The Forty Column Castle

by Marjorie Thelen

  Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Eureka. The question was, where did the steps go and did they offer any means of escape? Down I went. These were no back stairs in the sense of cement steps and cinder block walls. No, they were polished wood as were the walls, and they had the fragrance of the cedars of Lebanon. Even the back stairs were first class in this palace.

  As it turned out, they were not the servant stairs at all. They were stairs to a corridor that led to the patio surrounding the acres of pool I had seen from the roof. Of course, why wouldn’t each room have their own access to the millionaire’s playground?

  Beyond the ameba shaped pool, sporting a fountain in the middle, was the beach, the dock, and the yacht. Lounge chairs lined the side of the pool, enough for a cruise ship. Palm trees swayed in the breeze. The black rocks that formed the cliff side of the house gave way to a beach of white sand, bright even in the dimming light. Underwater lights in the pool lit the area. I kept to the shadows and shrubbery around the perimeter of the pool.

  Not a soul enjoyed the beauty of the beach area. No one swam in the pool. A breeze off the sea ruffled the palms. The sound of water splashing from the fountain in the pool made me want to jump in. The scene was a good time waiting to happen.

  I found it odd that such a gorgeous house had so little activity. It seemed like there should be a crowd of party people having the time of their lives. But no one crowded around the bar with thatched roof at the end of the pool nearest the house. Maybe this was an off day.

  Alone, I stood in the shadows watching to see if anyone moved, if anyone came out for an evening swim or to enjoy a cocktail by the pool. Not a soul. Keeping to the shadows, I followed the house, peeking in windows. They were enormous, the kind you’d find in a room with a view, with crank out side windows. A little further on light spilled out a window onto the walkway. I eased along in the shadows toward the light, my black dress helping me blend in. I inched between shrubs, the mulch warm against my bare feet, giving off the heat it had stored up during the day. I stopped short of an open window. A single lamp gave off weak light onto the soft gray of the stone walk.

  I ventured a peek in the window. There, reading a newspaper, sat Mr. Bellomo looking like anyone’s favorite Grandpa. He held the newspaper at arm’s length, demonstrating a need to pay a visit to the optometrist for a new prescription. The gold frames of his glasses glittered in the lamplight. Half a glass of red wine sat on the table beside him. The brilliant white hair on his head, worn short and brushed back, was thinning in the back. His fingernails were perfectly manicured. He wore a short sleeve shirt that showed off his tanned arms. He looked like your local friendly golfer on the nineteenth hole.

  What mesmerized me was not how he looked, but what he was reading. He was staring at the front page of the English newspaper, the local paper that served the British population. My photo looked out from the front page side-by-side with a photo of my aunt. The caption read “American Tourists Sought in Antiquities Theft”.

  Fifteen

  Mr. Bellomo knew he was harboring two people wanted by the authorities. One of the two he had personally helped out of prison. He didn’t look surprised or concerned about those photos, but I was. I wanted to talk to those authorities now. I whirled and hurried back from whence I’d come.

  I had to get the three of us out. If Mr. Bellomo knew the police were looking for us, and he wasn’t making any attempt to report us, something was terribly, terribly wrong. Now the thought of being in the custody of the police gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

  I nearly killed myself tracing my steps back to the stairs, but instead of going to the one to my room, I kept going down the corridor, searching for the door that should be in the wall below the balcony of my aunt’s room. It stood open as had mine. I took the steps two at a time and found the top door closed but not locked. I eased it open and slid the louvered panel door aside.

  My aunt was stretched out on the bed, taking a nap.

  “Wake up.” I gently shook her, hoping not to scare her.

  She mumbled and sputtered, and her eyes flew open.

  “Claudie? Where did you come from, dear? Goodness, I was having a bad dream. Someone was chasing me, and I couldn’t get away.”

  I didn’t want to tell her that we were living that dream.

  “Aunt Elizabeth, we have to leave here as soon as it’s dark.”

  “Whatever for? I like it here.”

