Giselle threw open the front door for two of her oldest friends, who moved past her carrying a painting between them.
“What on earth?” She hadn’t expected them to bring anything other than, maybe, a wheel of cheese.
Laetitia moved awkwardly into the grand foyer, clutching the gilded frame as her long legs backpedaled, and her fine brown hair hung in her eyes. She flicked her head in an effort to see, and blew an air kiss at Giselle.
“It’s your Caillebotte, Gigi. Thanks for loaning it to Pierre. Wait till you see his copy.”
“Right. I forgot.” Giselle reached out to scoop a bit of hair behind her friend’s ear.
Solange strutted past holding the other end of the painting, pretending she was dancing in a conga line. She was shaking her ample derriere to music only she could hear from her ear buds. She blew an air kiss and called out loudly as she passed, “Bah! Gigi! You’re all sweaty and dirty! Fuck, you look good enough to turn me on!”
“I’ve been working…and you’re not a lesbian.”
Solange winked, but Giselle was pretty sure she couldn’t hear her over her private concert. She plucked the buds from her friend’s ears, and reached to help with the painting. Together they set it against the far wall of the foyer, then Giselle leaned close to Solange’s shoulder and put a bud in her own ear.
“Ah! Now I get the conga moves!”
Solange clipped her little device onto Giselle’s dress.
“It’s Queen’s “I Want to Break Free,” my new favorite song.” She conga-ed over to greet Fauve and Henri, who were coming in the door.
Henri gaped at Giselle and pretended to be horrified.
“Tell me what kind of art theft was just averted? Why were those two crazies carrying a painting that should have been hanging safely here in your château?”
“Don’t play dumb. Pierre was copying it.” Fauve walked past him to greet Laetitia. “Did he get accepted to L’École des Beaux-Arts?”
“We don’t know yet.” The lanky brunette pushed out her lower lip. “But he’s positively obsessed with Caillebotte now. When we were in Paris for the student exhibition, we went to visit his grave in Père Lachaise Cemetery.” Then suddenly looking pleased, she beamed. “It turned out to be a very romantic afternoon, and we even found some privacy in the mausoleum across from Caillebotte’s.”
“Wow, gettin’ it on in a mausoleum. How Goth,” Solange smirked.
Giselle walked over to examine Solange’s hair. “I brought an artist here to help me, and he lives over near Père Lachaise.” Taking a handful of the newly bleached locks she asked, “When did you bleach your hair?”
“Um, two days ago. I think I look like Debbie Harry, non?” Solange ruffled her fingers through her hair to muss it up. “So, you brought an artist here to help?”
“Oui. He’s getting cleaned up now. You’ll meet him soon.”
Fauve looked around and asked Laetitia, “Where are your brothers?”
“They’re coming with Pierre. They’ll be here any time now.”
As Giselle swooped over to offer Henri and Fauve little kisses of greeting, Carolette came bursting dramatically through the door wearing her typical skin-tight dress with as much cleavage as she could manage spilling from her scooped neckline, her stilettos clacking on the marble floor.
“My spin instructor is married!” she wailed.
The group shared a quick, “Oh no, not again” look, and Laetitia said, “Oh, Carolette, I told you he was no good.” She looked at her lovelorn buddy. “He’s a dog.”
Proving how upset she was, Carolette walked right past the hall mirror without so much as a glance at her hair, which was in a fetching low beehive up-do with a spray that made her blonde hair shine. “Right! That’s what he is! A cur!” Carolette looked crushed.
“Did you just use the word ‘cur’?” Henri asked
“What? Oui, you know a mongrel dog.”
“I didn’t know we were throwing out old fashioned words.” Clearly uncomfortable on the man-bashing subject, he tried to lighten the mood.
“I can use old-fashioned words. And what kind of man spends that much time caressing a single woman’s behind while she’s spinning…when he’s married?”
“A dog,” Giselle and Laetitia replied in unison.
Giselle moved over to give Carolette’s cheek a quick peck and then headed for the stairs.
“Forgive me. I’ve only just now stopped working. I’ve got to run upstairs and rinse this sweat and cement dust off me. You all go back to the kitchen and get yourselves something to drink. I’ll be right down.”
As the group headed toward the kitchen, Giselle heard a shout.
“Fuck!”
“What?” Giselle yelled down the stairs.
Solange yelled back, “Oh nothing. Selma just scared the shit out of us! She was sneaking around here in the dark dining room and then lit candle.”
Selma raised her voice, “I’m not sneaking, I’m creating ambiance, Blondie.”
“Well, try to create some noise while you’re doing it. We didn’t know you were here,” Solange griped loudly.
“Really? My bike’s parked right by the front steps.”
Giselle went to her bedroom suite where she showered, pulled a fresh dress over her head, and drew a comb through her damp hair. As she entered the dining room, she saw that everyone had arrived except for Markus. She sighed happily. This was going to be just the sort of night at home with her friends that she longed for when she was away. They’d carried food in from the kitchen, and arranged trays of sandwiches, fruits, and snacks on the sideboard so they could make plates as they liked.
Solange, who was tending the fire, stopped poking the glowing wood and called, “Gigi, what was that dance you did in the talent contest that one time?”
