The Charmers (16 page)

I watched him drive away. The house was suddenly silent. The animals had gone into the kitchen. Even the moths had given up beating their frail wings against the lights. No small creatures rustled in the undergrowth; no sweet voice called me, saying,
It's Verity, I'm home, Mirabella, I'm back
 …

I switched off the lamp in the hall and walked to my room, pausing outside the closed door that led to Jerusha's boudoir, the lovely woman whose home I had somehow inherited, with all its beauty and its tragedy. Yet Aunt Jolly had been happy here, and look what happened to her.

I walked into the room, turning the lamps on, closing the heavy cream linen curtains, shutting out the darkness, and any eyes that might be watching. The wind had dropped. As I turned from the window I thought I heard a noise outside. I stood perfectly still, ears straining. No. All was quiet. I told myself I was foolish, imagining things because of Verity's disappearance. Nobody had come to any harm, Chad and the Colonel would find her, they had promised.

But there it was again. The rustle of leaves underfoot.

I froze, a hand clutched to my chest. Then, as always when I was afraid, anger rushed through my veins in a sudden heat. If this was a robber he would not get any of Aunt Jolly's treasures, never, however many times he tried.…

But I also remembered my other near-misses, in the canyon, in my bed. I realized it might not be the treasures they were after. I was suddenly afraid it could be me.

 

28

Chad Prescott

Chad stood on the strip of grass at the edge of the cliff overlooking the beach. It could hardy be called a cliff, more of a steep rise, a climb up from the shore easily doable by any active person in appropriate footwear, sneakers or work boots, but certainly never in dainty female evening sandals, which was what every woman was wearing at the party tonight. Those that had not taken them off, that is, when their heels sank into the grass, and who'd sought firmer ground on the paved terraces. Whatever, everyone had been in plain sight, and that included Verity, right up until the moment she'd wandered into the house, through the door that still stood wide open, though now there were no men in black T-shirts standing guard.

Farther along the beach, above the tide line and away from the lights, he made out the shape of a building—square, boxy almost. No lights shone from it. No men guarded it.

He stood for a while, watching. Nobody came out. Nobody went in. Which made him wonder exactly what it might be. A generator room, perhaps? But no, that was well away from the house, the monstrosity called the Villa Mara, which the Boss called “home” and from where a DJ was now blasting hot dance music the party crowd found hard to resist.

Undecided, he wondered whether to go back to the villa, check every room one more time for Verity, but somehow he knew he would not find Verity there.

He slithered down the slope to the pebbly beach. It was much darker and he waited for his eyes to adjust. The square building was about a hundred yards away. He might have thought it was a storage unit, a place for garden equipment and the like, but this was on a prime bit of shore, worth many dollars per square meter. Not even a billionaire, especially a sharp and successful property developer like the Boss, would squander such top real estate on a garden shed. This had to be important. More, it had to be of great importance to the Boss himself.

He walked silently, the way he'd learned in the jungle, no sound of a footfall or a twig snapping, his dark jacket held closed over his white shirt, head down. He had spent half a lifetime under these circumstances; knew exactly what to do, how to make himself invisible, how to stalk a prey, how to find his way in uncharted territory. This Mediterranean garden was easy.

Now he could see the building close up. There were no windows, not even the old arrow slits of medieval times. This was a modern building, and it was windowless for a purpose. Either the Boss did not want anyone to see in, or he did not want anyone to see out.

A faint noise came from behind. Chad flattened himself against the trunk of a jacaranda tree whose purple blossoms fluttered onto his head. He wanted desperately to sneeze.

A man came hurrying along the gravel path leading to the bunker. It was dark but from his height and his bulk, Chad recognized the Boss. Keys clanked as he walked past, so close Chad could hear his breathing, rapid breaths, as though he'd been running. He stopped in front of the bunker, keys rattling in his hand. He pressed a button and a swathe of ivy-clad wall slid magically to one side, revealing a steel door. The Boss inserted his key, stepped through the door into darkness, and the ivy-covered wall slid back into place, as though the door had never been.

