The Widow (7 page)

It was amazing to Charlie that she could manage to choke down anything.

“This is an inferior wine,” Antonella announced at one point after downing her fourth glass. “Where is Pompasse? He never would have allowed such garbage to be served at his table. It's your fault,” she said, glaring at Charlie.

Five years ago Charlie might have been tempted to argue—but now she was past the need. “We'll have Tomaso see if there's anything better,” she said.

“I like it,” Gia pronounced. “Don't you, Maguire?”

Maguire hadn't touched his wine, a detail that hadn't escaped Charlie's attention. In fact, she'd been watching him too much. It was purely for lack of something better to look at. Antonella's table manners were far from appetizing and Gia was too hostile. And the walls were bare.

“Where did the paintings go?” Charlie asked abruptly.

Gia didn't even bother looking around. She had managed to down a fair amount of wine herself and, if anything, her malicious mood had only deepened. “You mean your portraits? They've been gone for a long time. I don't know whether he burned them or sold them, but your glorious face hasn't been seen anywhere around here for the past five years.”

“Burned them?” Charlie echoed, horrified.

“Don't be ridiculous!” Antonella piped up. “He knew the value of his work—he would never have burned anything. And why do you think he would, you stupid little tramp?”

Since that had been Antonella's form of address to every one of Pompasse's models for the past fifty years, Gia didn't bother to take offense. “Because he loved Charlie and she abandoned him, you old bitch,” she shot back.

Charlie set her fork down. She'd barely eaten a thing since she'd heard of Pompasse's death, and this kind of atmosphere wasn't doing much for her appetite. “Could we not fight…?” she began in a faint voice.

“Don't be ridiculous. All we ever do is fight in this household,” Gia snapped. “That's the way Pompasse wanted it. Or have you forgotten that along with everything else?”

“He wouldn't have burned his paintings, even those of that whore,” Antonella said flatly. “Someone must have hidden them.”

“And where would that be?” Maguire broke in softly. He'd been watching, listening to the ensuing conversation with all the rapt attention of a gossipmonger.

Madame Antonella shrugged her massive shoulders. “Ask Pompasse.”

“He's dead, you old witch!” Gia snapped, her voice ragged.

“Of course he is.” Antonella's voice was waspish. “I know that. The question is, who killed him?”

T
he crash that followed the old lady's question couldn't have been timed worse, Maguire thought irritably. One bombshell was perfect—he could have sat there and watched everyone's expression once Antonella had brought up the idea of murder, and within a matter of moments he would have learned a great deal. Maybe even who could have done the deed.

But Lauretta was on her way out to the kitchen, and the plate she was carrying smashed to the floor, drawing everyone's gaze, giving them all a chance to hide their initial reaction. A moment later Tomaso appeared behind her, looking unnaturally disturbed.

Maguire was fast enough, well trained enough to have caught lightning-fast impressions. Gia must have suspected he'd been murdered—she barely blinked when Madame Antonella asked who killed him.

There was no doubt about Lauretta's reaction, of course. Shock and horror made her drop the platter, and she stepped over the cake to Antonella's side, an angry expression on her plain face. “You shouldn't say such things,
madame,
” she said fiercely. “Pompasse's death was an accident. Who would want to kill him?”

“Probably everyone who ever met the man,” Maguire said, just to see what kind of reaction he would get.

Lauretta turned on him in a fury. “How would you know? You didn't meet him, did you?”

“Never had the pleasure,” he said. “If I had, I'd probably be a suspect along with the rest of you.” He was doing a piss-poor job of acting like an insurance investigator but he didn't care. He'd be gone before they figured it out, and in the meantime he liked putting the cat among the pigeons.

His pronouncement made up for any lost ground. They all stared at him in shock, even crazy old Antonella.

After a moment Charlie rose. She was pale, visibly shaken. He'd been watching her carefully all through dinner, and she'd barely touched her food. It was no wonder she looked half starved. Give her another twenty pounds or so and she'd be an impressive figure of a woman. Right now she seemed barely female. And yet, female enough to distract him more than he was willing to be distracted.

“I think we've had enough of this conversation,” Charlie said in her deceptively calm voice.

Lauretta and Tomaso were already hustling Madame Antonella away from the table, carrying on a muttered, hectoring conversation in colloquial Italian that Maguire couldn't understand a word of, no matter how hard he tried.

“You don't really think he was murdered, do you?” Gia asked him.