“Which one?”
“The seductive one, that went like this…” Solange raised her arms and swiveled her hips.
“You look like you’re struggling into a pair of Spanx,” Laetitia guffawed.
Solange stuck her tongue out at her detractor. “Don’t mock me.” But she caught sight of herself in a wall mirror and nodded while still swiveling. “Oh, God! You’re right! I look like my aunt Germaine getting into her girdle!”
Giselle popped a pear slice into her mouth and wiped her hands on a napkin. “It wasn’t for the talent contest. It was for that adaptation we did of Oscar Wilde’s Salomé for drama class.”
She walked over to Solange and became serious, getting into character. She slowly shifted her weight onto her right leg, then lifted her left foot and stepped it in front of her, just resting on the toe. Snaking her arms seductively upward and then moving them just so, as if she was caressing a column of smoke, she began to undulate her hips and perform a very slow belly dance.
Auguste commented, “Now why can’t women still dance like that?”
Pierre offered, “So much lovelier than all the krunkin’ girls do nowadays.”
Robert agreed. “Right. How did that ever go out of style? Solange, slower, you’re doing more of a bump and grind.”
Just then Fauve called out, “Markus!”
Heads turned, and Giselle followed their eyes to the door where Markus stood watching her. Henri walked across the room to welcome him as Fauve turned to Carolette. “You’ll have to try to restrain yourself.”
Carolette was staring at Markus with hungry eyes and whispered to Giselle, “You brought me a hot man!”
“Don’t get too excited.” Fauve held up a hand. “I’m sure it’s hands off until they’re done building the sculpture. You know how Giselle works. She won’t be taking any time off, so there’s no way Markus will be free to take you on any dates.”
“There’s no need to go out,” Carolette murmured, staring at him. “He’s got those Eastern Bloc steel-blue eyes and he’s gorgeous. I’d be happy to come to him.” She glanced at Giselle. “You know—when you say it’s okay.”
Selma looked at Pierre and then said
, “He’s not my type, but he’s striking.”
Fauve walked over and took hold of Markus’ arm. “There you are! Were your ears burning? We were just talking about you.” Giselle watched Fauve lead him around the room, gripping his arm and petting him as she made introductions.
“This is Carolette.”
Carolette smiled and took a deep breath, which caused her breasts to practically fall the rest of the way out of her daring neckline. Giselle felt embarrassed at how shameless she acted around men. Apparently her recent romantic disappointment was making her extra forward.
Carolette giggled, “Don’t believe anything they say about me, Markus.” She offered her hand as if she expected him to kiss it.
He took it and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Carolette.”
Fauve rolled her eyes. “We don’t make things up about you, Carolette. The things that happen to you are stranger than fiction.”
Carolette licked her glossy lips. “I’d be happy to show you around when you have a night free.”
“Merci.”
“That’s Selma over there,” Fauve continued.
“We’ve met. Bonsoir, Markus.”
“Bonsoir, Selma.”
Fauve walked him over to Solange, who had stopped dancing. “And this is Solange.”
“Bonsoir,” he said.
Solange looked star struck. “Alo.”
“And that tall drink of water over there is Laetitia.”
“Alo,” she called and gave a little wave.
“Alo.”
The men looked on and rolled their eyes at how the women were reacting to this new acquaintance. Fauve pointed to each of them.
“So you know Henri. And the tall twins are Auguste and Robert, they’re Laetitia’s brothers. And that’s Pierre, and this is Fabrice. We all went to school together, but Fabrice is from Switzerland—he studied here as an exchange student. Just like Vincenzo who came here from Venice to study.”
Henri cleared his throat. “Okay ladies, we’re taking Blue Eyes to shoot pool with the boys. You’re free to do your matchmaking and catch Giselle up on the latest news without us.” He picked up a tray of sandwiches and led the men’s retreat to the game room.
Giselle and her girlfriends carried their food and drinks to the salon, and broke out six decks of cards. Falling into shorthand communication, they chatted and giggled like schoolgirls. Assembled around the table, they played Mort des Rois, a card game they’d made up when they were little. The game required three hundred and twelve cards, which took a long time to shuffle, and was incomprehensible to anyone but them.
“You must tell me, where did you find my future husband?” Carolette shuffled her cards and tossed a king onto the table.
Laetitia nodded enthusiastically. “Oui! And if Carolette gets him, does he have a brother?” She snatched the king, and dropped two aces in its place.
Giselle gave Laetitia a disapproving look. “What about Pierre?”
“He hasn’t put a ring on my finger, and Marcus is drool-worthy.”
Selma chided her, “You Jezebel.”
Laetitia raised her brows with mock indignation, “Moi?”
Selma waved her left ring finger and started play-acting. “Oh Pierre, hurry up and put a ring on it, or I’ll let some hot artist have his sexy way with me.” She giggled when Laetitia stuck her tongue out at her.
Solange sighed, “Yeah, are there more like him back home? He has a nice package.” She laid an eight on top of the aces.
“Solange!” Giselle let out a shocked guffaw. “What?”
“That was what we could see in those work pants.” Carolette was matter-of-fact. “Which are nicely cut, I might add.”
