"Eight five one."
Frowning, she glanced over at him. "Eight five one? What's that?"
He rubbed his unshaven chin, keeping his gaze out the window. "The numbers you're missing."
"The numbers—?" It took her a full thirty seconds to realize what he was talking about. When she did, a lead weight fell in her stomach. "The Swiss bank account."
"I wouldn't write all the numbers down in one place," Vincenzo prudently advised.
Sabrina tried to concentrate on the road. "Vince, why are you giving me the numbers now? We still don't know if the painting's going to be there, let alone if we can manage to get it out."
He heaved a very deep sigh. "Sabrina, I meant you to have the money from the beginning, whether or not you managed to get the painting."
"But you said—"
"I said a lot of things. But what I saw was that you didn't trust me. If I'd told you about the money in Manhattan when we first made this deal, you would not have believed me."
He was perfectly correct. She wouldn't have believed him. She hadn't trusted him worth an inch.
"So now you trust me." Vincenzo lifted a shoulder. "And I trust you."
He trusted her. The lead weight in her stomach got heavier. He had no idea. At least a dozen times over the past two days Sabrina had tried to tell Vincenzo about Lise and her deal to sell the painting. But each time she'd stopped, barred by fear and the rationalization there was nothing more Vincenzo could do than the steps Sabrina was already taking.
"Sabrina, are you all right?" Vincenzo touched her arm.
Jumping, she snapped her head around.
His gaze was concerned. "You look suddenly very pale."
"I'm fine. Look there's the guardhouse here by the front gate. I want you to be quiet now, and don't touch me."
Sabrina slowed as they approached a picturesque stone buttress beside a wide wooden swing gate. With some dismay she noted there was no human being within the stone structure. Instead a metal intercom system was set in the stone.
Who knew if anyone would answer a buzz—or if the system was even in good working order?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She pulled beside the intercom, gazed at it a moment, then pushed a button marked "call." In her head she rehearsed the story she'd prepared for this moment, a story inspired by her view three days ago of the lush landscaping beside a palatial house.
A full minute passed with no answer. Then another. Beside her, Vincenzo grew noticeably tenser.
Don't panic, Sabrina told herself. It might take the old lady a while to get to the intercom if she were too reclusive to have any servants to do it for her. Sabrina was just wondering if she ought to try pressing the buzzer again when there was a loud static crackle and a voice snapped out of the metal speaker set inside the stone buttress.
"Who is it?" The gravelly voice had an accent a lot like Vincenzo's.
"Sara Redmon, editor of the Architectural Observer," Sabrina replied. She'd had business cards made up special expedite claiming the same phony connection to the well-known glossy design magazine. Usually victims didn't think to check such credentials until it was too late.
"Architectural Observer?" asked the voice on the intercom. It sounded a great deal less antagonistic than before.
A good sign, thought Sabrina, her heart picking up speed. "We noticed your estate from the air a week ago," she went on. "On our way up to San Francisco to do a piece on Victorian roughhouses. Thought we'd stop in on our way back down to Los Angeles. Discuss the possibility of doing a photo-article on your estate." What Sabrina had really thought was that a recluse who'd gone to such pains to create the showpiece Sabrina had seen from the air must be dying for a chance to get some credit for it. "We think you're hiding a real treasure here. Is it possible we can come in, shoot some photos?"
Sabrina held her breath. Not only did she hope this explanation would get them through the solid wood gate, but it would also give them license to poke into all sorts of places to look for the Madonna della Montagna.
It might also be too good a gig to come true. No answer came through over the intercom.
Time to roll some dice. "Of course..." Sabrina looked down at her nails, putting every ounce of indifference she could into her voice. "If you're not interested...?"
It worked like a charm. "Come in," commanded the voice, right before a loud buzzer accompanied the slow rotation open of the two leaves of the gate.
Sabrina looked over at Vincenzo. Excitement and a buzz of triumph passed between them. They were in.
Quickly, Sabrina looked forward again. She had to stop this feeling of connection with him, like he was her partner or anything. He wasn't. Once this was over, he was going back home. As quickly as Sabrina could push him onto a plane.
