Meet Me in Venice (11 page)

After Oscar died, of course all his money and the castle had gone to her. Nevertheless, the day after the will was read, Grizelda had packed her bags, including her wedding dress and her dog—a pale pug named Jolly—and departed for warmer and more exciting climes. With the fading memory of those long dull years with irascible Oscar, she had never returned to the Schloss.

Today the morning was blue and clear, the way it so often was in the South of France at the end of October, and without the heavy summer traffic it was a pleasure to drive the Corniche road, high above the coast with the sea stretching into infinity to meet the sky. Grizelda knew that road like the back of her hand. It was carved from the side of the mountain and she’d been driving it for
years. It held no terrors for her, though she knew it did for tourists. Even though Princess Grace had not been killed on this particular stretch, many people worried that the same fate might happen to them; a second’s lack of attention, a slight loss of control, was all it would take to end up in the rocky gorge to her left.

She idled along in the big silver Bentley, taking her time, thinking over the arrangements. Mimi was in charge of the music and so far she had organized a string quartet to play at the prewed-ding party at the Palazzo, and an organist for the church. Now she was at home, on the phone in the midst of negotiations for a dance band to play at the reception. Meanwhile Sylvie Verlaine was in charge of the menu. Grizelda was sure it would all work out satisfactorily, but she still wished Preshy had given her a month or two more notice. With a little more time she could have done it all so much better.

The road began to descend, winding around curves. It was quiet. There was no one in front of her and only a couple of cars had passed on the other side. Switching on the radio, she was searching for a station that played “oldies but goodies” when, glancing in her rearview mirror, she noticed a white truck behind her. She thought that it was traveling too fast, and frowning, she honked her horn. The driver took no notice. She flashed her lights in warning and put her foot to the metal, taking the curves faster than she liked in an attempt to get out of his way. But still he did not slow down. Now he was right behind her.

She slammed her hand on the horn and left it there. He was almost upon her, close enough that had the truck’s windows not been so dark she would have been able to see the driver’s face.
Sweat filmed the back of her neck as fear hit her.
He was trying to run her off the road . . .

She felt the thud as the truck grazed her bumper . . .
he was crazy . . .
oh Christ, what was happening . . . she couldn’t drive at this speed . . . she would die . . .
but she couldn’t die yet . . .
she couldn’t miss Preshy’s wedding . . . . She had to use her head . . . .
Think,
she told herself,
think!
She knew the road well . . . . There was an emergency lay-by carved from the rock on the other side just around the bend . . .

Praying there was nothing coming the other way, she swung the Bentley across the road, simultaneously slamming on the brakes. The car slid sideways, it swung round once, twice, three times before hitting the rock face, hard. The air bags exploded and she was slammed back in her seat, shaking and screaming her head off. But she was alive. And the madman in the white truck had flown past her and was gone.

Still shaking, she sat with the air bag in her face, telling herself not to panic. The car ticked and groaned; steam surged from under the hood and a thin trail of smoke escaped from the back. She knew she had to get out; it might burst into flames any minute.

To her surprise the door opened easily and then she was standing out on the road, cursing the mad bastard who had done this to her—and to her beautiful silver-gray Bentley.

Staring forlornly at the wreckage of her car, she asked herself, bewildered, what the hell that was all about.

Later, when she had been checked out at the hospital and Mimi had arrived in tears to fetch her, they talked about it.

Mimi said,
“Chérie,
somebody wanted to kill you. They wanted you dead.”

Grizelda glared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mimi. Why would anyone want me dead? Except maybe my husband and he’s long gone and ghosts don’t come back for vengeance. At least I don’t think so,” she added doubtfully. “No, it was just the act of a madman, and I don’t want you to bother Preshy with it. She’d only worry about nothing.” Then, remembering, “And dammit, I still didn’t get to see the flower man. Now I’ll have to go tomorrow.”

“Well this time I’m coming with you,” Mimi said grimly. She didn’t think the incident was “nothing” and she wasn’t at all happy about madmen driving women off the road. In fact it made Mimi very uneasy.

