The Charmers (13 page)

Aunt Jolly took a photo in a silver frame from the side table. “This is Jerusha.”

The picture was of a tall, rounded woman, her long red braid tumbling over shoulders bared in a low-cut evening dress, one foot in a silvery slipper peeping from the ruffled hem, a slender arm resting along the back of a silk chair, a cluster of lily of the valley in her hand. Her eyes looked into the camera confidently, Chad thought almost challengingly, as though she had to meet life and cameras dead-on.

Aunt Jolly said, “Jerusha was a woman who fought to get where she was, Dr. Prescott, and she was enjoying the fruits of her labors. Until she met the man who caused her downfall.” She took his empty cup. “More tea?”

“Thank you. And it's
Chad,
please.”

“Well, with women, it's usually one of two things that get them in the end. The first is money, lack of it, or working out how to get it. The second is a man. Personally I've always thought the man should be placed first. My cousin, Mirabella's mother, had other ideas, which is why she got herself into trouble, and hence, years later, the reason for Mirabella. Who, it seems from all I hear, and the little I know of her, is a very smart cookie.” She smiled. “I do so like that expression, ‘smart cookie.' Do have another Garibaldi, Dr. Chad.”

“Just Chad.” He took the cookie though he did not want it.

She put the plate back on the tray and got to her feet. “It has been nice seeing you, Dr. Chad. I have a feeling in my bones we shall not meet again.”

*   *   *

Now, standing on the steps of the Villa Romantica, gazing into the hallway, Chad remembered the old lady who had met her end so violently here. He wanted to know why.

 

22

Mirabella

I'm looking at myself in the long mirror, dressed for the Boss's party, all snazzy in long aqua chiffon, cut low on the bosom and narrow on the hip, flaring out just sufficiently at the hem to make walking possible, though not probable. This dress, and the heels I'm wearing to accompany it, strappy gold five-inch sandals in fact, are definitely not meant for walking. In an outfit like this I might make it from a limo into a New York restaurant, but it's doubtful I'll make it into the front seat of that low-slung Jag. That is after squashing Verity into the back, though of course Verity is less disabled by her outfit, which consists, as far as I can make out, of a swathe of white silk hitched high on her right thigh, low to the knee on the left, with a strapless silvery bustier that clutches her small breasts in a lover's grip, sending them spilling nicely over the top.

I smoothed my silver gloves, put on the sapphire ring. Verity was standing next to me. “Is that really what you're going to wear?”

“That's it.” I took the aggressor role before she could get onto me, as I knew she was going to, about being a bit more daring.

“At your age you should be flaunting it a bit. Shorter is almost always better. Wait, though, I have an idea.”

She dashed out of my room and returned moments later, brandishing a pair of scissors.

I held out a hand to ward her off. “What are you, girl, mad? This is an expensive dress, bought specially for the occasion, and I am a woman in my forties who knows her style and is sticking to it.”

“But you have great legs.” She stopped in front of me, twirling the scissors around three fingers. “We women must always understand what our assets are and make the most of them. That way men won't notice our shortcomings. Like for instance your hair,” she added, eyeing her scissors once again.

“Jesus, girl, you
are
mad.” I retreated farther, hands up to my newly styled hair. I had taken a couple of hours out of my busy schedule and submitted myself to the ministrations of the hairdresser in the town square, a young man who did everybody of note in the area. Nobody went to the posh salons when they were on vacation in the South of France and dipping in and out of the sea or the pool all day. Waste of money. Even for that upmarket event the Boss's party promised to be.

“Put those scissors down,” I ordered. Thankfully, Verity obeyed.

“But it's so stiff,” she complained. “Your lovely red hair, sprayed to within an inch of its beautiful life. Wait, I'll take care of it, I'll set it free.” She grabbed a brush, shoved me into the chair in front of the mirror, and attacked my mane vigorously.

“Tilt your head forward,” she commanded. I obeyed.

“Up now, toss your hair back, shake your head.”

I did so.

“There, take a look at that,” she said proudly.