"Okay, quiet now," she warned, and drove through the gate.
The entrance drive wound between California oak trees and ended in a ground sand circle before a low wooden house. The house was almost invisible behind a variety of artistically placed trellises and designer fences.
As she got out of the car, Sabrina was hit by an aroma of flowers. They grew all around, winding through the trellis that stretched over the car as a porte cochere and hanging from the house's wide eaves. Even so, there wasn't a particularly welcome atmosphere, more one of...gloating.
Everything, even the flowers, had been set to prove a point. I have arrived it all said.
Meanwhile, Sabrina's instincts were singing. The Madonna was here.
On the other side of the car, Vincenzo got out with his camera bag, his shoes crunching in the sand. Their eyes met over the roof of the rental. In that moment, Sabrina knew Vincenzo sensed her intuition. He must have been nearly swamped by excitement.
For her part, she was beginning to experience more nerves than excitement. This was not at all like her normal con, the kind she used to pull all the time with Joe. There was too much at stake here beside money. If Vincenzo didn't get his painting, he wouldn't be able to move on with his life.
And, okay, maybe Vincenzo's life shouldn't matter to Sabrina, but it did. She wanted to see him squared away before she pursued her own goal against the Castlewrights.
Sentimental? Maybe. Caring? Another maybe. But not enough to freak her out completely. She was still going to look out for Number One here.
Vincenzo lowered his eyes, shading his emotions, right before the carved door at the entrance of the building opened.
A well-groomed woman in her mid-seventies appeared in the door opening. She was dressed casually, but smartly, in a deep turquoise jogging suit. Though she doubtless could have afforded it, this was a woman who'd scorned plastic surgery. Indeed, the sags and wrinkles on her face told a story of arrogance and sustained anger.
She looked like every snobby rich person Sabrina had ever felt entitled to con. But instead of a spark of excitement over the prospect of doing just that, Sabrina felt an alarming splash of scruples. Beneath the proud sneer, Sabrina read loneliness.
Shaking off the sensation, she quickly resumed her professional editor persona. Fake business card in hand, she strode toward Mrs. Miller with an admiring smile. "We're with the Architectural Observer. Did I mention that already? Just love to get some photos. I see real possibilities here. Full color, several pages."
Francesca Miller's patrician features sharpened as she took Sabrina's card. She gazed down at it in disdainful silence.
Sabrina wasn't fooled. The old woman was lonely as a wolf—and twice as vain. She was already hooked.
"Well!" Sniffing, Mrs. Miller handed the card back to Sabrina. "It is about time someone took an interest in my house, instead of always harping on about—" She stopped herself abruptly with a shake of the head. Pain noticeably, if quickly, passed over her features. "Very well. So! You wish to do an article about my house?"
"And gardens," Sabrina thought it wise to add. Who knew where they'd want to poke about? "From what I see here, I think we'd want to make it comprehensive." That wor
d ought to allow them just about anywhere on the estate.
"I see." Francesca's disdainful regard moved past Sabrina to take in Vincenzo.
"My photographer," Sabrina explained. "Nick Andreoni. His lens is fantastic."
As if to prove the point, Vincenzo removed his large and fancy-looking camera from the bag. He pointed it toward the front of the house and clicked the shutter a few times.
It was a shrewd move. The action caused Francesca to visibly preen. "Ah. So you like the entry? Wait until you see the courtyard."
Sabrina gushed, "Just show us the way."
With slight smile on her craggy features, Francesca turned to lead the way into the house.
Sabrina thought she'd prepared for everything. She hadn't counted on a growing unease with the idea of bilking the angry-faced woman who so obviously enjoyed their company as she took them through her artfully designed house. She led them through a lofty living room with clerestory windows, a formal dining room with seating for twenty, and an industrial-size kitchen. The place was built for entertaining, though it was obvious Mrs. Miller did nothing of the sort.
Vincenzo meanwhile waltzed around clicking his shutter from this angle and that. He must have noticed, as Sabrina had, that no Renaissance painting was to be seen. Yet her instincts screamed it was here somewhere.
