Summer of Fire

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “Do you have any cash?” he asked.

  She looked at him with disgust.

  “Cash? I didn’t bring cash with me. This isn’t a hotel.”

  “Where is the sapphire necklace?”

  “I don’t have it anymore.”

  “You didn’t fulfill the agreement.”

  “It’s not my fault if your men are incompetent. I had it in Capri, right there in the bedroom, where I told you it would be.”

  “So give it to me now.”

  “No. All deals are off. You killed my grandmother. And now you can go to hell.”

  “Tell me where the necklace is,” he growled, advancing with the pistol.

  She belted her robe and stood before him, unflinching.

  “It belongs to Princess Victoria, not you,” she said. “I gave it to her last night.”

  “Grazie, mille,” he said, “Now I know it is here.”

  Her temper flared. “Get out of here, before I call the police.”

  “You will not call anyone.”

  He advanced closer, and she could see his coveralls were spattered and stained.

  “Crawl back to your cesspool.” She spat at him.

  “How dare you insult me,” he said. “I could kill you right now.”

  “You already killed a Brindisi. Isn’t that enough? How does it feel to murder a harmless old woman for a few trinkets? No amount of money will ever give you class, Mondragone. You’re nothing but a dirty peasant.”

  She took a menacing step toward him, and incredibly, Mondragone backed up, recoiling. Satisfied that she had cowed him, she started to turn away and saw their reflections in the large mirror on the wall.

  It was a dramatic picture, the crime boss backing off from a woman attired in a red robe, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders. Her face was strong, angry, imperious.

  The tableau in the mirror gave her great satisfaction. Mirrors don’t lie, and every inch of her ancient Roman heritage was apparent. It was she who was in command. And Mondragone was a lowly thief in his spattered work coveralls, thick hands like pieces of meat grasping a pistol.

  In the mirror, she saw him raise the weapon to shoot. She turned back, intending to command him to stop, but Mondragone pulled the trigger.

  In the split second it took for her to realize what was happening, she called out. The word began with an S, … but the rest was lost in death.

  The contessa fell straight back onto the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, the pillow behind her splattered with crimson.

  FRONT LAWN, CLIFFMERE

  Tito walked around the lawn, smoking a cigarette. Mondragone had told him to stay put. But this was taking forever. There was no problem with him checking things out on his own. He told the driver to stay with the car and started off down the driveway.

  The volcanic ash had gotten much worse; now it was so thick he could barely see ten feet in front of him. The line of elms extended toward the house, and he slunk from trunk to trunk. Soon, he could see the façade of the manor house.

  His boss might need backup. He walked toward the garden, holding on to his Taser.

  LONG BARN, CLIFFMERE

  In the barn, Jude leaned over and brushed Clothilde’s hair back from her face.

  “Wake up, sweetie,” he said, patting her hand gently.

  She moaned, and her eyes flew open.

  “Who are you?” she gasped.

  He knelt down next to her chair.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m a friend. What happened?”

  Clothilde looked around and saw the body on the floor again.

  “I came in and found him. He’s dead,” she said.

  Jude turned to look. There were two bodies. The older man was face up, stone dead. The other body was face down, a younger man, nicely dressed.

  “Who is the other guy?” he asked,

  “Oh my God … that’s my brother, Charles!”

  Jude recognized the coat and rushed over to the body. He turned him over and found that Charles was conscious.

  “Take it easy, there,” Jude said.

  He lifted the flap of the elegant coat and saw the shirt was soaked with crimson. There was a small hole where a bullet had torn through his shoulder.

  Charles groaned and shut his eyes.

  “Lie still,” Jude ordered, “You’ve been shot.”

  “It’s not so it bad, is it?” Charles asked, looking at him.

  Jude peeked again. “Listen, I’m no doctor, but it seems to have missed all the important stuff.”

  Charles became more alert.

  “Where’s Clothilde?”

  “She’s right here,” Jude said, moving so he could see.