I looked, and looked again. I twisted my head to the left, to the right, shook my hair out again. It shone, a burnished red-gold cloud of waves in a way it never had before.

“How do you know how to do all this?” I asked, amazed.

Verity shrugged. “All girls know. I just don't know what to do about the dress without lopping off a chunk. But since you're not about to allow me to do that, we'll just have to divert attention.”

She studied me again, more closely. “I know. A necklace. Something big, dramatic.”

“Don't have one,” I said firmly. I did not want a chunk of gold choking me. I just wanted to get this over with, torture-by-outfit was not making me a happy girl. But then I remembered the pearls, the ones Aunt Jolly had given me a few years ago when I was visiting the villa. I was more into bikinis than jewelry, but she had hung that heavy rope of pearls around my neck where it fell to just below my breasts.

I kept them in the wall-safe hidden behind a row of sweaters in the closet. Of course, all my sweaters were black; I never was one for change. I hadn't checked recently but I hoped the pearls were still there.

I opened the safe and breathed a sigh of relief. There they were, wrapped in the same piece of crumpled tissue, exactly the way she'd handed them to me. I held them up to show Verity.

She actually jumped up and down and clapped her hands together. “OMG! Perfect!”

She let them slide through her fingers as she put them over my head. “Like silk,” she said reverently.

I rearranged them so they sat nicely on the base of my neck and fell more prettily across my chest, ending exactly between the curve of my breasts, which themselves looked much improved with the added gleam of a pearl or two. “They can't be real, of course,” I said. “Cultured, I believe the word is; probably grown in Japanese oysters or mussels or something seaweedy like that.”

Verity lifted the pearls, inspecting them intently. Had she had a jeweler's loupe I might have thought she was a professional.

“Wrong,” she said. “My mom had pearls like this. She sold them when we were broke. They brought in enough to pay off the mortgage for a few years 'til my dad went broke again and they lost the house anyway. I always wished she'd kept them. They would have been my only inheritance. My parents went and got themselves killed—a holiday helicopter jaunt in Majorca, and there was nothing left. And then my husband who'd mistakenly thought he'd married big, not only cheated on me but then he stole the rest of my money. And that's when I met you.”

Suddenly tearful, she put her arms around me and I gave her a hug.

“Don't worry, sweetie,” I whispered in the ear closest to me. “You know I'll always look after you, real pearls or not.”

She wiped a tear with a finger, leaving a streak of purplish mascara. “I'm alright,” she said. “And your Aunt Jolly not only left you her villa and whatever money she had, she also left you a fortune, right here, around your neck.”

Of course I did not believe it. How could I? To me they were simply a string of creamy, evenly matched pearls that surely would never come up to the standard of the late Queen Mary who'd draped herself with multiple strands of the best until she looked like a decorated doll. Plus she'd added a few diamonds of extra-large size. The story also went that she had had a shifty hand in removing anything she fancied from the homes of friends or her hosts, to the point where things were hidden before her arrival. A kleptomaniac queen was a nice touch, I had always thought.

But what if Verity were correct and these pearls were the real thing? I hefted them in my hand: weighty, smooth, properly strung with tiny knots in the silk between each bead.

I said, “Well, anyway, I'm wearing them tonight. Aunt Jolly would have liked to see me in them. I expect that's why she gave them to me.”

I had a sudden thought. “I wonder if these were what the thief was after when he came into my room. Maybe he didn't want to get rid of
me
. He simply wanted the pearls. He was a cat burglar after all.”

I saw Verity's skeptical expression, but right then the doorbell played “La Marseillaise.” Chad Prescott awaited us.

Cinderella would go to the ball.

 

23

Chad Prescott

At the Boss's villa, the first team of red-jacketed valet parkers was already racing back from the long-distance lot, while the second team picked up guests in golf carts so they did not have to wait in the long line of traffic.

“This must be some party,” Chad said to Mirabella, in the convertible's passenger seat, her long dress hitched up over her knees, a swathe of chiffon keeping her hair intact in the breeze, old-movie-star style. Still, Chad thought, what hair was visible looked as though it had been tamed with a proper brush and comb instead of the usual flaring red mass spiraling from her head as though she'd been electric-shocked. Well, maybe not quite that bad, but definitely out of control.

