The Widow

by Anne Stuart

  Tomaso was supporting her, a miserable expression on his face. He was part and parcel of it all, Charlie thought, but not happy about it.

  “Get the hell away from my daughter, you old hag,” Olivia snarled, starting to get up.

  “Lauretta, kill her,” Antonella said promptly, and before Charlie could even scream Lauretta fired the gun.

  In the dim light she couldn’t make out her target, and Charlie could only hope she’d missed. The explosion was deafening, and the wall behind her began to crumble, a slow rumble of noise and rubble and dust. Maguire grabbed Charlie and dragged her backward, into the darkness, away from the plumes of dust. As it began to settle, Charlie could see that some of the roof had given in, and the faint light of stars were overhead.

  “Not with the gun, you stupid whore,” Antonella said icily. “You’ll bring the whole place down around us. Give it to your stupid husband and then snap her neck.”

  Lauretta was looking abashed. She handed the gun to Tomaso, who held it as if it were something unclean. “Mama,” she said, “I cannot…”

  “It’s easy,” the old lady said. “You’ve killed chickens and sheep—you can certainly kill a worthless creature like this one. You just give the neck one sharp twist and it’s over.”

  “Madame Antonella,” Tomaso said miserably. “You cannot want us to do this. Signora Charlie has never harmed us. She’s a good girl….”

  “Send your foolish husband away, Lauretta,” Antonella said sternly. “He will only interfere.”

  Tomaso retreated, but just to the doorway. He looked guilty, miserable, and totally incapable of stopping anything.

  Ignoring Olivia, Madame Antonella advanced on Charlie. She smiled, exposing her impressive new dentures, and combined with the smell of the place, Charlie felt her stomach start to roil.

  “Thought he loved you, didn’t you?” she said. “Thought he’d marry you, leave you everything. But you were never married. Pompasse had only one wife, and that was me. He will only have one widow.”

  “Of course, madame,” Charlie said softly. “You know I have always had the greatest respect for you….”

  “Silence!” the old woman hissed. “You thought you’d tricked me. Like all the others. But I took care of them, and I’ll take care of you. They’ll never find you, any of you, and they’ll never find your paintings. I couldn’t take all of them, but I got enough. You’ll all be entombed together, with the other ones, and I won’t have to worry anymore. It’ll be over.”

  “What others, Madame Antonella?” Maguire spoke up suddenly. “Who are they?”

  “Shut up, Maguire,” Charlie whispered. “I’m trying to reason with her.”

  “She won’t be reasoned with, love,” he said in a loud voice. “So tell me who those women are. The dead bodies in the back of the tomb? Lauretta says they’re some of your earlier victims.”

  “My daughter knows my secrets,” Antonella said smugly. Charlie wanted to kick Maguire, until she noticed Tomaso’s reaction. He’d had no idea exactly how bad things were—news about the dead women in the crypt had clearly come as a shock to him, and he was staring at his wife in renewed horror.

  “Tell us who they were,” Maguire said, his voice soft and admiring. “You must have been very clever to get away with this. I like a woman who’s both beautiful and smart.” He was flirting with her, Charlie realized in shock. And the old hag was responding with ghoulish girlishness. “How did you do it?”

  The old lady preened, responding to Maguire’s practiced charm. “I told you, it’s easy. You just snap their neck. Fast, and relatively painless. They didn’t even know it was coming. I brought them up here to see some of Pompasse’s hidden paintings. I always used to take them when he wasn’t looking. He never could find them.” She smiled with remembered fondness.

  “And you killed them all?” Maguire prompted. “The women who wanted to leave?”

  “Don’t be foolish. It was the ones who wanted to stay who were a danger. Those were the ones I killed.”

  “Even the young one?” Maguire prompted her. “What was her name?”

  “Luisa,” Antonella replied calmly. “The little slut. My grandchild, and his own child. He took her into his bed when she was fifteen. I killed her when she was sixteen. Lauretta was not happy with me, but she helped me, anyway. She had promised Aristide.”

