“Did she cry?”
“Of course, she did. Didn’t work. Anyway, she needed a friend and I was the only straight man in the group. To get me on her side, she told me what happened.” He cleared his throat and poured himself a half glass.
I sipped my wine. I had a pretty good idea, so I hurried the story along.
“And you? Did you intend to kill Miranda?”
My phone buzzed. It was Tina, with a lot of exclamation points and angry emojis.
“No!” His horror was genuine. “Miranda was fine when I saw her. She invited me in to discuss the hippo, but she never produced it. Cindy’s visit must had made Miranda suspicious. And stubborn. According to Cindy, not only did Miranda not fall asleep after Cindy slipped her the natural sleeping pill, she had enough energy to escort Cindy from the apartment.”
“I told her to never let Cindy spend the night again.” I confirmed. “Glad she remembered.”
He nodded. “Cindy was supposed to get the hippo and hand it back to our friends Oscar and Oslo.”
“And you?’
“I needed it for my side.”
“So to speak.” My phone buzzed again.
“So to speak,” he repeated. “All I did was put two Ambien in her wine. She fell asleep. I searched her place and found nothing.”
“You should have tossed it. It would have looked more authentic.”
He nodded, took a drink and leaned on the table head in his hands. “I was shocked when I heard. I must have been the last person to see her alive. I’ve been racking my brain on how two sleeping pills could kill her? Did they kill her?” He took my hands, desperate, unbelieving. I took pity on him, just this one last time.
“That natural sleeping pill? Was probably Monkshood. Not deadly necessarily on its own, but coupled with the wine and your contribution, well….”
“Cindy.” He drained his glass and reached for the bottle.
“Miranda wasn’t supposed to have the genuine thing, nor the ushabtis.”
“Those were all fakes,” he said with certainty.
“The ones you have, yes.” I sipped my wine and watched him.
He narrowed his eyes. “You have the hippo still?”
“Of course.”
“With you?”
I sensed a stirring from the other table. Customers were finishing their dinners and leaving the restaurant; simultaneously, a few couples wandered in for an expensive after dinner drink on St. Mark’s Square. Because they were in Venice. Because it was romantic.
“Give me some credit, Nic.”
“I give you a lot of credit, you got me, you stood up to the company men. You figured it all out.”
“There isn’t going to be an archeology dig museum, is there?”
He shook his head.
“Just a story to get the project through?”
“The hippo matters, Vic. An educational component always makes the process easier.” He eyed me. “And it’s better press. If the media discovers we are digging out a real archeological site, we won’t be able to move forward. We are in competition with marine resorts, more building along the Red Sea. Luxor wants their piece of the tourist dollars. The powers in Albania want their shot at building luxury ships. It’s important.”
I remained silent. I knew that. I also knew that what we considered precious and exciting, the locals viewed, for the most part, a nuisance. I waited.
He downed the wine and played with his tiny cocktail napkin. Finally, he looked me in the eyes.
“It’s just business. We were planning to cover the discoveries, even move the hippo and other things to another site, away from the dock, like Amarna, where it probably came from in the first place. But then the Albanians got involved.”
“Trafficking in stolen artifacts, not even large Belzoni-sized artifacts. Doesn’t seem worth the trouble.”
“When the hippo appeared in Venice, all hell broke loose, rumors, questions. We, they, were worried the artifacts could be traced back to the site.”
We hadn’t yet ordered dinner. Nic was too wound up in his story and I was too interested in hearing the big finish.
And here it was.
“I’m finished here. Those guys? They just want to make sure I don’t talk. And I won’t.”
“Don’t want your house burned?” I gestured for the waiter.
Nic snorted. “Funny girl.”
The waiter arrived surprisingly promptly. I order another bottle for us and another bottle for the big boys. Once the waiter disappeared, Nic made his move.
“Come with me.” He leaned in taking my hands. “We can live in the States; they won’t pursue us there. We can buy a house, one that won’t burn.”
That ruled out California. The bottle arrived. Nic gripped his glass so hard I thought the stem would break.
“I have enough for a house. We can live out our golden years together. What do you say?”
When I was in my forties and camping with him in a tiny tent on the great big desert, there was nothing I wanted to hear more. Forty, when a girl’s fancy turns to stability. He would have been a buffer against my family. He would be my most important obligation. When Tina called for free babysitting, I could cite my husband as the reason I couldn’t. When Vince demanded I spend three years caring for our parents, I could use Nic as the excuse as to why I couldn’t. What my family understood was husband and wife. They never considered Miranda and Max real partners.
But they were, they had been.
I sipped my wine. Out of the corner of my eye, the men at the other table opened the second bottle of wine. They were smoking and telling either jokes or absurd stories about their conquests and successes.