  Charles made an enormous effort to struggle to his feet. Jude steadied him as he staggered over to his sister.

  “I’m here, chéri,” he said, leaning heavily on her chair.

  Tears poured down her face.

  “Oh Charles, I thought you were …”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re hurt. There’s blood.”

  “It’s nothing. What happened?”

  “I was so frightened,” she explained.

  Charles looked where she was pointing.

  He recoiled in horror at the corpse.

  “Who is that?”

  “I have no idea,” Jude said as he gestured to the man. “But look at that bullet hole in the forehead.”

  “Mondragone’s signature kill,” Charles told him.

  “He must be around. We should leave immediately,” Jude said. “Are you strong enough to walk?”

  “I could push Clothilde in her chair. You run and warn the others.”

  “No. You’re in no condition to push anyone. I’ll carry your sister. And you get back to the house as best you can.”

  Jude turned to the girl in the chair.

  “I think your wheelchair is too slow. I can carry you much faster.”

  “Whatever you think is best.”

  He bent down and gathered her up. She was so light he could have carried her with one arm.

  “Charles, go as fast as you can. Keep a sharp eye out. Mondragone may not have gone far.”

  WEST WING, CLIFFMERE

  As the clock struck noon, Marian walked down the darkened corridor to the west wing of the house. Nobody had seen the contessa this morning. Even if she were sleeping, certainly a discreet tap on her door would be appropriate. Lunch would be served in half an hour.

  She knocked on the thick oak door. Nothing. Marian pressed her ear to the wood, but there was no sound inside. The knob didn’t turn. She inserted the housekeeper’s master key and pushed the door open.

  “Contessa?”

  There was silence. The breeze blew the drapes open. The heavy curtains wafted and fell, causing dim sunlight to flicker across the surfaces of the furniture. Marian got a glimpse of the upholstered chair, marble mantle, and carved wood bedposts. The covers were in disarray, pillows piled high.

  “Contessa?”

  Then Marian saw the pale arm draped over the duvet. It was unnaturally white, chalky in color, the deep red nail polish garish against the opalescent skin.

  Marian approached the bed from the other side then halted, transfixed. A body was lying among the blood-soaked pillows. The Contessa Brindisi was not ill; she was dead.

  VENETIAN BEDROOM, CLIFFMERE

  Mondragone entered a beautiful bedroom with a large four-poster bed, needlepoint carpet, and huge ormolu mirrors. Everything was as neat as a pin; nothing out of place. Princess Victoria’s personal luggage was on the rack at the end of the bed. He flipped open the top of the suitcase and began a quick search of the contents.

  It took thirty seconds. The jewel case was right at the bottom—a blue leather zippered roll with six compartments. He walked to the dressing table and began shaking out the contents—gold chains, pearls, bracelets, rings.

  There it was—the necklace—deeper blue than he had remembered, and somewhat dull in finish. It didn’t
look quite the same, but this had to be it. Mondragone put it in his pocket and walked out the door.

  MAIN HOUSE, CLIFFMERE

  Jude hurried through the house, carrying Clothilde, looking for someone to help. In the library, he found Sinclair and Cordelia sitting together in the bay window. They both looked up in surprise.

  “Jude! What’s going on!” Sinclair asked, leaping to his feet.

  “We need to call the police,” Jude gasped and strode over to the leather couch, carefully laying Clothilde down.

  “Clothilde, are you all right?” Cordelia asked.

  “Yes. But there’s a dead man in the barn! A farmworker was murdered.”

  “Do you think it’s—” Sinclair started.

  “Yes, it’s Mondragone,” Jude affirmed, “The bullet hole was through his forehead.”

  Sinclair put his hand to his mouth, completely distraught. “How the hell did he find us?”

  Jude stood up. “We also found Charles. He’s been shot.”

  Sinclair grabbed his arm. “Charles? Where is he?”

  “He’s coming. It’s not that bad. He could walk on his own.”