  “I bet you do. This place is palatial, but Mr. Bellomo may not have your best interests at heart. We need to go to the police.”

  “But, Claudie, dear, he got me away from the police. Why would I want to go back?”

  “Because our photos are on the front page of the newspaper. We could be doing Mr. Bellomo real harm, since it could look like he is harboring criminals.”

  “We aren’t criminals. What are you talking about?” She sat up. “Now look, Marie-Claude. I waited all my life for someone like Salvatore Bellomo to sweep me off my feet. I’m in love, and he loves me, he said he did, and I’m not getting any younger, and we’re getting married, and I’m not going back to jail. That is that.”

  I sat down beside her on the rose satin bed spread and put an arm around her shoulders. The bed could have been made of clouds, it was so soft.

  “What if Mr. Bellomo is leading you on, hoping that you’ll tell him where Berengaria’s jewels are, because he thinks you have them?”

  “For heaven’s sake. I don’t have any jewels. How can I? They don’t exist, and he’s never asked me the first thing about them. We don’t talk about antiquities or my being in jail. We talk about books and fine art and the weather and our new life together. We talk about wines and food and his family in Sicily. He came from a poor family and is a self-made man, and I admire him. You know I come from humble beginnings, and we have that in common.”

  “For all this wealth,” she waved her hand in a gesture that encompassed the whole room, “he’s a very humble man and a dear and I am going to marry him and no one is going to stop me.” She looked at her watch, a new, sparkling gold filigree adornment that I had never seen before.

  “Oh me, now we are going to be late for dinner. Hurry and get some shoes on, dear. I’ve got to change. Sal and I have been having lovely dinners in the garden, and I like to fancy up a bit. Hurry now. He wants you to dine with us this evening.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes, now hurry. Where are your shoes?” She trotted over to the closet which contained minimum two dozen dresses.

  “Where did you get all of those?” I asked.

  “Salvatore bought them for me and had them delivered. He buys me the nicest things and has excellent taste in clothes.”

  She held up one in the mirror. It was a deep blue sundress that would bring out her cornflower blue eyes, had plenty of room for her ample bosoms, and sported a slightly flared skirt.

  “This will be perfect. I wear a different one every evening. I’m going to freshen up in the bath and slip this on. Hurry now, Claudie, we don’t want to be late.”

  She bustled into the bathroom and left me sitting on the edge of the bed wondering what to do. Get my shoes, obviously. If I dined with the lovebirds, I might be able to find out why Mr. Bellomo chose to harbor criminals, and if his intentions were honorable. Maybe he would have the chief of police to dinner or whoever the guy was that helped him spring my aunt from jail.

  I hurried back to my room via the empty hallway to find Zach stretched out on the couch in the same position I had left him. I freshened his ice pack and tried shaking him awake.

  “What?” he said, eyes fluttering open.

  “Zach, are you okay?” I wasn’t hoping for much of an answer to that question.

  “Claudie? I’m okay,” he said, “just a little sleepy. Ouch, my jaw is killing me.”

  His eyes were drifting shut again. “I had this dream about fists raining down on my face.” His speech was halting, and I couldn’t make sense of it. A dream? The way he looke
d was not a dream.

  “Okay, rest. I’m going to dine with my aunt and Mr. Bellomo. I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere soon. I’ll be back, and then we’re leaving.”

  “Right.” He conked out again.

  I sat, hunched on the floor beside the couch looking at him and brushed his hair back in place. He looked so vulnerable and beat up. He was in no shape for anything. His face felt hot to the touch. I worried he might have a fever.

  Lord, what a mess this all was. How was I going to uproot my lovesick aunt and drag her from the dragon’s lair? How was I going to help Zach? He was a felon and a wanted man. Didn’t we make a pair? I wished it were on the right instead of wrong side of the law. I wondered how much a good lawyer cost in Cyprus, as I trudged to the bathroom to pull myself together.

