“The boys, what do you call them?”
“The pretty boys?”
“Yes, they don’t know and are demanding to read the will and I assume collect the spoils. I have an appointment with them on Thursday. Don’t you want to be there for the big movie finish?”
“The Hollywood ending?”
“That is it—the Hollywood ending. You must close up the apartment officially, list it if you want to sell. There are many papers to sign. We will send the ticket today.”
He had made up my mind.
I did need to crate and bring home some of Miranda’s paintings, that hummingbird by Church would brighten up my room… I shook my head; I was thinking very small. I could call Maria to help sell Max’s apartment, but it would be nice to have one more look. . .
“When?”
“Fly back tomorrow. It will give you just enough time for espresso before we meet.” He was firm, no longer the young boy, but the scion of an institution that did not take no for an answer.
My phone pinged, probably the ticket.
“Round trip.”
“Of course.” He assured me.
The boys rose early for school. I approached the kitchen bar with some trepidation.
“Great hair, Aunt Vic.” Matt smiled through a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs. Where did the Cocoa Puffs come from?
“Thanks, say I have something to tell you.”
“It looks like a heart attack.” Chris burst into the kitchen, his pajama bottoms were stained and threadbare at the hem, he seemed halfway between bed and bath.
“Have you showered yet?”
“What?”
“What?”
He waved his phone. “Natural stuff can kill you. Looks like a heart attack.”
Matt pointed to the box of cereal and took another big bite. I ignored him.
“Natural stuff can kill you,” I said very slowly to not disrupt Chris’s train of thought.
“Do you have a name?”
He studied his phone screen. “It says that Monkshood is a good sleeping pill. But too much can cause heart failure.”
I grabbed another cup of coffee. Monkshood was poison, old school, but poison. I was again packed and ready to go, I just needed to get the boys to school and make them swear to text me every minute or so to tell me they were fine. If Matt can purchase his own sugar cereal, there were probably other untapped skills we could start to tap.
My bet was on Cindy. Pick up a natural sleeping remedy, no prescription, no paper trail. She needed to find the hippo. The Albanians were breathing down her neck, demanding accounting for everything. She wasn’t really supposed to sell the articles; she was just supposed to stock them so the right people could pick them up. And Miranda was the wrong person. I shook my head. Did Cindy even realize she killed Miranda? Or had she talked herself into believe it was an accident? And did it matter? I had at least one answer.
“I’m not kidding.” I lectured the boys: “Text me every half hour, tell me what you’re doing, don't see anyone, and don’t fire the trebuchet, at least not on my watch.”
Matt’s eyes were huge over the remains of his cereal. “You’re leaving? You’re letting us stay by ourselves?”
“You know where the fire extinguisher is, you know where the crowbar is. You can drive Chris to school. At least I think you can.”
He nodded. “Charges were dropped.”
I took a breath. “It will be good for you. And I will be back by Saturday, I just need to finish some business in Italy.”
“Are you going to see Dr. Ratzenberg?”
I quickly kissed the top of Chris’s head before he could duck away.
“Probably not.”
Ah, Nic. Took him a while. Was he still in Luxor? The pretty boys had wasted no time returning, had Nic followed? I texted him on the way to the airport.
Where are you?
I’m fine thank you. Where are you?
Back in Venice. See you?
I calculated the timing. I could see him Thursday night, after my meeting with Marcus.
Meet me in the plaza.
Same place?
Same place, tomorrow at 11:00.
I’ll be there.
I had heard that promise before. I took a breath and stopped the call but still held the silent phone. My heart was not beating, my face wasn’t flushed.
When had I gotten over him? In the tomb? Over lunch? The day he dumped me? Two days ago, when I ran out on him? The day I realized that all during my time in the States, he never called, never asked about me?
One more thing to wrap up before my return to my nephews.
Another first-class flight, a personal pick-up by the same captain running the same powerboat. I spent no time in the airport, and no time in line. Dressed in the Max Peters duster and jangling fake necklaces, I strode to the lagoon facing offices of Holquist, Learnerd and Romano banging my suitcase behind me.
The morning was bright, almost glaring, black gondolas floated along the quay, the walkway was empty of tourists. I lingered to savor the moment. I was back. It was unbelievable. Maybe I could return for a vacation. I could afford a vacation. I could afford many things, but I didn’t want to count my money before I left the table. I would hear out Marcus first. I would find a way to make this real before I did or said anything.
I was greeted by an elegant woman with upswept black hair and a classic Chanel suit. “He is expecting you, Ms. Gardner.”
I nodded as if I was accustomed to the attention and the courtesy. I was more used to getting in trouble and getting yelled at, but I could do this too.
Marcus greeted me with three kisses and offered me a seat to the right of his impressive carved desk.
“We are so glad you could come!” He grinned. As if it was my idea.
“Thank you for the first-class ticket.”
“Get used to it.”
I shook my head. A ruckus outside the door interrupted any lecture about thrift and preserving capital and living within a person’s means. The door swept open and the three men, like the three Musketeers, if the Musketeers had been, close, crowded into the office. They were happily convinced they had won the battle. Judging from Marcus’s expression, I had won the war.
