I was no closer to learning why Miranda had suddenly died. Obviously, she had survived her thin years. During the height of her career, she was a devotee of extreme dieting combined with bulimia. Sustaining that kind of activity does not do your heart any good. Could her daughters be right? Did Miranda’s heart, taxed from years of the finest drugs, best booze and fun friends simply give out? Her daughters could behave like a heart attack on a stick. And Cindy had delivered enough chaos to overwhelm a saint. But Miranda weathered all of it with good grace and an open heart, not a damaged one. She did not deserve to die. She did deserve an answer. Or more to the point, I did.
Miranda died alone. It made me catch my breath. I did not have much to go on, except Chris’s focus on poison. Could Miranda have been poisoned? By drinking what? And what kind of poison manifests like a heart attack?
More to the point, who delivered it? Someone she knew and trusted. Someone who knew how to pour a drink strong enough to mask the taste of a drug. Someone she wouldn’t be suspicious of and wouldn’t think twice before accepting drink or food from their hand.
Someone who could quickly search the place while Miranda passed out. I didn’t want it to be Nic, but he wanted what Miranda had. And he probably searched the place and tidied it up behind him. But murder? I glanced at him; his face younger in repose. Nic was many things, but never a murderer.
Then again, we all change.
Chapter 22
Thank you, Hilton, for the good mattress. But not even an excellent mattress can mitigate demoralization and depression. I had to leave, soon, really soon. As we ventured downstairs for breakfast, I searched for flights home.
The morning was blessedly breezy, not too hot. We sat under a patio umbrella and toasted our escape with freshly pulled espressos.
Nic suddenly set down his cup and focused on something unpleasant over my shoulder.
“Shit.”
I twisted to get a look. Walking towards us was Cindy.
Cindy wasn’t a Rachael beautiful or even a Miranda beautiful. Those women had that ineffable it, the ability, as they say, to make love to the camera. Every photographer I worked for lusted for models who could tell a story in the curve of her swan neck, in the roundness of his shoulder. Photographers search for that ability to tell a story and then ruthlessly exploit it because that is their job. And for a time, the model is a star, so it’s a fair exchange. The models who can transfer all that story and attitude to the runway, and stay upright as well, those are the models who become super stars. I stuck to photography, it was more interesting and ever changing.
Cindy was naturally thin and blessed with long skinny legs. But she didn’t project much personality, nor did she have much stamina. She had a breakdown during the New York show. Something about being tired, sticky and the shoes pinched her toes.
Unfortunately for Cindy that show ended up being all about Jimmy Choo. Oprah had publicly announced that his were the most comfortable of all shoes. Possibly in all the world, possibly of all time.
Complaining that the shoe of the decade pinched her toes was a strategic mistake. Cindy was fired that afternoon.
I lost track of her due to complete disinterest. She ran into Miranda at the Milan show, one of Miranda’s last. They either clicked right away or got very drunk in a big hurry and then clicked. Cindy traveled back to Venice on Miranda’s dime and quickly moved in. Her contributions included bringing home inappropriate friends and spending Miranda’s money like a drunken sailor or a former model just off her diet. The girl could consume pounds of food without damaging her figure. One of her more annoying qualities.
I came into the picture a year later. Saving Miranda both emotionally and financially.
Cindy was out, I was in. And because of my well-honed sense of guilt I helped Cindy on and off. Here and there.
And now she was back. Cindy was well wedged between two men. One of the men held Cindy’s arm, the other gripped her around the waist. The third followed closely behind. What was puzzling, they were not my overbearing thugs from a developing economy. But altogether, the group of them looked familiar.
I squinted. That was it, they looked like a DKNY ad from what, ten years ago? Cindy staggered in her impractical high-heeled pumps. The man beside her was forced to hitch back his stride to avoid knocking her into the pool.