But now? Today? I would have a partner. I could buy any house I wanted and Nic could move in. I narrowed my eyes. The shine off the square cobblestones was like glass. Locals wandered across holding hands, the pigeons were finally quiet. The Basilica glowed golden against the night sky.
I would be cared for as well. Taking selfies on Senior Day (Tuesday) at Payless Drugs.
We would escape tonight, the hippo wouldn’t emerge for years, not until new management at the hotel cleared out the un-claimed packages.
“What about your keepers?”
He glanced at the men, toasting. I turned and saluted them, which they seem to find mildly disturbing.
“I’ll tell them you never had it, never found it.”
“It’s not the only hippo and those were not the only ushabtis.”
He didn’t look at me. “It’s not my circus anymore. I’ve been fired, I don’t have any authority, I…”
I put my hand on his. I had loved him. I gave up my exciting life with Miranda to follow him to the desert, and it had been glorious, wonderful and damn uncomfortable.
“Nic, I love you. I will always love you. But I’m not moving to the suburbs with you.”
I had no idea that sentence could come out of my mouth. It was both thrilling and terrifying.
Nic left the café alone.
Chapter 26
A hole in my heart. That’s what Nic had excavated discovering nothing but emptiness. It would take some time, I knew that.
Did I trust him? No. Once those thugs woke up and coffee-ed out their hangovers, they would pay attention, again, to loose ends. I assumed Nic was flying to the States, if he were smart. But me? I was still here; I was still a loose end.
I checked in with the boys who took a series of videos on their video game progress. Chris admitted he accidentally let his mother know they were spending the night alone.
I glanced at the series of invectives from Tina. Some were fair enough. Others not so much. She even went as far as saying if I knew what was good for me.
I wondered what exactly was good for me?
My flight was scheduled for early evening. I had time to say goodbye to my friends and yes, pay them for their help.
Before I walked out into the late morning light to Rachael’s gallery, I stopped by Miranda’s plac
e. We hadn’t stopped deliveries, nor the mail. Tiffany and Lucy still needed to clear out bills and statements. One of my jobs was to gather up the mail and forward it to them. And of course, once I had my new credit card, it was easy to order things.
The apartment looked good. Cindy’s clothes and suitcase were gone. The remaining painting were just right for the space. Maybe Tiffany and Lucy would sell the paintings along with the furniture. I certainly wasn’t up for moving it. And with a place of my own, I wouldn’t have to.
A text from Maria. The buyer wanted me out of the apartment by the end of the week.
No problem, I texted back.
I pulled the double drawer out from under the bed. I pulled out the toys, the whips and chains. That too was another life. I found a large orange Hermes bag and loaded the toys in. Should I need more, I could always take a quick trip to Amsterdam.
The box had been delivered a couple days ago. I opened it to reveal my very own William, the Met mascot. I dropped him on top of the bag. He looked too new. Hmm. I hated to do it, but I spent some time roughing him up. I put him back on top of the toys, better. Then I, oh so innocently, strolled to Rachael’s gallery.
I was accosted only a block from the apartment.
They could have said “stick ‘em up” for all the subtlety they displayed.
“Gentlemen.” The men loomed over me, as they had this whole adventure.
Oscar growled, “Give us the bag, the hippo.”
“What? You aren’t here to thank me for the wine?”
They both growled. But I sensed it was a little forced.
I wanted to ask who was in charge, I wanted them to draw an org chart for me, who was on the top of their food chain? But we did not have that kind of relationship, bottles of good Montepulciano aside.
I did my best to look guilty. I even glanced at the bag dangling from my arm.
The blonde lunged and grabbed the bag so hard the handle snapped.
I looked horrified, or at least I hoped I did. They both dashed away before I could deliver the full performance.
“Does this mean we’re over?” I called out, but they had escaped around the corner. This time they had not bothered with my purse. Thank the gods.
“Thank you so much for your help.” I squeezed Rachael’s hand.
“It’s a pleasure, I’m so happy to be able to finally pay you back.” Rachael squeezed back.
“Max was always good to his friends.” I tucked the refused money back into my bag. She was right, it wasn’t about the money, it was about leveraging, it was about making the people you care about happy and secure. Wealth. I suppressed a sigh, a lot of wealth is good, but security is better. And I had it now, I could do exactly what I wanted.
“Max?” Rachael looked puzzled.
“It was Max’s money.” I reminded her. He loved to give me money to help the girls. During his last year, he couldn’t get outside much, he was too weak. But he could still type. He spent hours on the computer, I assumed it was gay porn and so didn’t really want to inquire too closely. Now I know he was buying and selling stocks and issuing them in my name in order to reduce the estate taxes. For some, it’s all about the taxes, in Italy that is rather more important than in the States, but still. I’ll have to pay taxes. I was happy to. Compared to nothing, paying on something was just fine with me.