  Just then the door crashed open and they all whirled to see Charles stagger over to a chair and collapse.

  “Call the police,” Charles said, his voice altered by pain. “Mondragone’s here.”

  Cordelia flew to him, but he waved her off. “I’m fine. Look after Clothilde.”

  “What happened, Charles?” Sinclair demanded, taking a cell phone out of his jacket pocket.

  “I walked into the barn and somebody shot me.”

  “Clothilde what did you see?” Sinclair asked.

  “There was a man with a gun.”

  “What did he look like?” he pressed, dialing the emergency number.

  Clothilde pulled herself upright on the couch, and Jude hastened to assist her.

  “He was a big man. He put his hand over my mouth. But I don’t remember his face.”

  “Hello?” Sinclair said into the phone, interrupting her. “May I have the police …”

  He covered the receiver momentarily.

  “… Delia, take a look at Charles, will you?”

  “I’m fine,” Charles insisted.

  “Sit up and let me look,” Cordelia told him firmly.

  He opened his coat, and his shirt and pants were sopping with blood.

  “John, this is bad!” she said. “Charles needs a doctor immediately!”

  Sinclair held up a hand for her to wait as he spoke clearly and calmly.

  “Yes … this is Cliffmere Estate. We have a gunman on the property, one person dead, another seriously wounded, and will need immediate medical attention.”

  Sinclair listened.

  “Yes, that’s right. Just after A-4, past Maidenhead. Send the police. Right away.”

  He cradled the phone next to his ear and pulled out his wallet, searching through it for a business card.

  “Also please call Chief Inspector Fenton at Scotland Yard. Yes, tell him the man he’s looking for is here—Salvatore Mondragone. And please hurry.”

  He hung up and turned to them to explain.

  “They say the police may not be coming right away. The highways are closed, and there are quite a few serious car accidents because of the ash.”

  “What about an ambulance?” Cordelia asked, looking up from Charles’s bloody shirt.

  “EMS teams are all tied up. I put in the word with Scotland Yard, but that won’t be quick either.”

  They all stared at him in silence.

  “You mean we’re here on our own with Mondragone in the house?” Jude asked.

  “Yes, but hopefully he’s not in the house proper, only on the grounds.”

  “John, somebody has to check on the others,” Cordelia said urgently. “Marian and Luca. And what about Brindy and Victoria?”

  “We need to organize,” Sinclair said, turning to the group. “The library will be our base of operations.”

  “What should we do?” Clothilde asked.

  “Lock the doors and windows, pull the drapes. Clothilde, you stay here. And Charles you need to lie down and take it easy.”

  Charles nodded, and Sinclair continued.

  “Delia, go get a towel for Charles and a couple of blankets to keep him warm.”

  “OK.”

  “Jude, you protect the library. We need to gather everyone into the same spot.”

  “No problem.”

  Sinclair stood in the middle of the room, a commanding presence. His directives were calm and deliberate, without emotion.

  “Everyone will stay here and lock the door. This will be our stronghold until the police come.”

  “What are you going to do?” Cordelia asked.

  “I’ll go out and find whoever is missing and bring them back.”

  Charles interrupted, his voice weak. “Does anybody know where Victoria went?”

  Cordelia jumped up. “I’ll go find her.”

  Sinclair looked at her undecided.

  “You need help,” she argued. “You can’t do it all by yourself.”

  He gave her a curt nod. “OK. We’ll both go. Check the house first. She may be in her room getting dressed. But don’t take any chances. Look around and report back to Jude, no matter what.”

  KITCHEN GARDEN

  Victoria cut through the vegetable garden. The sprinklers had just finished their automatic cycle. A row of wet lettuce leaves sparkled with water in the weak sunlight. Her printed cotton skirt billowed against her legs in the fresh cool air, and the mist made everything very romantic and dreamy.

  The ashfall was dense now. Even at this short distance, it was hard to see the barn. The air had a strong smell of sulfur, and she could discern a slight metallic taste in the back of her throat. They’d all have to stay indoors. But first she had to find Charles.

