The Charmers: A Novel(29)
The Boss enjoyed violence, he enjoyed the knife against the throat, the threat. For him, sex was aways better with a threat, he had found that out long ago. And besides, afterward, money took care of everything.
But with these new women, the writer, Aunt Jolly’s heir, who was the new owner of the Villa Romantica and its land, the place where he’d planned to build his fourteen-story condos and make more than just a few millions over a short period of time, plus her silly little blond friend who was overeager to be liked and who he had charmed at the café; now there was a challenge. A challenge he would face tonight, with the help of the Russian, of course, though that bastard had not lived up to his promises. Still, in lieu of anyone better, he was being given a second chance. The Matthews woman, whose name he must remember was Mirabella, would be taken out this time. No mistakes could be made. And the little blond darling? Well, perhaps another role could be found for her, for a short time, anyway.
21
Chad Prescott
Chad left his house at two minutes to eight. Precisely at eight, he parked the Jag convertible in front of the Villa Romantica, slung his long legs out the door, and strode up the shallow front steps. He was greeted by the small brown dachshund, which, it seemed, liked to show its teeth to visitors. Chad did not fancy having a piece of his tuxedo trouser leg torn off right now. God knows he wore it rarely enough but it had served him well over the years and he was not yet ready to buy a new one.
“Good dog,” he said, not meaning it, but the dog seemed to take it the right way and backed off, tail wagging, snarl gone.
The door stood open. Moths and other small night creatures fluttered around the lamps that stood on each side of the hall, and which Chad recognized as being from the deco period; their square black shades had surely never been changed since they were bought. A pair of malachite-topped tables, the likes of which would not be made today, were set on narrow gilded legs with lion feet, surely dated from the turn of the century. Rugs were flung carelessly across the marble floor, each a beauty of Eastern workmanship, in silk or the finest wool, their colors faded into a harmonious blur. A pair of love seats in a muted green brocade that brought to mind the first pale leaves of spring, faced each other across the hall, framed in gilded wood that also brought to mind a great deal of expense.
Nothing was cheap in Aunt Jolly’s house, which, of course, Chad remembered from the several visits he had made to take tea with her. Which is how Aunt Jolly had described it in her invitations.
Please come and take tea with me at four this afternoon, was exactly what she’d written, and he had come here and drank the Earl Grey she’d poured from a silver pot, refilling it from a matching pot of water set over a small burner to keep it hot. Aunt Jolly was old school, and she respected the past. Chad was deeply troubled by Aunt Jolly’s violent death. And especially by the fact that the so-called Colonel had so far done nothing about finding the perpetrator.
He stood on the front steps, looking into the hallway, remembering the old woman who had cared for this villa, who had known all its secrets, had known all the people from the past, and who’d told him she wanted him to have it. “After I am gone,” she had said.
Of course Chad had protested that it was not right, said what about her family? But she had reiterated, “I have reason to believe it would not be safe for my niece to inherit the villa. There are people out there, developers they call themselves, who would ruin this place, ruin this whole countryside, all for money. Whereas a man like you, Doctor, can take care of yourself, take care of things.”
Naturally he had asked what Aunt Jolly meant, and her answer, in the precise high voice that matched her precisely attired person, was that no doubt he would find out, and anyhow the niece had her own life, her own place in the world.
“As do I.” He recalled his reply, now.
“Indeed.” She’d handed him a Wedgwood cup and saucer, offering a plate of Garibaldi biscuits. English to the core, he’d thought, eyeing those biscuits.
“You are a man who knows how to look after himself,” she said. “You have faced enemies in jungles and remote villages, in outposts of countries most of us never go to. You have the instinct to protect yourself from danger. My niece, Mirabella—Lord knows how she got that name, her mother was on the stage—well, Mirabella does not have a single self-protective instinct in her entire body. Though she writes about it, of course. Detective stuff, you know.”
Chad did know. In fact, surprisingly, he’d read a couple of them, alone in the lamplight on his sofa, far from the jungle villages, glass of wine in hand, a smile on his face. He’d always guessed who’d done it—of course, but that wasn’t her point; it was how and why he had done it. Chad appreciated that.
Having tea with Aunt Jolly, he’d eyed his hostess over the edge of the cup, seeing beyond her age to the beauty she had surely been. She was in her seventies then but her face was unlined, no sag to her neck and definitely no plastic surgery. Simply good genes. Beauty never disappeared, it simply grew softer with time.
“I want you to have this.” She’d handed him a piece of blue writing paper torn from a pad. “I put everything in here, so there’ll be no problem. Mirabella gets my money, but you get the land that runs contiguous with yours. And the villa of course. On condition it is kept exactly the way it is now. I love this place, it’s always meant ‘home’ to me. And family. I’d like to think it will always be the same because you own the land next to it, you are the only one I feel I can trust to do this. I believe you care about it, just the way I do.”