The first man was blond, blue eyed and had a Russian vibe. The second was just as tall, American by his body type and his walk. The third was one of those impossibly beautiful Italian men with the fifty-fifty chance he still lived with his mom.
The Russian pushed Cindy into a chair, the rest remained standing, the better loom in a menacing manner. My first reaction was to call a waiter to order her drink. My second thought was no, I don’t care if she’s thirsty. I hoped she was thirsty.
Cindy glanced up at the three men. “Some friends.” She muttered.
As compelling as the mystery group was, something else distracted me. I squinted across the Nile. The river was calm. The mountains and valleys of the West Bank glowed in the sun, until they didn’t. Was that fog? Nic shifted and pushed away the remains coffee.
“We have been following you for days,” the Russian started.
“You haven’t even gone to the apartment,” the American complained.
“All the way out here. And I had a job,” the Italian growled. Ah, I recognized the voice.
And I recognized their faces. I had seen them on posters, on the backs of People Magazine. The Italian’s skin was as ravaged as Cindy’s, the other two were not, as they say, aging well. What was the saying about deserving your face at fifty? They were likely only in their early forties.
I looked at the boys, the pretty, formerly pretty boys. My eyes darted to the riverbank. There was no fog on the Nile. This was a billowing brownish yellow. It had overtaken the valley and was rolling over the West Bank.
“Max,” I guessed.
Cindy leaned forward. She clearly had had enough, which was impressive, she was able to handle quite a bit. But she, unlike us, obviously hadn’t slept. Her makeup was hastily applied, the concealer was the wrong shade making the dark circles under her eyes more prominent. She had been crying.
She leaned across the table to Nic. “You just need to stay here, in Luxor. You know, just…” She glanced at her keepers then looked directly at Nic. “Stay.”
As if he were a dog. Nic glanced up at the men and glanced at me.
The wind picked up. Cushions blew off the lounge chairs. The remains of my pink saccharine packs blew off the table.
I watched Nic and caught his eye. I gestured to the West Bank. He glanced over, his eyes grew wide, but he remained as silent as me.
The men did not step back. Cindy was immobile. Three of us, three of them. Or two of us and four of them. It was smarter to place Cindy into the them category.
Waiters and staff scurried around the patio retrieving cushions, closing and securing umbrellas. Guests quickly scooted indoors. The bank, not of fog, but of sand was half- way across the river. The hotel stood on the edge of the East Bank, first in line to be hit. But neither the men nor Cindy paid attention.
A waiter caught my eye, I shook my head. He shrugged and disappeared into the building.
The wind lifted my skirt. I smoothed it down. “What do you mean stay?” I asked in as conversational manner as I could. Damn, and after all Miranda had done for her.
“I asked, but they won’t tell me. They found me at Miranda’s.”
“We finally put that together. Miranda and Max were friends.” The Russian said.
“They had mutual interests,” I hazarded. I couldn’t figure it out. What were they doing here? And why?
Was it about the hippo?
Cindy smiled, pleased that part of a plan actually worked. But she quickly gave way to frustration. “But I couldn’t find anything!”
She turned to the men standing behind her. “I couldn’t find anything. How many times do I need to tell you that?”
>
The wind increased; bits of sand whipped against my cheeks. It was about to be too late.
I am one of those people who stays for the end of a movie, even if I stopped liking it halfway through. I finish every book I begin no matter how terrible (thank you for staying with me). I always want to know the end. I always want everything wrapped up. I want closure. I always finish what I start.
Maybe it was time to change. The sand escalated to exfoliation levels then quickly increased into wind-whipped grit coupled with dusty low visibility. The men swore. Cindy cried out as the sand blasted her face.
In that second, I made a choice. I ran. I even knocked over the chair for dramatic effect.
Chapter 23
I ran to what I remembered were the lobby doors.
The wind helped push open the doors, they crashed against the wall. The total of my brilliant escape plan was to rush through the lobby and out to the street and lose myself in the gray, low visibility storm. I was hoping the storm would distract the men just long enough for my escape.