  I fixed my hair into a top knot, fussed with my makeup, sprayed on more Ancient Breezes, its crisp fragrance growing on me, found my cute sandals and slid them on. I had no jewelry except the gold hoops I wore, but I liked the little black dress which hugged my curves. Since I didn’t have rubies and sapphires this evening, the gold St. Christopher medal would have to do.

  I tucked the silky soft blanket over Zach and kissed his forehead. One side of his mouth tried to twitch into a smile. The evening breeze off the water was cool, so I closed the French doors to the balcony. I dimmed the overhead and left the table lamp burning at the end of the couch. I looked back one last time as I left the room. Zach looked so peaceful stretched out on that humungous couch. A scene of domestic felicity. One could wish.

  Aunt Elizabeth was ready when I arrived in her room.

  “Does a limo come for us or do we walk to dinner?”

  She laughed. “Oh, Claudie, dear heart, don’t be silly, of course we’ll walk.”

  She sprayed a few squirts of expensive perfume behind her ears. “There, all ready. How do I look?”

  “Great.” I had to admit she had always been an attractive woman in a matronly sort of way, always had a neatness about her. She wore a gold chain with a blue pendant that looked like a sapphire with drop earrings to match. Salvatore sure was into gifts.

  Her hair was soft white, easy to coif, and pulled back in her signature French twist. The blue dress showed off her hour glass figure. With strappy gold heels and painted red toenails, she looked like an AARP fashion model. I was proud of her. If only she weren’t in love with a Mafia don.

  She led the way at a brisk anticipatory trot to our garden setting for dinner. Salvatore was waiting, glass of wine in hand, which he set on the table to greet my aunt with a generous smile and a kiss on the cheek. He wore a white, open neck shirt and dark blue European cut pants with tan Italian loafers.

  The outdoor dining area featured an oval white wrought iron table with matching chairs and glass top. The table sat twelve. I wondered where the rest of the party was. A silver candelabrum with electric white candles glowed at the end of the table set with three places. The army of glasses, plates, silverware and napkins was daunting to someone who never had more than one course for dinner. I decided I would follow my host’s lead to navigate my way through the courses.

  My aunt blushed prettily when her betrothed whispered in her ear, and she giggled in return.

  They turned to me.

  “I am so very happy you could join us for dinner,” Salvatore Bellomo said, extending his hand to me. “I trust you are feeling better.” His handshake was firm but tolerant of a woman’s hand.

  On studying him closer, I could understand my aunt’s attraction to him. He was elegant like an Italian aristocrat of the Renaissance, a self-contained man with an easy smile that made one comfortable. I could see why he had become a successful businessman, if his easy manner with people were any indication.

  “Can I offer you something to drink? A glass of wine perhaps? We have some excellent Cypriot wines this evening.”

  I accepted the offer of wine. My aunt requested a Cyprus brandy sour. She was fairly tittering, and I had to admit they looked cute together. He was only an inch or two taller than she was, and I could imagine them on the dance floor whirling around the room to a rumba or chachacha.

  “Please sit down. Over here, shall we?” He indicated a wicker arrangement overlooking the pool. We settled onto bright yellow flowered cushions. Maybe his decorator was someone out of Architectural Digest.

  Rodolfo arrived with our drinks and placed them on a glass top wicker table along with a small tray of meze, a mixture of dishes, a favorite way of eating on Cyprus. I anticipated one of those meals that would go on forever. I loved the round flat Cypriot bread that was great for dipping hummus and eating talatoura, a light cucumber and yogurt concoction. I sighed happily when I saw the variety and started out with fried calamari.

  It didn’t seem to bother Salvatore that I was there, that I had found my aunt. I didn’t know if she had mentioned I came in through the balcony. He didn’t bring up Zach in the conversation which seemed odd since we had come together. I had heard somewhere that Mafia types never discussed business around their women. They were family men. They discussed family things, as did we.