SHANGHAI

B
ENNETT
flew from Paris to Singapore, then took a connecting flight to Shanghai. It arrived at Pudong Airport twenty minutes late. He hurried through immigration and customs, then into the arrivals hall, where a limo driver was waiting for him. While the man went to fetch the car, Bennett called Mary-Lou.

“I’m back,” he said, when she answered.

There was a long silence, then, “I didn’t even know you’d gone,” she retorted, making him smile.

“You mean you didn’t miss me?”

“Not one bit.”

“Then you don’t want to see me tonight?”

“Only if you beg me.”

Bennett laughed. “I’m begging,” he said.

“All right. Where?”

“Your place, at eight.” He had a lot to talk over with her and he needed to do it in private.

SHE WAS AT THE DOOR
to greet him when he rang her bell at exactly eight. No words passed between them. She was in his arms, kissing him. He was holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, kissing her as though he intended to eat her up. He hooked a foot behind him and slammed the door shut. She threw back her head, looking at him.

“That’s quite a welcome,” he said, smiling down at her. “And did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

“You did not, but you may tell me now,” she said, taking the champagne from him and leading him to the small bar where an ice bucket awaited. She swished the bottle around in the ice and took two flutes from the shelf, waiting for him to open it. He filled the glasses, picked them up and gave her one.

“To us,” he said, smiling right into her eyes, the way he always used to, and sending nervous little tremors down her spine. Still, she was careful not to mention the thing uppermost on her mind, and instead she sipped the champagne and asked how his trip was.

“Paris was okay,” he said, walking to the window and staring out at the sludge-colored river and the surging traffic below.

Mary-Lou paced nervously behind him. Because she was concerned about good
feng shui,
she had hung a large crystal in front
of the window, to repel the bad
chi
from the evil Dragon River Gods. She never questioned whether she really believed this or not, she just went along with it on the basis that it couldn’t hurt and who knew, it might be true. Her ancestors had believed in it for centuries, hadn’t they? Much good it had done her parents though; they’d had enough bad
chi
to send them to an early grave, crystals or no crystals.

But watching Bennett staring out of her window, she surely hoped it was working now. She still hadn’t heard from Voortmann and she needed all the luck she could get.

Standing behind him, she said, “Shall we eat now? Or shall we go to bed?”

Bennett turned to look at her. “Guess,” he said.

MUCH LATER, WHILE BENNETT SHOWERED,
Mary-Lou opened the take-out cartons she’d had the forethought to buy from the local restaurant. She put them on the coffee table with a bottle of Tsingtao beer and a glass chilled almost to an icicle in the freezer. Bennett liked his beer cold.

His clothes were flung across the sofa and she gathered them up, stooping to pick up the wallet that had fallen from his pants pocket. Something bulky was stuffed inside. It was a tissue. Smoothing it out, she read the phone number written in lipstick. And the name. Preshy Rafferty.

“Oh my God,”
she whispered, clutching the wallet to her chest.
“Oh my God, you bastard.
. . .”

When Bennett came out of the bathroom, she said nothing about the tissue, now carefully tucked away in her own purse. She poured his beer and served his food and they knelt on cushions at the low coffee table to eat.

Bennett wanted to talk business but he was aware of Mary-Lou’s silence. Of course she was angry because he’d simply left her without saying anything, and the truth was he
had
never intended to see her again. But now, as the old adage went, he wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He needed her.

“Do you love me, Bennett?” she asked after a while.

His eyes flicked coldly toward her. Love was not an issue between them. He picked up a spear of asparagus with his chopsticks. “We are alike, you and I, Mary-Lou,” he said. “We both have hearts of steel.” He stared at her, still able to admire her beauty. “I doubt you’ve ever loved anyone in your entire life.”

“And did you love Ana?”

His glance turned even colder. He ignored what she had said. “You and I have a business deal,” he said instead. “I came here to tell you I’ve found a buyer in Paris who’s interested. He’s willing to pay a deposit pending delivery, but naturally he wants a guarantee that what he’s promised is what he’ll get. I need to see that necklace.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then there’s no deal.”

