“I actually inherited something from Max? Did he even have anything left to inherit?”
The limo bumped through a chain link gate and onto the tarmac. The side of a sleek corporate jet loomed up out of the swirling dust.
Marcus waited for the car to glide to a full stop. “We need to wait for the storm to calm. We will be fine here.”
A few euros would be welcome. Maybe I could return to Venice once the boys were settled and Vince and Tina returned from their cruise. I could check into the Hotel Cipriani; they have a treatment called Journey Across the Lagoon I always wanted to try but never had the time. I could have a massage. It would be my reward after what I knew would be a month in the day care in the gulag. I was tired, I wanted to be indulged, not thrown into abandoned tombs. I was not out of it yet.
“He did have a little left.” Marcus eyed me.
Remembering the plot of Bleak House, “After the lawyers’ fees, after three years of research,” I made scare quotes, “How little is little?”
“He left everything to you.”
I closed my eyes. Everything. “A broad term, Mr. Marcus Romano of Holquist, Learnerd and Romano, everything.”
He leaned his arms on his thighs. “Do you know anything about a storage facility?”
Chapter 24
Max had lovers. Max had attractive hangers-on. Max traveled with an entourage. Who didn’t? What was it like to believe, with all your black, black heart, that because you were loyal, even loving, to a sickly, aging queer, you would automatically be in line for a piece of the inheritance? And what was it like to discover that your richly deserved deserts were to be delayed, even interminably, by a pack of lawyers who insisted on the letter of the law? What was it like to be the victim of a system that required searching for a rightful heir?
And what would your reaction be when that heir suddenly showed up on Instagram draped in Bulgari?
How much were we talking about? The paintings and objets d’art I had stored would bring in something—maybe even enough for two days at the Hotel Cipriani. If the apartment had been kept intact, there would be much more. But I have learned to never underestimate angry, entitled people. I imagined Max’s apartment had long been stripped down to the plaster.
Marcus assured me the apartment was intact. A relative term, especially since even the wallpaper was valuable.
As soon as the storm passed, we climbed into the jet and took off.
Marcus explained a bit about the family dynamics, his and Max’s. I knew enough of Max’s family to know why they were not named in his will. I was more interested in the Romano family.
“I wanted to show my father.” It was all Marcus needed to say. Chris, at nine, told me he wanted to show his parents he could do things on his own. When I let him, it wasn’t a disaster, but Tina was not convinced. I felt for this young man.
“Father will meet us at the airport. And the storage facility?” Marcus cut into my thoughts.
I gave him the name of the place on the mainland, surprised I remembered.
“Do you have the key?”
The plane bumped down on a short tarmac and screeched to a stop.
We climbed out onto the cool, sand-free tarmac where, yet another handsome, debonair Italian waited for us.
“My father,” Marcus said under his breath.
Sig. Romano greeted me with a triple kiss. “You look lovely, Ms. Gardner.”
I smiled at his gallantry, I did not look lovely, I looked like the final survivor of a British bake show. The senior partner of Holquist, Learnerd and Romano was an older version of Marcus with a shock of white hair that contrasted with his genuine Mediterranean tan. He bowed. “On behalf of the firm, I am delighted to finally meet you Ms. Gardner.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to Marcus. “But we are too late.”
Marcus looked at his watch again. “We had an hour more.”
His father shook his head. “We don’t have an hour. They did it, they ran down the clock.”
Marcus slumped against the car.
Poor Marcus, he told me he had tracked me for the better part of the week. He took that bumpy bus to Albania, he flew to Egypt, he brought me back. The prize. Minutes too late.
“They get it all then.” Marcus said dispiritedly.
“No, they can now contest the will since we didn’t find the named inheritor in time.” His father corrected. “It will take…,” he trailed off and Marcus perked up.
“Years.”
“Likely.” He turned to me. “But that does not help you, my dear.”
I tried to process what I just heard. “They have been following the wrong person?”
“Vic, Nic, they thought he was the name in the will. The old man didn’t have it all together. They assumed he was confused.”
I smiled, “Max was many things, but never confused.”
“The key?”
I nodded and Marcus escorted me into the limo. My flight was only hours away, I would give them the key and that was the end. Of the adventure.
The key was at the apartment, so we all had little choice but to rush back to the center of town, retrieve the key, and rush me back to the airport. The men appreciated the urgency, Sig. Romano asked for my flight to check me in. I leaned back in the plush seat and said my farewells to Italy as we rushed to a small dock and a captained speed boat.
I did not understand why the storage facility was, as they say, a thing.
“Didn’t you find the key in Max’s stuff?” I called over the wind. It was cold on the lagoon, Marcus handed me a blanket.
They shook their heads. “No key, the only reason we know about the facility at all is he mentioned it in his will and that you were the only person who could access it.”
“That is far too mysterious. You can get a court order and open it. Simple.”
“If we knew where it was.” The men repeated.