Once I pulled the doors closed, I straightened my dress and tried to look cool, difficult when you are covered in sand and already itching.
I saw the side exit just as a handsome young man approached. He seemed familiar, another model? Cindy’s boyfriend? The new model for Chanel Men? Someone I met at the shows? He must have been a model. He looked like a younger version of the men, which did not immediately recommend him.
He tucked his phone into his inside jacket pocket. He glanced from side to side, with special attention to the patio door.
I nodded, trying to simultaneously acknowledge him yet discourage his approach. As I hesitated, the hotel main entrance was being secured. The side door looked like it led to a parking lot. Better. I turned to that side exit. My new sandals slipped on sand-strewn marble floor. Sand really does get everywhere.
I had not discouraged the young man at all. He grabbed my arm and began to lead me to the side exit.
I automatically pulled back, but he hung on. He smiled revealing beautiful American teeth.
“Come with me” he said in English.
“Like the Terminator.”
His smiled widened. “Exactly like the Terminator, come with me if you want to live.” His accent was Italian but modified from study abroad, England or the States, the orthodontic work betrayed at least a few years spent in the States.
The far door to the patio moved and started to push in. I looked again at the Terminator wanna be. An indoor complexion, good suit, Saville Row. Understated striped tie. Young, very young and very handsome with dark swept back hair and deep brown eyes. We all have our biases, and a bespoke suit spoke of trust, responsibility and, I hoped, access to a get-away car.
I was not disappointed. He half escorted; half pulled me to a side door just as the patio doors bust open with a shout.
I heard Nic call my name, but I was already though the doors and out to a covered carport.
Sand blew under the covered porch and stung my eyes. I blinked, but before I could react, the young man loaded me into a waiting black limo. After buses with bad shocks, taxi drivers of death, trashed rentals, I appreciated the upgrade in kidnap vehicles.
I settled into the leather seat and stretched my legs. I absently brushed the sand from my hair then stopped, not wanting to get the car dirty.
“You have been through quite a lot.” The young man slid onto the seat across from me. The car engine started. I glanced outside. The brown sand and wind obscured the view. But I could see gusts rushing down the side streets, buffeting pedestrians who held their scarves over their noses and mouths.
The doors to the carport opened, but before I could see who it was, the car pulled away. I was safe, at least for the length of the ride. Unless he was with our pretty boys.
I stopped fiddling with my skirt hem. Where was I and where were we going?
“We’re heading to the airport.” He said with extreme calm.
I looked down, ah, the plastic purse was still dangling from my wrist. Pulled out the phone.
“Charger?”
“On the plane.”
“Of course. The plane.”
I carefully brushed sand from my cheeks. Did I jump from one bad situation to one far worse? I was so tired I didn’t care. “And you are?”
He leaned back. “I represent Holquist, Learnerd and Romano.”
I buckled the seat belt even though there was no sign instructing me to do so. Habit. I had lived in this country long enough to know that traffic was always exciting. Even with zero visibility, the driver would regard stop lights as just a nod to the understood ideal of traffic control, not something you actually practice.
“We are the attorneys for Max Peters' estate.”
“Ah.” I had run into his people, I assumed they were his people, the day Max died. The lead lawyer had ordered me out; three young men, dressed in old-men suits (Italian to be sure, but off the rack), followed through, swooping in like vultures. I had no time to say goodbye let alone shed appropriate tears. They summarily pushed me out of the apartment, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. They pushed. I was already packed, having just received word of my father’s fall, but still, it was abrupt, a thirty-year friendship over in a blink. No one offered me condolences or even a thank you.
“We have been looking for you for three years.” The young man said.
Like Sara Crewe in my favorite book, A Little Princess. “I was living in the apartment, not difficult to find.”
“We were unaware of who you were at the time.” He seemed contrite.
