by Wendy Tyson
“When is that for?”
“Sunday. Everything is booked until then.”
Allison tensed. She had been counting on getting Grace out of the castle, and then following her into Bidero as soon as she could. She wanted a few days alone to work with Elle and break the news of her departure without having to worry about her niece. Jason was returning to Innsbruck on Saturday morning for the remainder of his orientation, so at least they could all be together for a few days. And Vaughn was arriving on Friday.
Mia put her head back against the pool tiles, contentedly soaking in the afternoon sun. “We had planned to stay here, Allison, at the castle, so everything was last minute.” She picked her head up. “I’m sure it will be fine. It certainly doesn’t feel threatening.” She glanced around. “At least not in the light of a beautiful day.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Allison pulled herself out of the pool. She grabbed a bathrobe from a nearby chair and slipped it on. Looking at Grace, she said, “I have to meet with Elle in thirty minutes, so I’m going to change.”
Mia nodded. She looked up sharply and Allison followed her stare. There, talking with Mazy, was Douglas Alden. He looked clean shaven and alert, not quite the grieving widower—or murder suspect—she’d expected to see. Mazy, her damp hair wrapped in a white terry cloth turban, was listening raptly to whatever it was Douglas had to say.
“Who is that?” Mia whispered.
“The husband of the woman who died.”
Mia studied him, her sharp focus on Douglas and Mazy. “You say he’s British?”
Allison nodded. “Why?”
“He looks familiar.” Mia leaned forward, adjusting her angle. “Although I can’t say why.”
“I think he’s just a businessman.”
“Hmm. Perhaps he just looks like someone I know.” Mia sat back, sinking deeper into the warm water, her eyes closed. “I’ll let my mind search sideways and see if I can make the connection.” She smiled. “Relaxing often jogs the memory.”
“It’s a festival week, Allison. The locals celebrate their patron saint, and their relatives from all over Italy come for the party.” Elle reached down and grasped her ankles, stretching. They were outside on the stone wall near the front entrance of the castle. Elle had insisted they walk and talk today—a departure from her usual refusal to enter the woods. She said she wanted to be away from prying ears. “You should take Grace into town. The Mass itself is something to behold. Or so I hear.”
“So they can stay here?”
“Of course. I don’t understand why your family would want to go into town anyway when we have plenty of space.” Elle twisted herself into Downward Dog. “Just let Dominic know what you need.”
“And Vaughn, my business manager, is arriving Friday.”
“Is he staying with Jason’s mother?”
Allison pictured the fireworks that would cause. “No.”
Elle stood, reaching toward the sky with her long, skinny arms. “Well, that’s a bit of a pickle if you want a cottage. There are no more.” She rubbed her hands together, her face scrunched in concentration. “Tell you what, he can stay in the castle. There’s plenty of space in the north wing. I’ll have Dominic set up his rooms. They’ll be ready Friday.”
“If that’s not an inconvenience.”
“A single American man in his thirties?” Elle smiled. “No inconvenience at all.”
They were deep into the woods, not far from the spot where Jason and Allison had come across Lara and Douglas, when Elle finally broached the subject she’d been hinting at their entire session.
“I think he’s still here. In the castle.”
Allison stopped walking to catch her breath. “Michael?”
Elle nodded. Despite her cigarettes and easy living, she was barely huffing. “I found some more things out of place in his rooms. And his computer was warm to the touch.”
Allison was surprised it was still there at all. “Why hasn’t Balzan confiscated the computer?”
Elle shrugged. “It’s still there. I don’t think the police have classified Shirin’s death as intentional yet.”
That seemed to conflict with what the inspector told Jason. Agitated, Allison said, “You did tell them about Michael? About your suspicion that he never left?”
“I tried. You were with me.”
“Clearly he didn’t understand you. You were supposed to fill him in with the translator present.”
The flush on Elle’s face turned crimson. “I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“You said you would—”
“I know, I know.” Elle backed up until her back was against a tree. She took a swig from her water bottle and leaned on her hiking pole. “I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of their reaction.”
“The police?”
“My father. The others. If they find out—”
Understanding dawned on Allison. “You will be crazy Elle, just like your father.”
Elle nodded.
“While I understand, you know that’s not a reason to withhold information from the police.”
“I know.” She sighed. “My whole life I’ve been compared to my mother. I so badly wanted to be like Daddy, wanted people to see him in me. Now I’m afraid of that comparison.”
Allison thought about this. It seemed like a critical admission for Elle to make—more insightful than Elle’s typical comments. “Were you close to your mother, Elle?”
Elle shrugged her thin shoulders. “I guess. Why?”
“I’m just wondering.”
They started walking again. Elle took a left at the top of a pass, toward a sign for a rifugio, a small hut along the trail that served food to hikers, four kilometers ahead.
“It’s funny,” Elle said, “my most vivid memories of my mother are from simple times. Wrapping Christmas gifts together. Or baking bread. Despite being an actress, my mom was a good cook. She liked homey things. Decorating. Canning.” Elle glanced at Allison. “Does that surprise you?”