  He directed his questions to me about my life in Boston and demonstrated a keen interest in the mutual fund. This was the man who had gotten my aunt out of jail, held her hostage in his house, and was reputed to be in the smuggling business. Here we sat discussing family and fine art. But I needed some answers, and I was American and straight forward, so I launched my barrage.

  My first question was “Mr. Bellomo, how did you get my aunt released from jail?”

  He set down his glass of wine, dabbed at his lips with a white linen napkin and helped himself to a stuffed grape leaf. He munched a bite and seemed to savor the taste.

  “I know you must have been surprised that I secured her release, but I have done business and lived on this island for many years. I know many people. I have done favors for some, they do favors for me. I called in one of those favors, I believe you say. That is how I got her out.” He stopped, only answering the question asked, not volunteering any more information.

  That was that. Very simple. The favor system.

  “Then why did you bring her here?”

  He smiled and looked at my aunt. “Because I care for your aunt very deeply, and I wanted her to be safe. I did not trust what was going on. You can see this is an ideal place for her to be.” He waved his hand in a circle to encompass the house and our surroundings.

  “I have to admit this house is lovely and more than adequate, but I was worried about her and was trying to find her.”

  “Yes, I tried to get word to you, but it seems you disappeared.” He smiled that warm, friendly smile, without accusation or judgment and took another sip of wine.

  He sat forward in his chair. “Marie-Claude, if I may call you by your formal name. It is so lovely this name. I can transport both you and your aunt from the island. It is not a problem to get you out of Cyprus. But,” and he paused to emphasize the word, “but that will not clear up the accusations against you. This is what we must do. This is what I would discuss with you, you see, because your aunt and I wish to marry.”

  So it was true. This was right from the source. I sat back to think that one over.

  My aunt sipped her brandy sour, a particular weakness of hers, and sampled mezes while she listened to our conversation. She had an uncanny sense of when to speak and when not to. She had never been a confrontative type which made her easy to get along with and a pleasant companion. I realized that this quality was probably one that Salvatore found attractive, as well as her ability to laugh at life and its absurdities and enjoy a good joke.

  What I wanted to say to Salvatore was -- sir, are your intentions honorable and. is that huge diamond on my aunt’s finger real? But I didn’t. How gauche would that be?

  He continued on when I wasn’t forthcoming with more questions. “Maybe you think it odd this match between us, your aunt and me.” He picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze and looked at
her with a little smile. My heart began to melt. It was obvious that he indeed did care about her. I felt like the father of the bride.

  “After all,” he went on, “we are not young, and we are from different cultures. But we spent much time together while she was here, and I found myself enchanted. Myself, I lost my wife to cancer several years ago. I did not think ever to re-marry. My wife was a good Sicilian woman and gave me four beautiful children. But they have their own lives now. They have all married and have children. I still have some life left in me. I feel the need for companionship, and Elizabeth is a wonderful companion. I feel like I am a young man again with her. It is good for me.”

  I glanced at my aunt while he said this and noticed her eyes glistened. I almost choked up myself. I knew how she felt about him. Why not? What a life of comfort she would have with a man that adored her. She deserved it.

  “I understand,” I said. “When do you think to set a date for the wedding?” I thought I should press him for a date to see if he was going to carry through on his proposal.

  “First,” Salvatore said, “we will clear up this unfortunate matter of the antiquities, and then we will decide.”

  Then, I thought, you will break my aunt’s heart by dumping her after you get the jewels. Over my dead body.

  “What do you say, my precious Elizabeth?” Salvatore was again gazing upon his intended.

  “Whatever you say, Sal.” She blushed. “I would like a little time to plan, don’t you think, darling? I mean, we talked about a little family wedding. We’d want you there, Claudie, of course.”

  I smiled. It was wonderful for her. I prayed she wouldn’t be disappointed. ”I’d like to be there. I’d be thrilled, and I wish you both no end of happiness.”

  This was bowling me over. My aunt was getting married. She looked so happy. I decided then and there that I would cut this guy off at the knees, if he didn’t carry through.