They didn’t even pause when they saw me. “And here she is, here for the bad news?” The Russian crowed.
“Following you to Egypt was the best.” The three jostled for the best chair.
“Those Albanians were super helpful, gave us another seventeen hours.”
“We are in your debt.” The Italian bowed to Marcus who scowled.
I didn’t move from my chair. I sat to one side so the boys would have an unencumbered view of their attorney.
Marcus shuffled a few papers, then set them down and glared at the men. “I understand you kidnapped Ms. Gardner and Dr. Ratzenberg and abandoned them in a tomb?”
Put it that way, they at least had the decency to look sheepish. Of course, now that I had a little more time, I did recognize them. All three had a wonderful run in 2015, their faces on just about anything that didn’t move. They had posed with Cindy, for a five-page ad in September Vogue, they on the ascendant, she minutes away from her Jimmy Choo debacle.
Some people use fame to leverage their next move. Some just let it go to their heads and believe everything they are told. Like these characters. Not one of them looked like he had worked in years. Well, five years? That’s about twenty-eight in fashion years. And I thought I had been absent from the business for too long.
“But we inherit, all the beautiful things, all the priceless carpets and that bed.”
“I always wanted that bed.”
“Fond memories?”
The adorable Italian elbowed the Russian. “It’s a Biedermeier, who wouldn’t want it?”
“We are counting on it!” They chorused.
I briefly considered giving him the bed, but Marcus shook his head. How did he know?
“Gentlemen. I apologize if you were u
nder the erroneous impression that you inherited.”
“We ran down the clock, we want to put in our claim.”
“But that will take years to unravel.” I protested. They had already wasted three years of their lives, don’t waste another three.
But few people understand sunk costs. All three shook their heads. I couldn’t help it. “Where are you living?”
“We have an apartment off-island.” The Russian rattled off the address. They lived blocks from the storage facility. Well, wasn’t that ironic?
I glanced at Marcus who was now glaring at me. I tightened my lips and sat back.
“There is no need.” He pulled out the hand-written, holographic will, that according to he and his father, reversed the public will on record, and according to Marcus, was about to change my life.
Wordlessly, he handed it to the American who scanned it then howled in protest. The Russian snatched it from him and read it. The Italian made to tear it in half, but Marcus calmly removed the paper from his fingers and set it back on the desk.
“You see?”
“But we were his friends.”
I must have snorted. Marcus was impassive. He was impressive, dressed in his bespoke suit, sitting behind a carved desk that weighed as much as a car. The family business surrounded him like a cocoon. Or, I considered Marcus, perhaps a shroud.
“Indeed. Max Peters had many friends.”
Many pretty, pretty boys. I never wanted to know the details. I had my own people to contend with, I didn’t need to worry about who Max was into. What old queen doesn’t want young men around? But they were dessert. I was the main course.
“You could return to work?” Marcus offered naively.
It was their turn to snort. I almost joined them. No, it was too late. But they could try. Who did I know who could help?
They filed out quietly. What would happen to them? I made to rise, I could help, even after all the trouble they gave me. I could buy them a glass of wine, okay, a whole bottle and help them figure out their next steps. But Marcus stopped me.
“We still need to settle with you.”
I sat back down.
Marcus pulled out a Montegrappa pen and dashed off long numbers with more zeros than I had ever imagined. He turned the paper to me.
“The rents alone will give you a basic income, if it ever comes to that.”
He wrote down a few more numbers. “But the stock, the stock is substantial. Plus, the licensing.”
I was still focused on the zeros. “This is all mine?”
“You’ll need a stockbroker, a financial analyst and, of course, an attorney.”
I smiled. People. I had my own people. I needed my own people. How incredible was this?
Marcus handed me a key. “To the apartment.”
Wordlessly, I added the key to my key ring.
Chapter 25
I banged the suitcase down seven blocks, over two bridges and into Max’s, now my, building. I called the locksmith. Was it too late to come this afternoon?
“Never too late for you, signora.”
After three years living surround by sensible beige and we-may-someday-sell-the-house white walls, Max’s apartment was a shock. Most of the furniture was covered in dust cloths, even the fake chandelier was protected. But the silver and navy wallpaper was intact, the stately Biedermeier four-poster bed was still in one piece. All the windows and French doors leading to the patio were dim with grime.
The locksmith helped me remove the heavier cloths and he even climbed the ladder to remove the bags covering the chandelier.
“Murano.” He said with approval.
I did not correct him.
The phone buzzed.
I tipped the locksmith with all the cash I had left.
The phone buzzed again. We are home. Ordering pizza.
Add some vegs
Friends over
Hell no, and I will check
I narrowed my eyes. For the time being, all I would do was clean and consider. Any rash act, like Tiffany and Lucy’s immediate sale of Miranda’s apartment and the sale of our parents' house was ill advised.
I sank onto the deep green-velvet couch and gazed at the sun reflecting off the canal. How many evenings? How many sunsets had I watched from this exact place? How many dawns? This time there was no call for a cocktail. Even if he shouldn’t drink, Max did anyway. Because what the hell?
It was just me.