“And now you do.” I finished, the boat took us up the Grand Canal to the base of Miranda’s apartment, I wound through the side alley and up to the apartment. In Miranda’s apartment, I stepped over the spillage of Cindy’s clothes from the guest room to the hall. I pulled out my suitcase detached the storage key and loaded it with my new clothes and all of Miranda’s makeup. I kicked Cindy’s clothes into the guest room. Picked up five glasses and put them into the sink and wiped down the coffee table. It was ready for a new owner. I hoped they would appreciate the light, the location and the history.
I took one last look in the bedroom. “I’m sorry, I didn’t find your killer.”
If Miranda’s spirit was still around, it was silent.
On the ride back to the train station, my phone began pinging. I would have liked a farewell glass of wine, a toast to the water and the light. A toast to my days of being closer to myself than I had in years
“You are going to be rather disappointed when you see what Max is storing.” I handed the key to Marcus.
“Samples.” They said together.
“Good guess. And these are exciting because?”
“The fabric, the patterns, are enormously valuable. We have an offer from LVH for the original plans, designs and the patterns of Max’s work. The sample books will help.”
But they weren’t as big a deal as the designs and patterns stored in Max’s laptop. I knew the lawyers had the computer. They had everything. And everything would be given over to the boys. Max Peters' big moments had mostly occurred in the sixties, with those enormous bright Gucci and Pucci prints, Twiggy, Jean, short hair and shorter skirts. I knew his work was making somewhat of a comeback, I helped with a few deals with Target just before he died. But I don’t even remember if he had signed off on any of it.
That comment, everything, had given me at least an hour of surprised speculation. If I had my own money I could pay for care for Chris, a housekeeper for Tina, and for me a room of my own, hell, my own apartment, maybe my own life.
“If I’m not inheriting. Why am I helping
you?” I ask bluntly.
The father put his hand on my knee. “Sig. Peters was canny, we have inventoried the contents of the apartment, his bank accounts, and there are many discrepancies, income and items that are unaccounted for.”
I smiled. “Who figured out the chandelier was a fake?”
“I did.” Marcus piped up. “It was obvious, but the boys want it anyway.”
“Did they clean out the apartment?”
“No.” Both men said in unison.
I nodded. Good, that was good. I felt better knowing that at least the apartment, in my mind a shrine to Max, had not been violated.
I was indeed Cinderella after the ball, sans dress, sans one shoe and sans prince. Of my many messages, Nic was silent. Busy with Cindy, busy explaining to the pretty boys that he was not the target. Probably busy explaining that he did not have any idea where the hippo was, and it probably didn’t much matter.
At least my ride back to service and obscurity was comfortable. The imposed digital silence was like a mini vacation, and Sig. Romano had upgraded and paid for a first-class seat home. I slept the whole flight.
When I wasn’t crying.
I got a ping from Nic as I urbered to Vince’s house, now my house as well. I would like to say that when I arrived, the boys leaped with joy, hugging me, showing the damage from both the trebuchet and the crowbar, telling me they loved me, and I should never let them go.
But they are teenage boys.
I glanced at Nic’s message inquiring as to my whereabouts.
I dragged my suitcase up the walkway. The green lawn rolled out before me, something I’d make sure to organize every week. The roof needed some new shingles on the far west side. That crack in the walk needed to be sanded down.
The front door was unlocked. Matt needed to be more careful and lock it when they were home. I had missed Tina and Vince by minutes, they were relieved I was home. Actually, Tina texted that it was about time.
“I’m home!” I pulled the suitcase and left it in the foyer.
“Hi Aunt Vic!” Matt called from the family room.
“Hi,” Chris echoed.
Dishes piled in the sink; mud scraped along the kitchen floor complete with the tracks of rolling luggage leading to the garage. It was almost like Tina had created as much mess as she could to illustrate the need. I got it; they didn’t need to make me scrub the floor.
“Gentlemen, why are there dishes in the sink?”
The boys looked up from their game. “I found more poisons,” Chris announced.
Completely awake at 3:00 in the morning, my small room closed around me. I hadn’t realized it was smaller than the storage room in Miranda’s apartment, albeit without the clutter and I admit, charm. I changed into sweats, flipped on the kitchen lights, and started to clean the mud off the floor. Hands and knees, like groveling. I was here because it was family, and family came first. Matt and Chris had been happy to see me, and helpfully unconcerned with my story, the sudden trip to Italy, the abrupt return; they took it in stride and ordered delivered pizza for dinner. Matt helped with the dishes, Chris made a pass at the floor, but he was still distracted by his poison theory.
I sat back and looked around. It wasn’t my kitchen. It wasn’t my living room. They weren’t my children.
My phone rang and I hurried to answer even though a small sound like a phone would not wake the boys. It took two alarms, five shakes and cymbals to get Matt out of bed in the morning.
“Signora Victoria?”
“Marcus?”
“Si, yes. I am so sorry for the time.”
“I was awake anyway.” I closed the bedroom door but did not flip on the light. The bare walls were too disturbing.
“You are safely at home now?”
“Well, I’m safe. And thank your father for the upgrade; that was very kind of him.”
Marcus paused.