  “Damn,” Maguire muttered. “I really didn’t want incest.”

  “No!” It was no more than a whispered moan of pain, but it was the first sound Tomaso had made. “No. Not my baby.”

  Lauretta threw him a pleading look. “It was too late for me to stop her, Tomaso. She had already done it. I had no choice but to protect my mother….”

  “She killed our daughter, and you protect her?” Tomaso’s voice suddenly thundered in the underground chamber. “What kind of creature are you? You are worse than she is, a monster.” Before she realized what he was doing he raised the gun and fired, straight at her, the weapon sparking in the darkness.

  “Oh, shit,” Maguire muttered. “Move it.” He shoved Charlie toward the back of the tomb, then grabbed Olivia and hauled her after him as the entire place began to rumble.

  Lauretta was clutching her stomach, staring at her husband in shock. “Tomaso?” she said in a piteous voice. The old woman was screaming in the background, filthy imprecations in a dozen languages, and Tomaso turned patiently, pointed the gun at her, and fired again.

  She went down like a felled ox. Before she even hit the ground the roof collapsed in on them with a rumble that must have rivaled the bombs that first shattered the place in World War Two, burying them where they stood.

  Maguire shoved Charlie against a wall and covered her with his body. She heard a muffled wail, and she tried to break free, to make sure her mother was all right, but Maguire was immovable, and the roar of the collapsing stone was deafening. She really was going to die this time, she thought, and she didn’t want to die without telling Maguire she loved him, but even if she screamed it he wouldn’t hear her, and besides, he was better off not knowing. At least he wouldn’t die smug.

  It took her a while to realize that the roaring had stopped, though her ears still echoed with the noise. The thick dust was like smoke, swirling around them, and Charlie pushed Maguire away.

  “Mama!” she screamed.

  There was a dusty cough from the area near her knee. “Right here, darling.” Olivia’s voice came from the darkness. “I’m fine.”

  “Thank God,” Charlie breathed. “Maguire…?” She reached out for him again, and he let out a yelp of pain.

  “I’m surviving,” he said bitterly. “Though I’m not sure I want to.”

  The dust was slowly settling. The night sky was brilliant overhead, the moon shining down brightly on the pile of stones in front of them. Half the remaining church had collapsed, and the old pew lay across the pile like a headstone. Tomaso, Lauretta and Madame Antonella were buried beneath it, crushed by the stone.

  “Jesus,” Maguire breathed. “Will you look at that?”

  “They’re dead,” Charlie said.

  “Not that. Look behind you.”

  She turned. The other half of the crypt had caved in as well, crushing Pompasse’s stolen paintings, crushing what remained of the women Madame Antonella had killed. The only place left standing was the small area where Charlie, Olivia and Maguire had taken shelter.

  “I don’t believe it,” Maguire said, shaking his head. Dust and bits of stone fell onto his shoulders. “It’s a bloody miracle.”

  “I think I’m going to faint,” Charlie said in a wavery voice.

  “Forget about it. I can’t carry you with this bum arm. You’ve made it this far—you can make it back to the villa.”

  “Besides,” Olivia said, struggling to her feet. “If anyone’s fainting it’ll be me. I’ve been through quite enough today. It’s not in my nature to be a heroine, and I think I’ve done quite splendidly, but now I need a hot bath and a rest cure. And some
healthy young man to take my mind off my aches.”

  “You can’t have mine,” Charlie said.

  “Yours, eh?” Olivia murmured. “I don’t think he knew that.”

  Charlie looked up at Maguire. He had a bemused expression on his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure he liked what he was hearing.

  “Definitely mine,” Charlie said firmly.

  “We’ll have to discuss that,” Maguire said. “In the meantime, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The climb back down the hillside was endless. Despite Olivia’s jauntiness she was in worse shape than she had admitted. A shard of stone had cut into her leg and she was bleeding down her silk dupioni pants and into her Ferragamos. Maguire couldn’t carry her, but he used his good arm to support her down the treacherous path, and Charlie had no choice but to follow after them as best she could in her bare feet.