"This house is absolutely a gem," Sabrina said when they were in the kitchen, regarding a refrigerator the size of a Volkswagen. How much of that refrigerator, Sabrina couldn't help wondering, was actually filled with food? For one old woman? Pushing the disturbing thought aside, she concentrated on getting them into more of the house. "But I find in so many of these places the architect doesn't put as much work into the bedrooms."
Francesca Miller's eyes widened. "Oh, no. Sergio put just as much thought into the bedrooms as the living room. I will show you."
And, of course, she did. She was making it so easy, and at the same time, so hard.
Meanwhile, there was no sign of the Madonna in the four bedrooms Francesca showed them, although a clay statue that looked like it came from the ancient Mideast and a lacquered Chinese fan set against a dresser—both antiques—were promising.
At the end of the hall was one last door. Instead of showing them in, however, Francesca turned. "That's just a storage room," she said, dismissive.
Bingo, thought Sabrina. "Ah— But that might be just the ticket."
Francesca turned around again, her eyebrows raised haughtily.
Why? Sabrina asked herself. Why might that be just the ticket? And also get Vincenzo in there, by himself? "Uh— Does the room have a window?"
"Yes." Francesca's brows drew down. "Why?"
Gesturing toward Vincenzo, Sabrina said, "I'm guessing he could get his best angle on your courtyard from there." Sabrina turned toward Vincenzo. "What do you think, Nick?"
Lowering his lashes as if he were considering the matter—but probably in order to hide his excitement—Vincenzo appeared to think, then shrugged and nodded.
"It's always best to get a great variety of shots and angles," Sabrina explained to Francesca, trying to make herself sound like an expert. "Back at the office we paw through them all and decide which will...give the place the most justice."
"Oh, very well." Clearly wanting to give the place justice, Francesca opened the door. "So long as you take no pictures of this room, itself. It's full of junk."
She walked through the door. Sabrina and Vincenzo followed.
The Lady was hanging on the wall facing them. Sabrina didn't know if it was her imagination, but the painting stood out above the jumble of sheet-covered furniture and mismatched objets d'art like an illuminated billboard over an unlit city.
Even though Vincenzo was behind her, Sabrina could feel him go very still. His hesitation only lasted a moment, however. Then he was hauling up his camera, pointing it out the window toward the garden outside. A second later, in a burst of inspiration that flabbergasted Sabrina, he stopped to work a tripod out of his battered camera bag. He was giving himself a reason to stay put.
It was a brilliant move, but along with her pride, Sabrina felt a burst of pure terror. Once she left Vincenzo alone in this room, he'd be switching the copy of the Madonna for the original. If he was right about his timing, it would take him ten minutes to step from law-abiding citizen to fugitive criminal.
And he'd be depending on her to keep him safe during the transition.
The idea made a vein pound in Sabrina's forehead, interfering with her brain even as she needed that brain more than ever. She had to get Francesca Miller out of the room, and keep her out long enough to prevent Vincenzo's exposure.
"Ah." She made her voice dry. "Once he takes out that tripod, he's going to be a while." Sabrina wanted to add "a long while," but feared that would be going too far.
"Oh." Francesca Miller looked mildly put out.
"Perfect opportunity for you to show me your gardens," Sabrina put in. "And for me to get some background information— You know, on how you chose the architect, what made you decide on this material or that. I have a lot of questions."
"Oh." Francesca preened again. "Of course. Let me show you our roses. They bloom earlier here than anywhere else on the coast. And I can answer all your questions."
She was buying it hook, line, and sinker. The woman was one of the easiest marks Sabrina had ever worked.
Yet as Francesca led Sabrina back down the hall and toward the gardens, she couldn't help feeling this con was the most difficult she'd ever pulled. Vincenzo's safety was on the line. She was so scared her feet were sweating.
But since she knew he was depending on her, Sabrina plowed through her anxiety once she was outside with Francesca Miller. She pulled out a notebook as her hostess led the way down a picturesquely uneven brick pathway bordered by pale purple flowers on stalks.