“Marcus, is everything okay, did you get into the storage facility?”
Were they missing something? Had I missed something?
“I wanted to tell you the story myself. Are you sitting down?”
I was cross-legged on the single bed.
He launched into his story. I did not know why I needed to hear it, but again, unlike the hippo and Miranda’s death, at least I knew at the start of this story that Marcus would deliver the finale. I settled back.
Marcus and his father hurried to the storage facility immediately after sending me off to the airport. I didn’t ask why the rush; it had been three years. But Marcus explained that they both wanted to be finished with the boys. They felt terrible for me, and terrible for Max.
“We did not relish the idea that all of Max’s estate would go to these men. We thought we could find something that maybe Max hid that would help us delay.”
Bleak House wasn’t too far off the mark then. Run down the clock, spend down the estate in taxes and fees. Now that I was on their side, I cheered their efforts.
“And all you found were piles of sample books.”
“And the genuine antique chandelier.” He pointed out.
I tried to recall, what else had I stashed there? Chippendale chairs, inlaid mosaic tables, a hideous gilded German clock, three obscene Greek vases. First in, last out. The furniture was stacked and organized as best I could by myself. Had I rescued that Eames chair?
“Did you build those racks yourself?”
“Did they fall on you?” The racks were flimsy, the best I could do, and carry. I had tossed book after sample book onto the shelves, so many. Max was nothing if not prolific.
“No, no, we found all the books.”
“Max was sure they would be valuable.”
“Oh, they are.” Marcus was now cryptic.
“Out with it, it’s 3:30 in the morning here.”
Once father and son began moving the books, papers fell. At first, they thought it was just sales receipts, instructions, scrap paper. Which would have been my guess. I had been too busy just loading the leaving to really scrutinize the contents. Why would I?
Marcus picked up one of the papers and really examined it.
“And?”
“A stock certificate for Max Peters.” He said with awe.
That’s right, we went public. Like so many IPOs—a strong start, falling off to reasonable, slower growth. Max was a sensation, for a while, but like most fame, we only got about fifteen minutes. Maybe sixteen minutes. I had honestly forgotten about the stock.
“Hadn’t we sold out?” I asked.
“To LVH.” Marcus confirmed.
“We then started opening all the fabric books, some of the papers were stuck but we think we found them all. You need to come back to Venice.”
“What? Why?” And leave all this?”
“Max re-invested.”
“That was smart.” I was unfamiliar with the stock. I helped with household finances, leaving Max to gloat over stock prices. He indulged in a little buying and selling. Not much of course, what could he accomplish in the short time he had left?
“We discovered something else, something,” He took a breath. “Fantastic. When can you get back? We will send you tickets.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There was more, not just stocks for Max’s own company but Apple, AOL (oh well), stock in AIG, stock in Yumm. The Apple stock alone totals 5,000 shares.”
“That’s quite a bit for the boys.”
“It doesn’t go to the boys.”
“Marcus.” I used my best adult, don’t-mess-with-me voice.
“The stock is yours. And that’s not all.”
I was indeed glad I was sitting down. I could buy my own place. I could buy two places. I could hire professional help for Chris. I could probably afford two housekeepers plus a cook. I must have said it out loud. If it was real, if Marcus wasn’t telling me a fairy tale. And what about taxes? Mom and Dad were always worried about taxes. Wasn’t there a heavy tax in Italy? I would have to liquidate and pay the taxe
s. Maybe I was down to just one housekeeper, but maybe I wouldn’t have to scrub the floor ever again.
That was an appealing vision, it was a very appealing fairy tale but difficult to believe. Why not just give me the damn stock? Why the mystery? I already knew the answer, because Max was Max, and it was Venice, and maybe he did not trust all his last-minute friends as much as I thought. Good for Max.
“We found his holographic will.”
“Translation, please.”
“Max left everything to you. You inherit it all.”
I frowned. Forgive me, when I hear the word inherit, I think of poorly made copies of Victorian love seats and a 9,000-pound Encyclopedia Britannica set c. 1974. I think of crates of Depression glass and collections of expired metal license plates. I think of priceless collectables from the Franklin Mint and of empty acres of property located thirty miles from the nearest desirable school district or store. I picture enormous art that needs selling and a tiny hippo statue that needs hiding.
What comes immediately to mind is: problems.
“What my father doesn’t understand is why was all his furniture in storage if he knew you would inherit the apartment and all the contents?”
Marcus clearly had not attended any parties that Max, or Miranda, for that matter, threw. As good Venetian citizens, they should know better.
I thought the apartment would have already been rented and occupied. You couldn’t just leave an apartment on the canal, in Venice, just empty, could you?
“Could you?” I said it out loud.
“That’s part of the estate. He owned the apartment.”
“He owned the apartment?”
“Actually, the whole building. See? You need to return to Venice.”
A whole building? I couldn’t take it in. “I can just up and leave. We can do all this remotely, DocuSign and all that. I need to stay with my nephews. Tomorrow is a school day.”
After I'm Buried Alive Page 23