  Their slow pace had one advantage—they had time to come up with a reasonable story. No reason for the police to know what really happened, Olivia had argued persuasively. Think of the scandal. There was no bringing Pompasse back, and besides, he’d deserved what Madame Antonella had dished out. If the three of them just stuck to the same story it would all be over quickly, with a minimum of fuss.

  And Maguire said nothing.

  The villa was ablaze with lights, providing a precious beacon to guide them down. The polizia met them partway up the hill, a strong young sergeant scooping Olivia up in his manly arms and carrying her the rest of the way down. Another one tried to help Charlie, but a dangerous glare from Maguire had him backing away apologetically.

  “Did I tell you I called the police before I came after you? I had a feeling something was wrong. Such a terrible accident up there at the old ruin,” Olivia murmured from the young man’s arms. She sounded as if she were enjoying herself tremendously. “Very farsighted, don’t you think?”

  Maguire said nothing.

  They took him away from her, before they had a chance to speak. They took her mother, as well—both of them needed the hospital. Which left Charlie to come up with the answers, when all she wanted to do was curl up in a little ball and go to sleep.

  It was almost dawn before they finished with her, finished with their endless questions, but they seemed to believe her. Almost dawn before the ambulance came back, bringing her mother. Only her mother.

  “Where’s Maguire?” Charlie demanded abruptly.

  “Yes, I’m fine, so nice of you to be worried,” Olivia said sweetly. “An ungrateful child is sharper than a serpent’s tooth or something like…”

  “‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ King Lear. Where is he, Olivia? Why didn’t he come back? Was he more badly hurt than I realized? Did he tell them the truth?”

  “You called me Mama up in that chamber of horrors,” Olivia said calmly. “I rather liked it. You haven’t called me Mama in years.”

  “Where is he, Mama?”

  “He’s fine, dearest. He went back to Florence. He said you wouldn’t be needing him anymore.”

  “He did?” She didn’t know whether to be depressed or furious.

  “If I know Maguire he’s probably in a hurry to file the story of tonight’s macabre little escapade. He didn’t say a word to the police, but you know how untrustworthy these people are. You do have wretched taste in men, my sweet. First, that ghastly old man, then a tabloid journalist.”

  “You forgot Henry,” Charlie pointed out forlornly.

  “Henry is eminently forgettable,” Olivia said. “Are you going to let him do it?”

  “Let him do what?”

  “Let Maguire get away with it. Let him write his tabloid trash?”

  It took a moment for it to sink in. “No,” she said. “Of course I’m not.”

  “Then you’d better go after him, hadn’t you?” Olivia said in a dulcet voice. “You can take my car if you want.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll take Maguire’s. I’m used to it by now.”

  This time she grabbed her purse and a heavy sweater on her way out the door. She was halfway across the terrace when she stopped. She turned back to see her mother standing in the door, watching her.

  She sprinted back across the terrace and enveloped her mother in a bear hug. “Thanks, Mama,” she said.

  Olivia’s smile was slightly crooked, and her beautiful blue eyes were shiny with tears. “My pleasure, love. I’ve always wanted to be a heroine.”

  24

  His shoulder hurt like bloody hell. It didn’t help having seventeen messages on his answering machine, all from Gregory. He went from threats to bribes to pleas, and Maguire deleted each one at the opening words. No messages from anyone else, but then, why should he have expected it?

  Charlie would be sound asleep by now, dreaming innocent dreams and thanking heaven she’d escaped, not from a crazy, murdering old woman, but from a man who was no good for her. She’d run away the first time, and if he hadn’t come after her she would probably have been happy never to see him again.

  Well, she wouldn’t. He was getting the hell out of Italy, heading back home for the first time in fifteen years. Thomas Wolfe said you couldn’t go back home again. Maguire intended to prove him wrong.