“Enough!” Charlie said again, this time sounding a little ragged around the edges, and before he could respond she left the room, closing the French doors behind her as she disappeared into the warm Tuscan night.

He turned to look at Gia. She'd been paying him far more attention tonight than she had previously, and he wondered whether she'd suddenly realized what a handsome, charming bloke he was, or whether Charlie's entrance into the house had anything to do with it. Gia had taken Charlie's place with Pompasse, or at least she'd tried. Maybe she needed to make sure that no man looked at her nemesis while she was around.

Not that Maguire was interested in Gia, with her morosely beautiful face and her skinny little butt. He'd flirt with her a bit, see what kind of information he could pry out of her, but he didn't expect much. Gia Schiavone was too self-centered to notice much outside her own orbit, and if the old man really had been murdered, she wasn't the one who killed him. At least, that's what his instincts told him, and he'd been relying on his instincts for most of his thirty-five years.

But she might know something and not realize it. A little judicious flattery might get him some useful information. Particularly since his time here was limited. Sooner or later, someone was going to figure out that he wasn't who he said he was and he'd be out on his ass. He just had to make sure he had enough for a book before they caught on to him.

Gia could wait. But Charlie was a different matter. She was out alone in the night air, she was exhausted and jet-lagged and upset. In a perfect condition for him to work on. She'd be vulnerable, and no reporter worth his salt would let an opportunity like that slip by.

Not that he considered himself much of a reporter these days. Gossip hound, paparazzo, the epitome of yellow journalism, and proud of it. Charlie Thomas didn't think much of him at this point. By the time she found out who he really was, her contempt would know no bounds.

He could only hope she wasn't the one who'd killed Pompasse. Because by the time he was done with her, he'd give her more than enough motive to kill him as well, and he preferred his mortal enemies to be nonviolent. He didn't want to be next on her list.

It was a beautiful night, one of a thousand beautiful nights in the countryside. He'd gotten to the point where he seldom noticed his surroundings, but tonight it got through to his jaded senses. There was a soft breeze riffling through the olive trees, and in the distance he could hear the baying of a sheepdog. The scents were strong in the air, as well—the fragrance of the grapes and the olives, the fall flowers that lined the stone wall of the terrace. And he could smell Charlie—the fresh scent of some subtle perfume, or maybe it was just her shampoo.

She was over in the corner of the stone terrace, hidden from view by the shrubbery that had been too long between prunings, but he had eyes like a cat, and he started toward her, taking his time, giving her the chance to run if she wanted. Her need to escape would have told him almost as much as he expected to get from talking to her.

But she stayed where she was, watching him. In the darkness he couldn't see her strange-colored eyes, but he had the momentary conceit that they could see in the dark as well as he could, that they could read every expression that crossed his face.

Not that he ever allowed himself a betraying expression. He kept his face bland, polite, as he came up to her, wishing to God he had his cigarettes. He found he wasn't craving the nicotine as much as wanting to have something to do with his hands. Something to keep his hands off her.

She spoke first, which surprised him. “I'd forgotten how hellish those dinners could be,” she said with a stray shiver that he knew wasn't caused by the temperature.

“There weren't usually that many people, were there?” he asked. “He wouldn't have had Gia there while you were still married….”

He didn't have to see her ironic expression to know it was there. “Don't be naive, Maguire. Pompasse's affairs were legendary—he always had his women. The ones he slept with, the ones he painted, the ones who'd outlived their usefulness, but he wouldn't let any of them go. And one of his favorite occupations was to set them off against one another. He loved the idea of women fighting over him. It's probably one reason why he kept his castoffs around.”

“Nice guy,” Maguire said.

Charlie shrugged. “I didn't mind. My infatuation with him died quickly, but I recognized him for what he was.”

“And what was that? An egocentric pervert?” Maguire offered.

“A great artist,” she said in a calmly reproving voice. “Great artists don't have to be decent human beings, you know. There's a price to be paid for brilliance, and Aristide couldn't be a good man and a great artist.”

“That's just so much bullshit and you know it,” Maguire said bluntly. “He used his art as an excuse to get his own way, and idiots like you let him get away with it. Would you have sat around and let another man parade his mistresses and castoffs in front of you? Will you let your fiancé do it?”

“Henry would never do anything like that,” she protested. “He loves me—he'd never hurt me.”

“Lady,” Maguire said, “then he's not the man for you. Love is pain. It's betrayal and hurt and passion and joy. What you're talking about is simple affection.”