She stared angrily at him, eating his dinner so calmly while she was in a turmoil. “Who is Preshy Rafferty?”

He put down the chopsticks. “Why do you ask?”

“Her number was in your wallet. Written in lipstick.”

He got to his feet and shrugged on his jacket. “Thanks for dinner, Mar y-Lou,” he said, walking to the door.

“Wait,” she called.

But Bennett did not wait. He didn’t have to. He knew he would get the necklace. She’d be back to him, and soon.

V
OORTMANN
was having trouble with his contact in Amsterdam. “How big are the stones?” he’d asked. “What’s their rating? The diamonds are old, they’ll have an old-fashioned cut . . . .”

No matter how Voortmann tried, he could not get the man—an expert gemologist who knew his trade but little else—to understand the special circumstances of the Empress’s jewels, and especially the giant pearl. He’d need to look elsewhere for a buyer, and where better than right here in Shanghai?

At seven that evening he was, as usual, in the Surging Hot Waters Bar, a massive low-end dive of a place patronized by three levels of drinkers: men out for a night’s social drinking and entertainment enhanced by the hot “bar girls”; men escaping from their families and drowning their marital woes; and the alcoholics like
himself. The first two groups were a shifting population, different every night, but he knew everyone in the third group. Like him, they were always there. And at least two of them came from rich Shanghainese families.

Voortmann went every night to the bar for over a week, waiting for them to show up. The latest pop music pounded at an ear-splitting level from enormous speakers but he was so used to it he barely noticed. He drank his Scotch straight, not gulping it, just sipping; never getting loud; never falling down. He was, he told himself proudly, a refined drunk. And just the kind of man the rich Shanghainese would talk to. He’d done business with them before, in a small way, fencing jewels stolen from their wives, when their families had cut off the money until they reformed and stopped drinking and whoring.

A couple of hours later, he spotted them at a table in a dark corner, a bottle of Scotch in front of them.

He pushed his way through the crowd. “Good evening,” he said.

They nodded good evening back and he waited for them to invite him to sit at their table. When they did not, he said, “Gentlemen, you have done business with me before. Now I have something that will be of interest to you.” Not waiting for their invitation this time, he pulled up a chair, signaled the barkeep for another drink and sat down.

He took the photograph from his pocket and laid it on the table between them. “Feast your eyes on this, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. “I guarantee it will put money in all our pockets.”

The two men peered through the gloom at the photo. One picked it up, studying it. “Did you steal this?” he asked.

Voortmann shook his head.

“I know where it is,” he said. “I could have it to you tomorrow. At a price.”

“Such as?”

This time Voortmann downed his Scotch instead of sipping it, and this time the Shanghainese filled up his empty glass. “First I have a story to tell you, my friends,” he said softly.

When he had finished the two Shanghainese glanced at each other. “We could go to jail for this,” one said.

“How much?” said the other.

“Thirty million.” Voortmann came up with a number. “But for you, I will make it ten, so you can sell it on and make a good profit.”

The Shanghainese knew that the necklace was priceless, but they were not collectors, and they didn’t need to risk being imprisoned for buying it.

They filled his glass to the brim, watching as he drank it down. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

“Tell us,” one said, “who has this priceless object?”

But Voortmann still had enough smarts about him to know not to tell. He shook his head. “Just let me know if you want it or not, my friends,” he said, getting up and heading back to the bar.

But the Shanghainese were no friends of his.

M
ARY-LOU
couldn’t resist. She called Preshy Rafferty’s number and got an answering machine.

“Bonjour, Rafferty Antiques, Preshy Rafferty speaking,”
the voice said in French.
“If you wish to leave a message, please do so at the tone.”

Anger churned like molten lead in Mary-Lou’s stomach. She felt sick. Was Bennett romancing Lily’s cousin in the hope of marrying another heiress? She wouldn’t put it past him.