  When she entered the barn, everything was silent. Even the egg washing machine had been turned off. The packing operation must be over.

  “Clothilde?” she called as she walked over to the conveyer belt.

  The ceramic tile floor was stained with something—a bright red puddle. Beet juice perhaps? Victoria stopped, appalled.

  Clothilde’s wheelchair stood abandoned, and a man in his underwear was stretched out in a pool of blood, eyes sightlessly staring up at the ceiling.

  She gave a gasp of shock. It was the farmhand who had worked with Clothilde! The eyes were glassy, the mouth slightly open, as if he might speak. But this man would never move again.

  Victoria turned and ran back to the house.

  CLIFFMERE KITCHEN

  Marian was telephoning the police.

  “Yes, please send them as soon as possible,” she said.

  She rang off when she saw Victoria standing in the doorway.

  “Marian, someone has been killed.”

  “I know. We need to find the others,” Marian said.

  “I just found the body,” Victoria said in a shaky voice.

  “Who could have wanted the contessa dead?” Marian asked, bewildered. “I just don’t understand.”

  “The contessa?”

  “Yes, she’s been murdered in her room. I’ve just called the police, but they knew already.”

  “Are they coming?” Victoria asked, stunned.

  “No. They told me there were a lot of accidents out on the motorway, and all the patrol cars have been dispatched.”

  “Marian, it’s not just the contessa. A man has been shot in the barn, and Clothilde’s wheelchair is empty … she’s missing.”

  At that, Marian’s knees wobbled, and she plopped down on a chair. Victoria came over and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Where are all the men? The farmworkers?” Victoria asked.

  “Most didn’t come in today, because the roads are closed. All the people who could make it here went out to the west pasture. They’re moving livestock.”

  “We need to protect ourselves until the police get here,�
�� Victoria said. “Do you have any guns?”

  Marian looked up in surprise. “Do you know how to shoot?”

  Suddenly, Victoria realized there was something she could do to help. The biathlon training would be useful in this situation.

  “I am very good with a rifle. That might help.”

  “Yes, it would,” Marian said, fumbling in her skirt pocket for an enormous bundle of keys. “Just down the corridor to the left is the gun room.”

  Victoria took the key ring. “Which one?”

  Marian sorted through with trembling fingers. “This one opens the door; the cases are unlocked.”

  “Good,” Victoria said. “Now go find everyone else and tell them what has happened.”

  The gun room was filled with firearms for shooting birds and game. There were antique shotguns with sterling silver stocks and modern hunting rifles. All were arrayed in glass cases.

  When Victoria walked in, the sight of the weapons steadied her. This was a world she knew. Any of these rifles would do. She could easily handle them all. The latch on the cabinet turned, and the glass door swung open.

  If a murderer were still on the estate, she’d try to protect the others. Her hand closed over the stock of a hunting rifle, and she checked the breach. It was empty.

  The ammo cabinet had dozens of small drawers. After a quick search, she found the correct shells. With utter familiarity, she slid five into the chamber and slipped the rest into the pocket of her skirt. Then she lifted the butt to her shoulder. Gripping the forestock, she sighted along the barrel. The rifle had good heft and balanced well. This would stop him.

  SOUTH LAWN

  Cordelia walked out across the terrace looking for Victoria. With all the ashfall, visibility was only a few feet. As she descended into the garden, the grass was spongy and wet.

  Suddenly her ankle bent, and she stumbled on the uneven stone steps. Gasping in pain, she waited until the throbbing subsided. No harm done. It was not sprained, and she continued her search.

  The garden was filled with a ghostly mist. The prospect of Mondragone being out here in this fog was terrifying. There were only indistinct shapes. Every shrub seemed to be shaped like a person. Cordelia closed her eyes and tried to picture the architectural plan of the garden. It was a long sloping lawn that led down to the parkland.