Chad waited a few minutes to see whether the Boss might be coming back. When he realized he was not, he ran silently to where he'd seen the door. He grappled with the ivy but could not get it to move. For all intents and purposes the door did not exist.

Chad wondered if the Boss could be holding Verity captive there. But why would he? He was a well-known philanthropist, a man of the world, businessman supreme. The Boss could call the shots, have almost any woman he wanted; many women at his own party tonight would have been only too delighted to share his bed, share his fame, his glamour and his money. Yet if there was one thing Chad had learned it was that appearances could be deceptive. Money did not make a man. A man was where he was born, how he was raised. In the end that was what he was.

The door to the bunker was suddenly flung open. Chad slid deeper into the darkness of the trees. The Boss strode out. He slammed the door and locked it behind him, and again the door disappeared behind the ivy. He was no longer wearing his tuxedo. He had changed into a black turtleneck, running pants, and sneakers. As Chad watched, he strode down the slope to the beach and began to jog in the direction of the villa.

For a second Chad wondered if he had gotten him all wrong; could the Boss still be intent on his search for Verity? Was he so concerned he needed to have looser clothing so he could check the farther reaches of the shore, the wilder parts of the extensive gardens himself, though a dozen men had already checked? Yet this was the Boss's own house, Verity was his guest; she was his responsibility and perhaps he was now taking that responsibility seriously.

From the grassy rise Chad saw the Boss swing up from the beach, then up the steps to the Villa Mara. Chad followed, stopping when he rounded the corner of the villa and saw the assembled video and TV cameras, the pressmen already taking quick shots of the Boss standing there in his special searching-for-the-lost-young-woman outfit.

Unsmiling, the Boss looked into the cameras directed at him. He held up a hand. “I know you are all here for a good reason. Our sole purpose is to find the missing young woman. You will need her name for your reports. She is Verity Real and she was—she is—a guest of Madame Mirabella Matthews at the Villa Romantica.”

“Jolly Matthews's old place,” someone said, catching a quick picture as the Boss glanced his way.

“Exactly. Mirabella is the late Jolly Matthews's second cousin. She inherited the property and has recently come to stay, bringing with her, her friend, Verity. Both were guests at my party tonight. The Colonel, who you all know, of course, is now organizing the search so I'm sure you will excuse me. I'll just let everyone get on with their work.”

He paused, one hand held up in front of him. “One more thing. I am heartbroken that this event has taken place on my property. I feel somehow responsible. I should like to make it known that I am offering a reward for Verity's return. I am speaking to you all, and possibly to someone here that might have taken her from us. That reward is one million dollars.”

A stunned gasp fluttered through the crowd.

“Of course,” he said, holding up his hand again to stop the buzz of comments. “It is not nearly enough to pay for a life. This young woman is here somewhere. We must save her, we must earn that reward.”

He stepped back out of the lights and made his way down the steps, jogging back along the gravel path to the bunker.

From his place in the shadows, Chad watched him go. It was, he thought, the performance of a lifetime. Either the Boss was a born actor, or he was for real.

 

29

Mirabella

Later, I was back in my bedroom at the Villa Romantica, still hoping Verity would come through the door, when again I thought I heard someone outside.

I clutched a hand to my chest, holding my breath, afraid any small sound might tell an intruder I was there. Yet if he were an expert intruder obviously he would already know that, and also know I was alone.

So where was my dog? Why had Sossy not rushed barking to my side to alert me? Had the Siamese simply gone back to beautifying herself, licking her paws, washing her velvet ears? And what about that friggin' canary? Wasn't it supposed to sing? Tell me the way it told the coal miners in those underground tunnels that there was danger around? Even Chad, who'd gone to get me something as simple as a cup of tea was not here when I needed him.

The cream linen curtains billowed inward in a sudden wind. Somebody must have opened the window. I froze, expecting to see a pair of feet, a shadowy figure.

