The Charmers: A Novel(44)
Okay, so now he was out on the lane, dodging the young parking attendants in their red jackets running back and forth as though their lives depended on getting cars in the right spot and returning them fast for the no-doubt lavish tips. He knew all about that, he’d been there, done that, once upon a time, as he’d also been the waiter, a role he’d played again tonight. The white apron was stuffed in the backseat, along with the bow tie, an item he considered a symbol of servitude. He was no waiter, not anymore he wasn’t. He’d played that role many times in his life for real. Not like now. Now it was for big money and he was off to collect it. The Boss had better be ready for him. Plus, he’d sell him the pearls. He was sure he’d want to give them back to Mirabella.
At the beach, the lights were still on everywhere. Police dogs were sniffing every bush and sand dune. The Villa Mara was lit like a friggin’ birthday cake. Music still wafted into the night, people still stood around with drinks clutched in their hands, heads together, talking urgently. Wait a minute, wasn’t that the Boss himself? Running down the sandy path leading to his bunker? And wait again, wasn’t that Chad Prescott sneaking along behind him? Well now, that was good news. With Chad Prescott otherwise engaged, it meant Mirabella would be alone. Perhaps now he could get the deed done; kill two birds with one stone, so to speak—Mirabella for money and the string of pearls for more money. This was going to be his night. After this he could retire.
He got back in the car and reversed along the lane, waving a disparaging hand at the parking guys that got in his way and who shouted at him, like he had no right to be there. Fuck them. This was his turf.
Of course he knew the Villa Romantica. He’d done his research when the Boss had first given him the job of eliminating Aunt Jolly. Nice old woman. He had taken her by surprise and she had surprised him. Calm, she was, and in control.
“Well, now, good evening,” she had said to him when he’d appeared in her room out of the blue. Not smiling, mind you, but looking him straight in the eye. She’d glanced back to the teapot she held in her hand. He knew from the pattern it was Wedgwood. Old and valuable too, he’d bet, though there wasn’t much of a market for goods of that nature. Not worth pinching.
“I was just about to have a cup of tea,” she continued. “I hope you’ll consider joining me?”
It had thrown him completely, of course. She was supposed to panic, call out for help, even run. Old though she was he’d bet she could still run. As he watched, speechless, she took a second cup and began to fill it.
“I trust you like Earl Grey. It’s my favorite, a bit lemony tasting, y’know. Refreshing,” she added, with an upward glance and a smile as she offered him the cup and saucer. He noticed her hand did not so much as tremble.
He had enough sense not to accept it. Even though he was wearing gloves, the less he touched the fewer clues left behind.
“To answer an old woman would be polite,” she said, putting down the cup. “Of course you’d have to take off that ridiculous mask,” she added with a tinkling little laugh that annoyed the hell out of him suddenly. “Impossible to drink in one of those, I know from ski trips I made with my niece, Mirabella. I’m assuming you know of whom I speak?”
His confidence was being quickly eroded. She was treating him like a f*ckin’ visitor, not a masked man with a knife in his hand and eyes that glared malevolently at her. Didn’t this woman understand she was about to be murdered? He’d never been in a situation like this before. It had always been get in, do the act, get out fast. Now she was offering him cups of tea for God’s sake.
She turned her back to put down the teapot, and at that moment he had her. The knife slid between her old bones to the heart. He knew his anatomy. Had to, a man with his job.
She remained standing for what seemed to him an eternity, then crumpled to the floor, as though her bones simply withered and gave way. A woman like that, an old woman, it had been her strength of purpose, of character, of dignity and position that had kept her upright. Until she was dead, that is.
For the first time the Russian felt what might have been a pang of remorse. He wasn’t meant to be killing old ladies. He was a wolf: fierce, feral, a street fighter.
He stared for a long moment. The urge to kneel next to her, to take her hand was almost overwhelming. In the end he simply said, “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Then turned his back, left the way he’d come in, through the open french windows.
When, he wondered, would people ever learn that an open french window was an open invitation to men like him? Too late now. What was done, was done. He would go immediately and collect his king’s ransom from the Boss. Plus the bonus he would demand. All remorse aside now, he considered it a job well done.
He suddenly realized there was only one problem. He’d left without the painting, which was an equal part of his commission. He glanced in the rearview mirror. People everywhere. Christ, too late to go back. He’d just have to bluff it out with the Boss. Claim there was no painting. It was already gone.
Part III
Jerusha and the Past
The Beginning
Mirabella
I spent days sitting at Verity’s bedside, at first simply staring at her, sleeping or in a coma, or perhaps something worse. I was afraid for her, afraid for myself. I could not stand it and finally I succumbed and took along Jerusha’s letter to read. What could be better than going back to the past to take my mind off the present day?