“What did you expect from the local billionaire?” Mirabella said. “A dinner for twenty? Port and cheese afterward for the gents? Ladies retire to the withdrawing room to powder their noses?”

Sort of like that.” He threw her a grin, which he knew she knew meant he didn't mean it.

“There he is, our host, the Boss himself, out on the steps to greet us,” Verity said. She was squashed in the Jag's tiny back space meant for nothing more than a weekend bag and maybe a dog or two, knees under her chin, valiantly holding down her short skirt.

“So he is,” Mirabella noticed. “I'd forgotten how good-looking he is,” she added. The Boss was smart, even chic, in a dinner jacket that slid over his broad shoulders as though it was made for them, which of course it was. The Boss would not stoop to ready-to-wear; he was way beyond that. Just take a look at his villa, a palace. Lights gleaming from every window, gardens lit so every blossom showed its petals, even the sea was prettily floodlit to show its cresting white waves. Tall, black-lacquered tubs were placed on the steps leading to the open front door, each with a flowering syringa bush whose lilac scent permeated the night air. Music filtered from the terraces along with the sound of laughter, the clink of ice in glasses.

The Boss spotted them and came quickly over, holding out his arms to help lift Verity from the tight backseat. “Welcome to my party.”

She quickly tugged down her white silk skirt, which unfortunately had creased on the short journey.

But the Boss's eyes were not on Verity's skirt right now. They had moved on to Mirabella. His prey was here, on his turf.

Chad went to help Mirabella, but the Boss was there first, already holding open the door, eyes checking her head to toe.

“I remember your aunt wearing those pearls,” the Boss said as he walked with her up the steps.

“Is that right?” She was surprised because to her knowledge Aunt Jolly had rarely worn the pearls. “Well, now they are mine,” she added, patting them against her chest.

“Those and the Villa Romantica,” he said. “My, aren't you the lucky girl.”

Mirabella gave him a quick sideways look. Could he be laughing at her? “I am a lucky girl to have had an aunt like Jolly Matthews. We didn't see each other often, but there was always a connection.”

“Which I assume is why she left you her property.”

She gave him another sideways glance, but he was looking away from her. She thought surely they would not be going to get into this “sell me your land” business at the party.

“Chad.” The Boss had moved on and was shaking Prescott's hand. “I think you will find everything you need, and whatever drink you want, it's available. Pink champagne, of course, as always. And my chefs have prepared a veritable banquet. They do so love the opportunity to show off their talents.”

Mounting the steps, Chad thought he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, behind the line of waiting valet parkers, of a man he recognized. The next minute he was gone. Now Chad remembered who he was. He'd seen him on the café terrace. He was the man known as “the Russian.”

 

24

Mirabella

This is the grandest party I have ever attended. My life as a writer is by its nature solitary, except for those spurts in between books when I escape into what I call “the real world” and take myself off to places like Paris or Venice, where I gorge on historic beauty, and where I prefer to be alone. Other places, for more intimate reasons, I travel with the man of the moment, though lately, no one special enough to last the course all the way to the altar. I recently contemplated getting engaged, but he changed his mind before I could. So there it was, three down, all escapees from my clutches, and maybe more to go. Not many though, are as attractive as Chad Prescott, even though I consider him a shit and full of himself. Still, he is good-looking and a good doctor, I'll have to give him that. And now, he is my escort for the party of the year.

Never doubt the allure of a man in a tuxedo; there's just something about that crisp black-and-white look, or maybe it's simply seeing a man wearing a jacket in this era of casual dressing that can make a girl's heart flutter.

He put a hand under my elbow as we walked up the steps and into the Villa Mara. The Boss, our beaming host, was already holding Verity's hand firmly in his own. She threw back her head in a laugh and I wondered what he was saying that was so amusing. I was uneasy. She was so unworldly. She had already been taken by one man, and this one was rich and powerful, a dangerous combination to any young woman.