A small art deco lamp sat on the side table. It had a straight copper base etched with a pattern of wavy lines, topped with a bronze parchment shade.

I picked it up. It was heavier than I'd thought and I almost dropped it. That would have taken care of my foot … and what would the Colonel have thought when he found my dead body with one smashed foot? That my killer was a fetishist of some kind?
What
killer?

I was a fool, I was acting crazy. I told myself to settle down, get ahold of myself, get a grip.… A calm came over me, a sudden resolve. I would not go gently into this night … I was a fighter and whoever it was, I would fight.

I wished I were properly dressed though. In my girly butterfly-printed pj's I felt vulnerable. I needed my jeans, my shoes on, to be ready for running. The big empty hallway was in complete darkness.

I had no choice. It was now or never. A swift turn of my hand and the door opened without a sound. No one was there. I slid through the crack. With my back to the wall, I edged, like a cat, along the side of the villa.

Minutes passed, how many I could not tell. All I knew was the too-loud noise of my own breathing, the feel of the damp of the grass under my bare feet, the prickle of a thorn from a rosebush that smelled sweetly in the dark. And then the muted roar of a car's engine.

I slid to the ground, flattening myself so my outline would not show under the glare of its headlights. Dazzled, I peered into the night, saw a convertible.…
Oh dear God, thank you, thank you
.… It was Chad. And he was carrying a paper cup that I'd bet contained tea.

 

30

A short while later, I sat on the edge of the bed, hands still shaking as I sipped the tea that by this time was cold.

Chad said, “I have to get back to the Villa Mara.”

“I'm coming with you.” I got up and made for the closet where I knew my jeans would be on the floor, exactly where I'd stepped out of them.

Uncaring of modesty, I simply turned my back, pulled off the pajama bottoms, and tugged on the jeans. Somehow I knew Chad had turned his back too. Ever the gent, I supposed, though I kind of wished he'd sneaked a peek, shown some interest in the feminine side of me, and not merely the detective/novel writer who was no good at real life detecting and had not so much as a clue as to where her lovely friend had gone.

“She must be somewhere at the party,” I said, desperate now because I felt in my bones it was possible someone had really harmed Verity.

He held me by the shoulders. Tea slopped all over my jeans. He said, “I'm going alone. You must stay here where you will be safe.”

“Look what you've done.” I dabbed at the wet spot. “Good thing it's not hot.”

“Get back into bed. I'm better off without you.”

I knew it wasn't true.

The fireworks that delighted the partiers crashed through the silence. Rockets whizzed, Catherine wheels whirred, red-and-blue lights flickered over our faces, mine anxious, his stony.

I thought of the Colonel, of how he'd helped me search the house for Verity, how he'd helped the Boss summon men to aid them, of the Boss calling the chief of police to the area. The Colonel had held my hand as we walked through the Villa Mara, told me not to worry, he would find her.…

I sat looking up at Chad. With him and the Colonel and the Boss all looking for my friend, I was in good hands. Yet I had to be there. I had to know. I walked out into the hall.

Chad was right behind me, a hand on my shoulder again, a gesture of comfort now.

“Don't worry,” he said. “It's going to be alright.”

This time I did not know whether I believed him.

The Russian

The young Russian, all in black, with a long white apron tied around his middle and knotted in front, French waiter–style, hovered with his tray of martinis on the edge of the party crowd. He circulated, restocking every now and then from the bar. He had no fear of being asked why he wasn't one of the usual waiters. Staff had been imported for this event, so nobody knew who anybody was. Anyone at all, he thought with a grim smile, could have infiltrated the Boss's party. Anyone at all might have slipped a little something into a woman's drink. And anyone had. Namely himself, at the orders of the Boss, of course, who could never be seen to get his hands dirty. Plus he paid well. Extra well, sometimes, when extra things were asked for and received.

He'd taken care of business. No “funny business,” mind you. Just done as he'd been asked: drugged the girl, got her into the bunker. What the Boss did with her after that had nothing to do with him.