Allison didn’t know much about Elle’s actress mother, at least nothing other than what was published in the media. Fawn Langley had been beautiful. She’d starred in half a dozen lesser-known films, and had one or two bigger roles during her career. Her romance with rock star Sam Norton had been fodder for the tabloids. When the coupling produced Elle, sleazier news outlets questioned whether Sam was really Elle’s father. Fawn had been vehement about protecting her daughter. She’d also been vehement about her right to party. She was found dead at thirty-six with a needle still sticking out of her emaciated arm. Hard to reconcile that image with a woman who baked bread and canned beets.
“Tell me more,” Allison said. They’d rounded a bend and ahead was a steep upward climb toward a series of boulders just sprinkled with sparse vegetation. Allison stared at the path, dreading the climb. She kept going.
“There’s not much more to tell. I know people thought of my mom as a wild child, some glamourous starlet whose life ended way too soon. To me she was just Mom.” Elle paused, looking at Allison. “I really think she loved me.”
Elle’s hopeful tone tugged at Allison’s heart. “It sounds like you were everything to her.”
Elle nodded. They climbed for a few minutes in silence, each lost in their own thoughts and labored breathing. Where the path had split, they’d entered public park land, and Allison could see another duo heading their way, descending from the top of the trail.
“My father was never the same,” Elle said when the couple—octogenarians, by the look of them—passed. “After that, he drank away his grief.”
“Did you see much of him?”
“Not really. I mean I lived with him, but mostly I stayed with a series of nannies, each one younger and more limber than the next.” Elle smiled, but there was no mirth there
. “As you can imagine, Sam bedded most of them. Two even became my stepmothers. For a short while, anyway.” She turned, her face shadowed by an imposing boulder. “At one point, he had two so-called nannies living with us. I walked in on them.” She made a face. “Not something you want to see when you’re a teenager.”
Or at any age, Allison thought. Something Elle had said gave Allison pause. “Michael is younger than you, right?”
“Nine years.”
“And his mother is Clarice McCue?”
Elle nodded. “That’s my understanding.”
“Was Clarice one of these so-called nannies?”
Elle laughed. “No, no. Clarice wasn’t a caretaker.”
“How did Clarice and your father meet?”
“Clarice was an unlikely choice for my father. Unlike my mother, the young groupies he slept with, or the nannies he screwed—” Elle looked pointedly at Allison, “and make no mistake, it was just sex—Clarice was kind of normal. She kept his books.”
“She was an accountant?”
“Bizarre, right? But yes, Clarice was one of his accountants.”
They’d reached the top of the incline, and Allison needed a rest. She climbed onto one of the boulders and pulled her camera out of her bag. The vista was amazing. From her perch on the rock, she could see the largest peaks in the distance, capped by dolomite and shrouded in clouds. Green pastures, Swiss-style chalets, and clusters of trees dotted the landscape in between. She snapped a few pictures, mulling over what Elle had told her.
“So Clarice had access to the foundation’s finances?”
Elle was climbing up onto the boulder next to Allison. She gulped some water before answering. “No,” she said finally between gasps for air. “Pay It Forward didn’t exist yet. Clarice was an accountant for my dad.”
“So she knew his net worth?”
“I would assume.”
“Was she still working with him before her death?”
Elle shook her head. “No way. Dad fired her soon after they divorced. He always felt guilty about that.”
“Why?”
“They’d had a prenup. She got almost nothing. And she hated him for it.”
“Did he leave her?”
Elle stretched her legs out in front of her on the boulder, face up to the sun. “No, she left him. After finding him with one of my nannies.”
“And still she got nothing?”
Elle’s mouth twisted into a biting smile. “Dad was smart. The prenup said if she left him, with or without cause, she received nothing.”
“So Michael was already born?”
“He came after the divorce.”
“And still she left your dad, knowing she was pregnant?”
“Couldn’t take it, I guess. The other women, that is. I think she loved my father, and it tore her apart. Clarice wanted Dad to herself. To him, she was just a novelty—a smart girl for a change. Turned him on, at least for a little while. I don’t remember much. Clarice lived with us, but she was rarely home.” Elle’s face darkened. “Maybe I am like my dad after all. He always felt guilty about leaving Clarice. He didn’t know she was pregnant. When Clarice died and Michael came forward, his acceptance of Michael was a way to make amends, I think.”
“Did your dad ever question Michael’s paternity?”
Elle straightened up. “Sam had a paternity test done. Why?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd that Clarice never told Sam about the baby? She may have received nothing for herself under the prenup, but a baby? That would have gotten her child support surely.”
Elle was quiet. “I never thought about that. I’m not sure why Clarice never came forward. Maybe she hated my dad that much. Or maybe she didn’t want to share Michael.” Elle hopped down off the boulder. “Ready to head back?”