I rose and walked to the liquor cabinet. The phone buzzed again just as I reached for a very dusty of what was now well-aged scotch.
Ah, Tina.
The boys have soccer tomorrow remember to take them. And shop for healthy food, Chris needs more protein in his diet and do the laundry, their uniforms need to be bleached. Do that tonight. Did you clean the floor?
I contemplated my answer as I used the bathroom. The master bath was tiled in black marble: floor, walls and ceiling. I’m surprised it hadn't dropped into the lagoon. Double sinks, one for each hand. An oversize shower, a god send when Max couldn’t easily leave his wheelchair. A soaking tub the size and dimensions of a sarcophagus.
Floor is clean.
There will be hell to pay when she found out I left the boys alone. But I would be back tomorrow. No harm, no foul.
I was not foolish enough to believe Nic would meet me alone nor was I gullible enough to retrieve the hippo and show up at the café carrying it in one of my classier purses, although I was becoming quite fond of the Hello Kitty purse. Both the hippo as well as Nic were loose ends. To his credit, Nic hated loose ends and ambiguity as much as I.
I didn’t trust Nic because he was not in a trustworthy situation.
I even texted Max’s address to Chris and asked him to stand by.
I showered and dressed with care, the legging/sweater combination was working, I could wear low-heeled boots, and look good while actually being able to walk without turning my ankle. I wound a Hermes scarf around my neck and headed out for my date.
A date.
The streets were lively and at this hour packed with more locals than tourists. Nonetheless, I had learned my lesson and watched my back and clutched Hello Kitty against my side.
I missed lurking Marcus. He seemed disappointed that the adventure was over. I would talk with him, maybe he wasn’t cut out for the slow steady life in the confines of the family business.
I entered the square and took a breath. I loved it here at night. I loved riding a boat down the Grand Canal to the square. I wondered if the gondoliers still picked up from private patios. I could walk across my patio to the edge of the water and just hail a ride. The idea made me giddy. Maybe for my last ride I could try. Just once.
I paused at the Negor Amana and surveyed the café next door. I immediately spotted Nic. He looked damn handsome in dress shirt and slacks. He toyed with a glass of red wine and every other second glanced behind him as if he expected me to sneak up on him, which wasn’t likely. I searched the tables. Ah, there they were. My favorite thugs, Oscar and Oslo. The blonde and the heavier bald man.
How disappointing that Nic was in this so completely, both the deep port as well as selling on the black market. He was a double agent, which is romantic in the movies, but complicated in real life. Dangerous. Some of us would say immoral. Some of us needed to remember we were not responsible for the state of Nic’s soul.
I gestured for a waiter and handed him a handful of euros. I covered Nic’s drink and sent a bottle of Montepulciano to Oslo and Oscar.
Nic’s face lit up when he saw me. I smiled and resisted a glance at Nic’s babysitters.
“You’re all right.” He stood and kissed me.
“Of course.”
“When I saw you leaving with that man, I didn’t know what to think.”
“That I escaped?”
He sat down and gestured for the waiter who was already following me with my own bottle of Primitivo.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
Th
e waiter opened the wine and poured me a generous amount, he did not pour for Nic.
“For?” I sipped my wine. Yes, a woman could get used to this. But no one lived in Venice anymore. It was expensive, it was overrun with tourists, it was sinking into the sea.
He dragged his hands through his hair. “I didn’t think it would come to this, all this.” He waved his hands.
“Nic, you never know what it will all come to.”
“They were just there to delay us,” he admitted.
“They is rather unspecific.”
“Those young men. At first, I thought they were following the hippo, but it turned out they were following you, or rather me. They thought I was you,” he ended lamely.
I wasn’t inclined to help him out. I sipped my wine and waited. Pigeons flew up around a small girl and she squealed either in delight or terror, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
After a long pause, he sighed and continued. “Those men. They wanted to delay me, well, you, it turns out. They didn’t figure that part out until you had escaped.” He smiled even in his agitation. “They were not happy that I was not Vic.”
“I would have thought that Cindy would have told them.”
“Didn’t believe her.”
“No, I don’t imagine they did. And by the way. It worked.”
“What worked?”
“Their plan. They were trying to run down the clock on Max’s will.”
He nodded. “Epic parties. But I wasn’t a big participant.”
If anyone did not swing both ways, it was hopelessly heterosexual Nicholas Ratzenberg.
“His will was being contested because the attorneys for Max’s estate couldn’t find me. Both the lawyers and the boys thought I was a man.”
“Rather narrow-minded. Did it work?”
“Yes.” I let him stew with that. I had other questions for Nic. I admired the surrounding buildings the proportioned arches lining the deep walkway that protected the store fronts from most of the elements. “Are you going to tell me what happened to Miranda?”
He closed his eyes, clearly in pain. “I found that out too. Cindy had given her something.”
“Don’t blame Cindy.”
“Actually, I do. We all returned to Venice together. The boys were anxious to claim their inheritance and I think because they were so confident, they rejected Cindy and her help; they didn’t even listen to her.” It wasn’t just the rich who were careless, beautiful people were careless too.
After I'm Buried Alive Page 24