  He’d find himself a nice big Australian girl and have babies. Maybe he’d forget all about Charlie Thomas. In a year or ten.

  He had a hell of a time packing with only one arm. They’d set his shoulder, and it was no more than a hairline crack, but it still hurt like crazy, and he had it strapped to his body to keep from using it. Just as well—if it had been free he probably would have punched the wall.

  He threw his clothes in his suitcase, then on impulse tossed in her shoes and bra. He wasn’t sure why—maybe some crazy sentimental streak. Maybe he could hold them hostage and force her to come to Australia and get them. And maybe he’d finally lost it for good.

  He had the zip disk in his hand, staring down at it. He’d be a total fool to toss it—he could count on it as his old-age security. It could come in handy as blackmail material if things got dicey. Or he could simply print off the pictures of Charlie and stare at them.

  He’d told Olivia he wasn’t going to write the book. It was a long wait at the hospital, more than enough time for Olivia to give him a piece of her mind and then some.

  “I warned you, Maguire,” she’d said. “She’s a precious girl, and I don’t want you smashing her heart.”

  “I’m never going to see her again,” he’d said. “Scout’s honor. I’m dropping the book and heading back home and I never want to hear Pompasse’s name again.”

  For some reason Olivia didn’t look pleased. “You care, Maguire. Be a man and admit it. She’s afraid, you know,” she’d added. “Afraid she’ll turn out like me.”

  She’d managed to lure him into the conversation, against his better judgment. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s afraid that if she lets herself love someone she’ll be just like her mother. Going through men, pathetically self-absorbed. She doesn’t realize that she’s nothing at all like me. She’s a person who gives, not one who takes. And it’s all right for her to take, every now and then.”

  “Don’t look at me,” he’d growled. “She won’t want anything to do with me once this is over.”

  “You really think so, Maguire?” she’d murmured. “Maybe you’re not quite as clever as I thought you were.”

  They’d come to stitch up her leg then, and he hoped to hell they didn’t numb her before they used the needle. No wonder Charlie was such a pain in the butt. But he believed Olivia—Charlie wasn’t anything like her mother. Except in her ability to be annoying.

  He looked down at the disk in his hand. He was damned if he was going to be sentimental. He’d hold on to it—you could never tell when something like this might come in handy one day. He was about to tuck it into his pocket when he heard the door open. He hadn’t bothered to lock it—he seldom did. He was big enough to take on most of the un
savory characters that haunted his neighborhood, and most of them knew to leave him safely alone.

  It was no unsavory character. It was Charlie standing in his doorway, furious, glaring at him.

  He wanted to grin, but he didn’t. She’d come after him. Maybe she hadn’t thought better after that giddy time in the crypt. Maybe she was ready for him, after all. “What?” he said in an irritable voice. “What is it this time?”

  “You aren’t writing the story,” she said, walking into the room and slamming the door behind her. It made a nice solid thump. He liked a woman who slammed doors. Hell, he liked everything about Charlie, including her glower. She’d gone from a pale, colorless mouse to a holy terror, and the truth of it was, he was stupidly, damnably in love with her. And he was going to have to tell her so, whether he liked it or not. But not until he was forced to.

  “There’s no story to write, sweetheart,” he drawled instead. “You trashed my computer, remember?” He shoved the zip disk into his pocket.

  “You aren’t going to write about last night, either. I don’t know whether the police believed what we told them, but they’re closing the investigation.”

  “Gullible of them,” Maguire observed. “And you expect me to sit on the story of my life, just because it’s a little messy?”

  “You’re not writing the story.”

  “All right. I told your mother I wouldn’t, anyway. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you that.”

  She looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected him to be so amenable. “That’s not exactly what she told me, but then, my mother can be quite surprising at times,” she said after a moment. “You know you’ll probably lose your job.”

  “Already lost it,” he said cheerfully.

  She looked at him speculatively. “Then how are you going to support me?”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Fine,” she said breezily, moving past him. She spied his open suitcase on the bed. “You’re packing? Where are we going?”