Allison looked up, toward the path. It continued to climb toward the rifugio, which was just visible nestled in the hills ahead. “Sure,” she said.
Allison followed her client down the path toward the castle. While her sore legs trotted alongside Elle, her mind swirled with what she’d just learned. A scorned woman. A surprise offspring. Two dead people. Could they all be related?
She glanced at her companion. Elle looked lost in thought, her face a mask of deliberation. Finally, Elle said, “Do you believe in ghosts, Allison?”
“Not really.”
“I didn’t either.”
“But you do now?”
Elle stared straight ahead toward the tree line below. Her voice, however, wavered. “Someone has been watching me. At first I thought it was Michael. But the presence feels feminine. Now I’m thinking that maybe it’s my mother.” She stole a glance at Allison. “You think I’m crazy?”
“No, Elle, I don’t.” But I do think you could be in danger, Allison thought. And it’s time to talk to Balzan myself.
TWENTY-TWO
By the time they returned to the castle, Balzan had left, but his translator was still packing up in the makeshift office he’d set up inside.
“Can I help you?” Julia asked when Allison poked her head inside.
“I need to speak with Inspector Balzan.”
“I’m afraid he won’t be back for another day or so.”
“Can you tell him I need to talk with him?”
The translator put down the file she’d been organizing. “What would you like to discuss?”
“I’d rather wait for the inspector.”
“I see.” Julia completed her task of straightening the files. She placed them one by one in a leather case, stopping only when the last one was away and the sturdy container was locked. She looked up as though surprised Allison was still standing there.
“So will you give the inspector my message?” Allison asked. “That I need to speak with him?”
“I won’t see him until tomorrow. If it’s urgent, you should call him straight away.”
“He doesn’t speak English. I’m not sure what good a call would do.”
“Ah, yes.” Julia fumbled with her phone. “It is urgent, then?”
“No, not urgent,” Allison said, her blood pressure climbing. “I’d just like to speak with him.”
Julia gave her a blank stare. Clearly in her world things were either an emergency or not important at all—there was no in between. After a moment, Julia punched a text message into her phone. The phone beeped a few seconds later.
“Inspector Balzan says to meet him at the station tomorrow at eleven in the morning. I’ll be there to translate.”
Allison nodded. “Where is the station?”
“Up the mountain road, past the church. There is a festival going on now. Listen for the music. Go past it and you will see the station on your left.”
Allison agreed, no clearer on where to find Inspector Balzan than she had been before Julia shared her directions. Nevertheless, she bid the translator goodbye and headed back to the cottage.
Vaughn called the moment she got inside. Mia had left a note taped to the back door: she, Grace, and Jason were getting her settled into her own cottage down the path. Allison was to meet them there.
Allison ran a bath while she spoke to Vaughn. The water, crystal clear and free of the chlorine smell and bluish coloration of her city water back home, cascaded into the claw foot tub, enveloped by an inviting head of steam. She stripped her clothes off while she listened to Vaughn explain what he’d found about Pay It Forward.
“It’s definitely legit,” Vaughn said. “I have to hand it to Sam Norton. If his goal is to die poor, he’s making progress.” Vaughn paused. “They’ve given away millions.”
“To how many recipients?”
“You wondering if there are just a few very lucky donors? Hold on.”
Allison heard some muffled one-sided conversation that was likely Vaughn talking with his
brother Jamie. Jamie used a prompter to write words on a screen. Although he had a computer program that lent him a voice, it sounded robotic; he preferred the written word.
A moment later, Vaughn was back on the line. “Jamie found an interview in which the foundation’s spokesperson said they’ve donated to more than a thousand people. Some grants were small, just a few thousand dollars, and some were as large as a million. The interview was a year ago.”
“Any information about the type of grants?”
“It really varies. College tuition, healthcare, new home, a small business. The foundation has backed some pretty wacky small business ideas.” Vaughn stopped and again Allison could hear him speaking to Jamie. “One article that caught Jamie’s eye was about a little girl with a terminal disease. Her parents wanted to grant her dying wish.”
“Which was?”
“A summer in Disney World.”
“An entire summer?”
“Yep. The foundation rented a condo in Orlando and got each family member a season pass to every park. She needed special medical care, and the foundation paid for that as well. Get this: they even replaced the father’s salary for the months he took leave, as well as his COBRA costs.”
“Sheesh.”
“I know. Sadly, the little girl passed away that September.”
Both Allison and Vaughn were quiet for a moment, letting that sink in. Allison knelt by the tub, twirling her fingers in the warm water and contemplating the unfairness of life.
She said, “So it’s legit, and it does some good things.”
“Yes, it’s legit. But its critics argue that the foundation is wasteful. That if it used its money more efficiently, it could help more people.”
“Does the foundation have a lot of critics?”
“A surprising number. It’s hard to argue with a charity that makes people’s wishes come true. Can’t please everyone. His detractors are quite outspoken. Only Sam doesn’t seem bothered by them at all.”