyone quiets down and Carla stops clicking her tongue like a hen and Elenora stops saying, “Oh la la,” like a French woman, I ask, “What do you mean his cousins? As in, more than one?”

“That’s right. There were two cousins in cahoots with your florist. Hold on, I’m coming to that. Let me first say that I am terribly sorry Signora Bettonina has been dragged into this mess. The police thought she might be mixed up in this affair because she was the one who confirmed to the auction company that there was no legal heir.”

At this, a very pale Alice, who looks as if she’s been through hell and back shouts, “I did not know about an heir at the time.”

This sets off a chorus of “That’s okay, Alice! Of course you didn’t now, nobody did,” from all of us on the couch, with the exception of Carla who doesn’t seem to be able to stop clicking her tongue.

Unsure how to calm everyone, Brandon continues passing out tumblers of tractor fuel at a steady rate. Exhausted, I lean back into the comfort of the faux-leather sofa and stare at the shadows of the palm that are being thrown on the ceiling, trying to digest all of today’s information.

“It’s true. You’re all right. Alice Bettonina did nothing wrong. She was the victim of con artists. And that’s what I explained to the police today when I came to retrieve you from that wretched holding cell. I’m sure that Alice acted in good faith when she told the auction company there was no heir. The truth is she was swindled, as were many others in this room.”

“But how did you know we were in jail today, Signor Fini?” I ask still trying to sort through everything. This is the part that truly mystifies me. In all the hubbub at the jail as Signor Fini was busy negotiating our release, it was never revealed how he knew we were there in the first place. I must look terribly confused because Brandon, who has been moving around the room like a jungle cat, notices the glass in my hand is empty and comes over to fill it up from his crystal decanter of brown liquid.

“Oh thanks, love,” I mumble.

“The Aronian police and I are in constant contact over this matter. After all, I am the one that went to the judge with all the information to try to obtain arrest warrants for the cousins di Meo. As soon as I heard they had both you and your aunt in custody, I knew something had gone wrong. I cancelled my appointments and drove up from Milan. I informed the police that there was nothing in the paper trail to indicate Signora Bettonina in this whole mess. I also informed the police that at the time of sale, Signora Bettonina was laboring under the mistaken idea that Ca’ Buschi owed a fortune in back taxes.”

“Ah, so that’s how you knew, and thank heavens for that, or Alice and I might still be in jail right now.” I look from the ceiling to Signor Fini’s concerned face.

From across the room, Brandon motions for me to drink up. I take a reluctant swig as Alice, who is still so shaken by today’s events, seems to be reconciling things in her head.

“Then the man who came here after Carlo Buschi died –the one who showed me the documents listing all the millions in back taxes that were owed on the villa-- that man was a fraud?”

“Yes, my dear lady, I’m afraid that’s right. You were duped, by Ludovico di Meo. Ludovico has confessed to impersonating a tax officer in order to persuade you to contact a real estate agent. The real estate agent he persuaded you to contact was his other cousin, Aldalberto di Meo. Aldalberto has been in trouble with the law before. Anyway, the three of them arranged for the sale of the villa through the auction house. It was all very nefarious and murky because they then split the commission from the sale of the villa with the auction company. And the commission on the sale of the estate of Carlo Buschi was nine million euros. The di Meo’s made a fortune overnight.”

“Hmmph,” I snort in rampant disapproval. Brandon throws me another worried look and I take a sip of my cordial to appease him. The alcohol stings my throat as if I’d swallowed a thousand bees. The very moment Brandon looks away, I dump the rest of my tumbler of tractor fuel on the potted palm and return to listening to the conversation.

“I don’t believe it,” Elenora continues to murmur, looking around wide-eyed, “We’ve known Signor di Meo our entire working careers. I can’t believe he would do this…wait…what is that smell? Does anyone smell smoke?”

“Smoke? What are you senile, Elenora?” Carla asks.

“Oh no…I thought I smelled something, must be the artichokes baking in the oven.” Elenora leans back into the sofa looking slightly pink around the ears.

“Well, you all may not believe that Signor di Meo would have done such a thing, but I certainly do,” Carla finally stops clicking her tongue and hisses dramatically. Her face is screwed up in disgust as she adds, “The man cheats on his wife, doesn’t he? I hear he’s sleeping with some young gal in Arona these days. Cheating on your spouse is just a symptom in my mind. If you are willing to cheat in your personal life, what else are you willing to do?"