“What do you mean, you didn’t know who I was? Max and I were friends.” I looked at him pointedly. “Likely before you were born. I took care of Max for his last two years, fetched, carried, wiped. Where the hell were your people then?”
The panic and loneliness and sadness all surged back. What had happened? Did Max have a nice funeral, a strong send-off? I wanted to attend; I could have made arrangements so I could fly back to Venice. But no one contacted me with any information. No good deed goes unpunished, look at Cindy.
“They were looking for a man, Vic, Victor. So were we.”
“They thought I was the help.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Nice, thanks.” My feet were gritty, and I wanted to brush them off as well, but it would have looked odd, or rude. I wondered why I cared.
“In the will, you were only named as Vic.”
“Victoria Amelia Gardner.” I corrected.
“We know that now, took a while. But clearly,” he trailed off and looked at his watch. I wondered what a while meant to him. For my nephews, a while clocked in at about ten minutes, often less.
“The law doesn’t move very quickly.” I observed. Only people with money to gain or money to lose move quickly. Vince and Vance moved quickly to sell our parents' house. Tiffany and Lucy moved quickly to sell Miranda’s home. Did it always need to be about the money? Did Nic need the money? Did the damn Egyptian government just need more money? Couldn’t it be about something larger? I didn’t have the heart for this.
“Especially in Italy.” He gazed out the window. He had not bothered to fasten his seat belt. The car lurched around a corner. He remained in place as if stuck to the seat.
“I apologize for the delay. Once we discovered our error, we worked to find you, but we ended up always one step behind.”
“You’ve been following me?”
“The three years is almost complete. There were others interested, very interested in the estate. They wanted the money and if we couldn’t find you, they would inherit.”
“How interested?” All those boys, crowding into the apartment, drinking Max’s wine, ordering food, pretending to care but actually casing the place for priceless objects. I failed to mention I replaced a number of those objects with fakes, the real items were too valuable to leave around. I had crammed a storage facility with all the extra baubles Max collected to decorate his
lavish home, decorated in High Queer. The glass, the gilt, he didn’t want to get rid of anything, just didn’t want to have it right here, in the hallway. It was the end, why argue with the man?
He smiled; his beautiful teeth lit up his face. “I apologize for that last incident; I didn’t realize they would come at you so aggressively. It was a good thing I came to Egypt after all.”
I watched him. “You don’t get out much?”
“It was my first field assignment,” he admitted. “Once I saw what you were involved in, I thought I could help.”
“And you did, so why all this? You can send notarized letters, you know.”
“Not to a dead woman’s apartment, and there was no address for you in the states. The mail was returned.”
I had moved directly into Mom and Dad’s house. Okay, he had a point. I also admit that I was too involved in managing their Medicare, Medicaid, dwindling stock, insurance, etc., to consider that I never received any mail addressed to me.
“Call?”
“Blocked.”
“Facebook?”
“Your account was inactive, I messaged you when I finally figured it out, but no response. I only found you now because you showed up on Instagram after Von Meiter’s party. You know him?” He leaned forward.
“Do you know him?” I countered since I wasn’t entirely sure Von Meiter wasn’t a bad guy.
He leaned back. “Family knows him, of course.”
“What is your name again?”
“Marcus. Marcus Romano.”
“Of Holquist, Learnerd and Romano.”
“Yes, my grandfather founded the company.”
“Which explains why you can play James Bond.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “But you are here.”
Good point.
“Okay, okay, so I’m difficult to reach, I get that.” What else was I supposed to think when I received an unknown phone call? I was not worried about the IRS sending the cops to get me if I don’t pay up now. I was unconcerned that my Social Security number was in danger of being cancelled. I was not worried about needing an alert button. I was the freaking alert button, on call 24/7. I had some responsibility for this, but again, what did it matter? Max had enough money while he lived. Any extra I cheerfully loaned to Rachael and Francisca, and Nancy and Maria, and Claire to start college, to start a business, to start out in a new city. We all had our expenses.
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