Fauve was eyeing her cards as she murmured, “His butt looks like it would be fun to spank. And I agree, his pants must be tailored.”
Giselle shook her head as she discarded a jack and a king. “No wonder the men left! You’re such slutty sex fiends!”
“Oh honey, we wish!” Solange took a sip of her champagne. “And evaluating a man coming and going does not qualify us as sluts.” She picked up all the cards and laid down a two.
“Thank you, Solange!” Fauve crowed and grabbed the two. She turned to Giselle. “We all wish we were getting enough action to make us sex fiends.”
The topic of conversation meandered on to the divorces, affairs, disagreements, and pregnancies of local residents. Late that night as the card game wound down, the men returned and together they carried everything into the kitchen, washing dishes like a big family. Giselle noticed that Carolette found more than one reason to brush up against Markus.
“Oh, excuse me, Markus. Oh, your body is so hard. Do you work out?”
“I do.”
“Have you tried spinning?”
“No, I have not.”
“What do you do to get muscles like these?”
“I do calisthenics every morning when I wake up.”
Solange asked what Laetitia was too shy to ask. “So, do you have a brother?”
“No,” he replied. “No family now.”
“Oh, how sad. Just like Giselle,” Fauve said and rubbed Giselle’s back.
As her guests departed, Giselle watched with amusement as Carolette and Solange tried to outdo each other with lingering goodnight kisses on Markus’ cheeks, and she saw Carolette press her number into his palm. When all the guests had gone, Giselle bid Markus goodnight and climbed the great staircase to her room alone.
From the shadows, Alphonso watched the breakup of what he guessed was a dinner party. Henri and Fauve, who he recognized from the hotel, got into their Range Rover as the rest of the guests got into various cars and headed off down the driveway. The woman in jeans hopped back on her motorcycle and zoomed down the back road to deeper parts of the estate. And he saw “Iceman,” as he had nicknamed Giselle’s art assistant, walk around the back of the château heading for the stable house.
Well, he’d seen everything there was to see here. It was time to call it a night and get back to his hotel room. Alphonso moved stealthily across the property toward his car, without a flashlight he was grateful for the light of the moon. Other than learning that Giselle was working with Iceman, he hadn’t learned much. While the party was underway, Alphonso had found the stable house unlocked, and he went through every square inch of the place. In an adjoining workshop, he found some sort of really cool-looking sculpture in progress that was about the size of a large orange. But nothing else of interest, and no passport or license or anything he could use to aid his investigation. Who doesn’t have ID on hand? He drove back to Aiglemont without seeing another car on the road.
CHAPTER
7
Cardinal Americo Negrali had been praying for guidance on how to handle Scortini’s visit to the College, but when he received Scortini’s note to the cardinals, he knew exactly what to do. He would tell Gabrieli everything. Once he arrived at that decision, he was ashamed he’d let Scortini’s plea for secrecy prevent him from going immediately to his best friend. Now as he picked up the phone, his skin tingled with fear and he prayed that Gabrieli would answer. Verona invited him to come to his office at once, but Americo sensed it would be unwise to be seen going there. Instead, they arranged to meet in the last confession booth at the Little Church. Sitting inside the confessional fifteen minutes later, Americo heard someone enter the booth. He swiped the screen aside and was relieved to see his friend.
“Gabrieli, I need to ask your forgiveness, and let me tell you why.”
He looked surprised, but remained silent as Americo continued.
“You see, I didn’t believe a recent assertion to be true, and I wrestled with the thought that because it wasn’t true, nothing would come of it.”
“I understand.” Gabrielli put his hand up in a calming gesture. “Together we’ll know what to do, Americo. How can I help?”
“Salvio Scortini barged into a College session and told all the cardinals present that you are unfit to head the
Verdu Mer project.”
“He what?” The count practically choked on the words, he was so shocked.
“He told us he knows of some evilness that will strip you of papal trust, and this morning we received a note saying that he plans to deliver proof of your iniquity any day now. He again urged us to ask the Pope to remove you as head of Verdu Mer and award authority to him.”
“I don’t need to forgive you, Americo.” His look of shock was replaced by empathy and understanding, as if he was the priest hearing his friend’s confession. And in a very real way, he was performing a sort of absolution. “Hesitation and indecision are human nature, Americo. But I’m extremely disappointed in Salvio—though I can’t say I’m surprised. Did he say what this evilness was?”
“No. But he was so dire, I believe he hoped that the gravity of his assertion alone would darken your family’s reputation…just by sounding the alarm.”
“Where there’s smoke there’s fire, eh? Was this evil supposedly being done now, or something in the past?”
“He refused to be specific, but said your family was no longer devout.”
“My family?” He jerked backward, looking appalled.
“Sì, something so evil the Church would have to distance itself from both the sin, and from you. He called it ‘a repugnance’ that could not be permitted to tarnish the Verdu Mer project.”
“Well, then he’s going to try to frame us with something.”
“How can I help you, Gabrieli? Because while Scortini acted pained at the prospect, I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s the orchestrator of this evil. How can I help protect your family from such a campaign?”
Stealing Venice Page 13