To my surprise, the officious looking Signor Fini lets out a sad-sounding “Here, here,” in agreement and looks dejectedly at his ring finger, which is noticeably devoid of any jewelry. Oh dear, looks like Signor Fini may have his own tale of woe. Whatever it is, it will have to wait for another day. I cannot handle any more personal problems for the time being.

“It sounds like, and I may be wrong,” I cut in, “that Signor di Meo wanted more of the Buschi fortune even after he cooked up the scheme to sell the villa. He’s been searching for Buschi’s daughter,” I explain knowledgably.

There’s a huge gasp from everyone except Alice and Dario who have already heard this story.

I divulge everything I know about Signor di Meo searching for the lost daughter of Buschi, and seducing the poor Signora Tazzini along the way.

There are more gasps, a few “I can’t believe it,” more clicking of the tongue and darn it, more pouring of tractor fuel into my tumbler. Where did Brandon even come from anyway? He was just on the other side of the room filling up Tomasso’s glass.

“Well, none of you need worry any longer. Justice will be done. We may never recover the nine million euros from the fraudulent sale, but the rest of the money is intact for the heir. As for the di Meo cousins, I believe they will be looking at the inside of a jail for a long time.”

My eyes glance about the room searching the faces. I don’t think anybody takes comfort in the fact that a man we knew in our everyday lives turned out to be a calculating criminal. As everybody continues to exchange stupefied glances, I take the opportunity to dump my third glass of brown liquid into the potted plant.

Immediately there’s a strange “woosh” of a noise. I barely have time to pull my hand away before the plants roars to life like the proverbial burning bush of the bible.

“What the?” I scream and leap to my feet.

“Stop, drop and roll, Lily, quick!” Brandon yells from the opposite side of the room.

I arch my brow at him. All around me there are screams.

“Stop, drop and roll!” Brandon is screaming and the others in the room who all speak limited English start repeating his sentiment.

“Stoppa, droppa and rolla!” they yell in chorus, looking at me with horror on their faces.

“Stoppa, droppa and rolla!” they continue in a rising crescendo of panic.

It’s only then that I notice --dear God-- I’m on fire! I mean, the long, fashionable sleeve of my new pink sweater is on fire. A half a second later Brandon tackles me to the ground like a football player. With his hands, he beats at the flames of my sweater until they extinguish.

Having been instantly incinerated, the fire goes out in the palm too, leaving only the charred stub of the plant.

“Lily, are your hurt?” Brandon asks, and all eyes swivel my direction.

I sit up and check myself over. The right sleeve of my sweater is singed up to my elbow, but miraculously, I feel fine.

“I’m okay, not even the slightest bit burned.”

There is a chorus, of “Grazie a dio” from all the onlookers. This is shortly followed by a chorus of “Come mai?” which translates to “What in the world” as everyone stares at the charred remains of the potted palm.

Fini examines the crime scene. “Something sticky was poured on the up-lights…these lights are, ow, incredibly hot --whatever it was it must have had a low flash point.”

Everyone looks at my empty tumbler that fell to the ground and broke when Brandon tackled me.

“Next time you don’t want to drink something, just tell me, Lily; don’t set my house on fire,” Brandon chides.

Brandon helps me to my feet and I regain my bearings. Except for the smell of burnt palm lingering in the air and the fact that one sleeve of my sweater is much longer than the other, all is well.

“Look at that, the cordial you’ve been pouring on the plant has fused with the lamp,” Uncle Tomasso muses. Indeed the up-light, which is still putting out tons of heat, now produces a dark amber-colored glow.

“I’ve always worried about how hot those things get. Alice, can we see to purchasing some new lights, ones that won’t burn the house down?”

All heads swivel to Alice, who looks like she’s praying the rosary. Poor thing, she’s still shaken over today’s events.

“What, oh --of course, I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

“No.” Brandon shakes his head. “Not tomorrow. Take the day off, do some shopping, buy a large chocolate Easter egg for yourself, and try to get your mind off of today.”

It would take a lot of shopping --an entire boat load of shopping for me to get my mind off of what happened today. As for Alice, I bet she’ll stay home tomorrow and stew over every detail. She’ll blame herself for being scammed.

“Well, if that’s everything, I need to get dinner on the table,” Elenora says and rises to her feet.

Unsteadily, Alice rises to her feet as well, still looking incredibly pale. Uncle Tomasso stops examining the cordial covered light with the awe of one who has just witnessed a most impressive scientific experiment, and strides across the room to take his wife by the hand.