“You’ve forgotten,” she accused.
“It’s been a long three years. Sometimes I feel I’ve just been released from a Turkish prison.”
She fumbled. “You said, return the favor someday. That’s what you always said, to all of us.”
I frowned. “Yes, of course, return the favor, but I never thought…” I trailed off. The Chagall was stunning; in the artificial lights of the gallery, it glowed blue.
“You never collected.” She finished.
Naturally I never collected, that was never the goal. It is surprisingly difficult to help proud people. I knew when a girl needed a boost, a helping hand, a meal. Particularly a meal. The fashion industry is a cruel place, more so because the images are so lovely, so excellent. When you admire that beautiful girl on the cover of Sports Illustrated, know that the rock on the beach with the beautiful sea behind, is in fact, digging into what is left of the model’s thighs, it’s February and freezing cold, five people are circling her to make the best shot, the photographer is calling out instructions, the main one being, look natural. She had a leg cramp, is about to be knocked off the rock by the next wave and must smile enticingly.
Beautiful.
I always engaged models in conversation while the lighting was set up. Photo shoots require a lot of standing around. I found I could draw the models out. I was fond of discovering what they really wanted to do once their hunger for both food and meaning became acute. Classes, training, college, leveraging the modeling into something more lucrative, lasting and livable.
And how to make it all work was to simply say, you owe me, and I’ll catch you later, keep in touch. Some did keep in touch and I’d update Max on their progress. Some came at the end to thank him for his generosity. He enjoyed their visits.
“Don’t be absurd. I never ever thought to collect. We just wanted to help.”
Rachael waved to the whole of her business. “You helped me.”
“You were so interested in art in the other side of the business. I’m glad you found this as your passion.”
She nodded. “It was Max’s money.”
“Of course.”
“But it was your idea.”
That stunned me. I didn’t consider it my idea at all.
Rachael waited while I processed.
“I…”
“Don’t explain, I didn’t realize you didn’t even know yourself. You are far too generous you know.”
I nodded. “Can you do me one more favor?”
Like Nic, I do appreciate some closure; also, I didn’t want to start my new life with anything hanging over my head. I texted Tiffany—Did the painting arrive?
I had time to eat one more pasta dish, more bread, another dredge of green olive oil, before Tiffany buzzed back. A terse yes.
There was enough silence on her end to tell me the sale of the property was now very critical indeed. No May-the-First Party for those girls. They never did have an eye for genuine art.
I walked into the hotel lobby where it all began. I was pretty mellow from the wine and giddy that for the first time since I landed in Italy, I was not followed. The desk clerk nodded, and I approached just as a group of tourists tumbled down the stairs banging their enormous bags behind them.
“Paula! Come back and take this. God, woman, what did you buy? Lead statues?”
I turned and watched Paula and Henry stagger into the lobby. Paula carried two Princess Cruise canvas bags, each stuffed to overflowing. She pushed and pulled her bags to the desk, lining them up like soldiers on parade. Henry brought up the rear guard and added to the collection. Five bags, two tourists.
Paula nodded to me but did not greet me. She didn’t recognize me. Henry gave me a second look, but dutifully stepped into the line behind his wife.
I gave the clerk my old room number and she retrieved the bulky package. I took one last look at the couple. I would be leaving in an hour. One piece of luggage. One painting.
Rachael helped me package the hippo and ushabtis and route the package to first Rome, then Iowa, back to London, each time the package would be re-wrapped with a new label. I decided to donate the hippo to the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology in London. I was a fan of Amelia Edwards and she was a fan of Petrie. That seemed right.
I slotted my key into the apartment, the new lock turned with a satisfying click. As I stepped inside, Nic texted that UCSB had offered him a temporary position filling in for an on-sabbatical professor. I wondered if Chris had anything to do with that. Nic was, after all, his hero.
No, I would not like to visit, I texted back.
No.
I walked out to th
e patio; the water lapped against the low wall. It would be a bitch during the high tides. I’d need to replace the sandbags, reinforce the wall; the upkeep would be tremendous and all consuming. It was impossible and stupid to even think of it.
I texted Chris, not caring about time zones.
Mom is really mad. Uncle Vance is coming over. He’s mad too.
And what? Make me return? Withhold my share of the inheritance? I turned my face to the Italian sun. Never speak to me again?
You’ll be just fine, I texted Chris.
I’ll visit your home, he texted back.
I blinked. He was right. I was home.
Catharine Bramkamp is a professional writing coach, bringing her clients from idea to published book to promotion. She produced 200 episodes of the writing podcast, Newbie Writers Podcast, has written 17 novels and 3 books on writing. She believes that adventure is possible at any age, as long as there is wine with lunch.
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After I'm Buried Alive Page 25