“Then maybe simple affection is highly underrated.”

“It doesn't go very far in bed, now, does it?”

She didn't answer him, of course. He was surprised she was making no effort to get away from him. But then, he suspected that she was just the tiniest bit fascinated by him, rather like a doe in the headlights of an oncoming tank. She wasn't going to be too pleased when he flattened her with the great tell-all.

“So what did you think about all that?” he said after a moment, sitting on the stone wall beside her. “You think the old guy was murdered?”

“How would that affect his estate if he was?” she countered.

He was about to say “beats me” when he realized he was supposed to know such things. “Depends on who did it, what the will says, that kind of stuff,” he said instead. “I know that in most countries people can't profit by a crime, so if you're his heir and you offed him then you're shit out of luck.”

She swung her head around to stare at him. “I didn't kill Pompasse. I hadn't even seen him for years.”

“And where were you the day he died?”

“In my apartment. As a matter of fact, I spent last week alone in my apartment, no phone calls, no visitors.”

“No alibi?” he said.

“I don't know. Maybe the doorman saw me. Besides, it doesn't matter. It was an accidental death—there hasn't been even a suggestion that it was anything but. Madame Antonella is old and quite…forgetful. It's ridiculous to pay attention to anything she might say. She likes to be outrageous to get attention. She can't even remember that Pompasse is dead—how would she know he was murdered?”

“Maybe she knows who did it?” he suggested.

“I think we'd be hearing from the police if there was any suspicion surrounding his death.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you,” Maguire drawled.

“Anyway, they've released the body and he's already been cremated. If they start thinking that he might have been poisoned or something it's a little too late to check.”

“Poison? Interesting thought. It's known as a woman's weapon.”

“Don't be sexist, Maguire,” she said with a spark of life. “Frankly, when I look at you I tend to think of a gun rather than poison.”

He resisted his impulse to smile. He liked it when he could get her to fight back. “Do you know how to use a gun?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Pompasse insisted I learn. He said there were too many stalkers, kidnappers and the like who might try to break into the villa. For that matter, what if one of those stalkers or kidnappers killed him? Some random, deranged art collector?”

“Or maybe a deliberate, sane art collector who knew his works would be more valuable once he was dead,” Maguire countered. “But I don't think Pompasse was killed by a stranger.”

“I don't think Pompasse was killed at all,” she shot back.

“You don't think he's dead?”

Her reaction was fascinating. She shivered in the warm summer night. “He's dead,” she said in an equally lifeless voice. “I'd know if he wasn't. I just don't think he was murdered.”

“Why not? Because it's inconvenient?”

She turned to look at him, and in the shifting moonlight he could see her golden eyes quite clearly. “Because the police haven't indicated they have any suspicions,” she said flatly. “And because I don't want it to be true.”

He'd pushed her far enough, gotten more honesty out of her than he had expected. But then, that was his stock-in-trade, his ability to make people reveal things they'd never usually tell strangers. “Fair enough,” he said. “You look beat. Why don't you go up to bed? You don't need to waste your time worrying about this stuff tonight.”

“Damnation!” she said, pushing away from the wall. “I forgot to ask Lauretta to find you another room. It's too late now.”

“Not a problem. You can sleep in my bed.”

“Maguire…” she said in a warning voice.

“Without me, angel. It's too damned small a bed, anyway—I like to spread out. You sleep in my room, I'll spend the night in yours with the ghost of Pompasse lurking beneath the sheets. Imagine the old goat's reaction when he finds me there instead of you.”

Her soft laugh was reluctant and oddly stirring. “I can't…”

“Of course you can. It's your house, at least until the will is read. You're the widow, after all. You can even wedge a chair under the door handle to make sure I don't creep in in the middle of the night. I don't know if it would keep Pompasse's ghost out, but you could probably find garlic in Lauretta's kitchen….”

“That's for vampires, not ghosts,” she said. “And Pompasse is dead and gone. He's not coming back to haunt anyone.”

“Not even you, Charlie? The one woman who escaped?”

She turned to look at him, a stricken expression on her face. “I don't believe in ghosts,” she said.

“And besides, you never escaped, did you? He still owns you, body and soul. I'm going to be interested in seeing this fiancé of yours. I was figuring he had to be some up-and-coming Wall Street shark, but now I'm thinking you'd probably be looking for another Pompasse. Some randy old man who'd take care of you. Another father figure.”