"We'd best go beyond that stone wall," Sabrina suggested, "so we don't interfere with the photographer's pictures of the courtyard right by the house." And so Francesca couldn't see through the window that Vincenzo was stealing her priceless Italian painting.
"Good idea. The rose arbor is beyond there, anyway." Francesca was the most compliant stubborn old broad Sabrina had ever met.
Even so, she needed to get on the ball here and occupy the lady with some questions. "I'm assuming you built the house yourself," she remarked.
"Oh, yes. My husband and I built it twenty-five years ago, after he'd made his fortune in oil rig construction. Alan wanted a big place, somewhere to entertain." Francesca snorted with gentle derision. "He would have been happy to build a gymnasium. Had no sense of design at all. It was my idea to hire a decent architect." She paused. "To make it beautiful." Francesca gestured over the hillside gently sloping downward, covered in a variety of colored blooms. She drew in a deep breath. "To prove that I could."
Sabrina's eyebrows jumped. The old lady was opening the door to some pretty serious territory. Dangerous territory. At the same time, the topic was a hell of a lot more distracting than her prepared list of landscape architecture questions. Delving into Francesca's checkered past could delay her return to the house, where she might discover Vincenzo stealing her painting of the Madonna.
"To prove that you could," Sabrina repeated slowly. "Now, that's an interesting statement."
Francesca shot her a sharp glance. "They all say I am dirty, evil. They do not know what they are talking about."
"Well, I'm not sure I know—"
"You do," Francesca accused. "You know the stories. About the war. That German officer."
"Uh... I do?"
"You do," Francesca insisted. "How could you not, when even the newspaper repeats the lies?"
Deciding not to protest any more, Sabrina asked, "Are they lies?"
Francesca hit her fist against her thigh. "I saved lives during the war. Created jobs. Yes. I was a hero!"
"Because of the German officer?" Sabrina guessed.
"He was in charge of procuring auto parts fo
r the German army. My father had a factory that made tires. It was better the contract went to Italians than to Germans, no? People who could have starved made money instead."
'People' being herself and her friends and family. Francesca was clearly an opportunist...not so different from Sabrina, herself, when it came down to it. "Makes sense to me," Sabrina agreed.
"It made a great deal of sense," Francesca sniffed. "But these comfortable Americans in their comfortable lives—" She sneered impressively. "They think they can decide better how I should have acted instead. Did they think I wanted to sleep with that dirty Nazi?"
"I—um—" Sabrina was starting to get how the Madonna della Montagna had ended up in Mrs. Miller's storage room. Here was a person able to justify a variety of deeds. "Of course you didn't," she assured the older woman.
"Precisamente," Francesca said, looking validated.
Sabrina regarded the older woman, her face twisted in an attitude of mingled pride and bitterness, the beautiful gardens of which she was so proud spread before her—gardens on which she'd worked so hard, but which no one but herself would see. Suddenly it seemed like a stupid shame.
"Do you really think anyone still cares all that much?" Sabrina heard herself ask. "I mean, it's been fifty-odd years. The newspaper probably only ran the old story because you wouldn't meet with the reporter to give him anything new to say."
Francesca gifted Sabrina with a blistering glare. "You think the newspaper would rather print a story about how my husband made his money in the oil business?"
"Considering you'd just donated a bunch of that money to a worthy cause, it's a good bet."
Francesca snorted.
"Really," Sabrina insisted. "But you make yourself too mysterious, all shut up here. You let your bitterness over the past cloud the here-and-now."
The blistering glare got even hotter. "Nothing. You understand nothing."
How much time had passed since they'd left Vincenzo in the storage room? Like a rank amateur, Sabrina had been too excited to check. She needed to keep Francesca arguing a little longer. "Look at this house," Sabrina told her. "The beautiful grounds. They're designed to entertain crowds—but you're all by yourself. You barely let in me and my photographer." She huffed. "Yup, you've built a beautiful cage for yourself."
Your Scheming Heart Page 16