The Charmers: A Novel(11)

“There have been no reports from any truck driver. No one else saw this accident, Madame Matthews. It was just you there, and the green car with its driver. And one of you died.”

I began to cry again. Somehow I could not stop. He harrumphed, passed me the box of Kleenex from the side table, poured a glass of water. My hand shook as I took it from his. Dark hair grew softly on the back of his hand, almost to the knuckles. I glanced up at him, directly into his eyes. His face was so close to mine it was almost as if we were about to kiss.

“We will talk again later,” he said, rising and striding quickly to the door. He opened it, turned to look back at me. “I hope you will soon feel better, Madame Matthews.”

“Oh, please, it’s Mirabella.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Madame Matthews,” he said. “This is a professional matter we are talking about. Allow me to keep it that way.”

Of course he was right, and of course I was in serious trouble.





7

The hospital found Verity and me to be none the worse for wear, despite the fact that the crash totaled the vehicle and necessitated our helicopter rescue, exciting the imagination of the media whose intrusive cameras and mikes followed us all the way home. Actually I thought Verity quite enjoyed it, lifting her chin and smiling shyly despite her bruises and two black eyes that gave her the look of a young panda, plus the over-large gray sweats that overwhelmed her. Her shoes had disappeared in the fall, as had my own, so we were barefoot as we hobbled into the ambulance to be ferried to the anonymous safety of the Villa Romantica.

I directed the driver along the coast road, then up into the hills along the winding lane, which ended at my home.

There was always something about the Villa Romantica, an air of romance. It was built in the 1930s by the beauty, singer, actress, stage personality, and mistress to a famous man, Jerusha, who needed only one name to be known throughout the globe. Many years later, even after her death, the memories and passed-down stories of those who had known her seemed to keep her alive.

It wasn’t surprising then, that to me she would always seem to be there, at the villa, a half-caught glimpse but when I turned to look no one was there; a flash of red hair floating in the breeze beyond the trees, the rustle of a silk skirt … a mirage, I told myself, a trick of the light. Or could it be Jerusha’s spirit still roamed free, restless, unable to leave the beloved home she had built and then lost? Was Jerusha unable to leave “love” behind? Never to move on? I was soon to find out.

There were no other buildings beyond the Romantica, only huge bushes of pink-blooming oleander, and the hill dotted with olive trees, and higher still almond trees which, when in blossom, scented the entire area so you felt you were breathing nature itself. Now, though, in the summer months, old-fashioned roses drooped their heavy heads and fields of lavender drifted to the horizon, while lemons and oranges hung from branches that looked too small to bear their weight. And always in sight through branches and tree trunks and the bushes, was the sea. Blue-green today.

I loved the sea so much because, unlike the garden, it gave a constantly changing image, almost hour by hour, sometimes white-tipped with surf, sometimes dark and green, often gray, but more often blue.

“Here we are.” I indicated the sharp left, though in fact there was nowhere else to go because as I said, this is where the road ended. Indeed there we were. At the Villa Romantica. My home, for better, for worse, just like in marriage. And like a new bride, I was in love.

I shall never forget Aunt Jolly. I still couldn’t believe that she’d left me her beloved home. Somehow she had known I would love it too, that we were the right fit. All I had to do now was to find out why she had died so violently.

But first, what to do with the runaway waif who had become my responsibility? Sure as hell nobody else was about to pick her up from the lowly place she had fallen and take care of her. And if ever a woman looked in need of putting back together it was this one.

“Come on, hon,” I said as the ambulance driver opened the door and I edged across the seat. “This is where we live.”

“Jerusha’s house,” she said, astonishing me. She was still perched on the edge of the seat in the ambulance, seemingly stunned as she stared at the house. “There was a murder here.”

“Perhaps,” I said briskly. “Come on, girl, let’s get on with it.” And I took her hand and gave it a tug.

She swung her legs out the door, long pretty legs, I noticed, though a bit beat-up from the accident. She managed with what seemed a great effort to stand up, wobbling, so I worried whether she had been right to leave the hospital.

“She’s okay,” the driver said. I knew he was an expert because they’d seen everything. “Just a bit shook up. Give her a cup of coffee and she’ll be fine.”

“A martini is more like it,” I said, putting my arm around her waist and walking her to the front door thinking longingly of a tall, cold drink and a comfy sofa.

When my houseman, Alfred, opened the door, the shocked expression on his middle-aged, usually bland face with its high, bald forehead and shaggy gray brows that met in the middle in a concerned frown, made me understand just what a sight the pair of us were.

“Madame,” he exclaimed, rushing down the three wide steps to help me while the nice driver assisted Verity.

“Alfred, this is my friend Verity. We’ll put her in the peony room, I think.” Of course I meant the room with the original peony-print wallpaper, faded with age to a nice pale pink.