by Cleo Coyle
“And how do you know all this?”
“On her deathbed, my mother told me everything—about the abuse, and the hatred she felt for the monster she’d married. She confessed that she’d fallen in love with a young apprentice jeweler, and how the shipwreck changed everything.”
Donatella cursed. “That apprentice stole your father’s legacy, his identity. How could you not hate him for that?”
“I could never hate Silvio Allegro. He was nothing but kind and loving to me and my mother. He helped us create a new life in America—which is more than my biological father offered us.”
“Listen to me, Perla. Events are moving fast. You are either with the Campanas, or against us. And if you are against us, you will get hurt, just like your sister . . .”
Donatella sucked in a lung full of smoke and blew it in Perla’s face.
Perla’s response was immediate. With a vicious slap, she dashed the cigarette out of the woman’s mouth and knocked her cat glasses askew.
“You listen to me, you bitch, because I will only say this once. Stay away from Sophia, and stay away from the man who now calls himself Gus—”
“I did nothing to that man!”
“And you’re lucky you didn’t,” Perla fired back. “If I thought you were responsible for poisoning him, I’d throw you over this rail. Then I’d hunt down that brother of yours and skin him like an animal.”
“Bruno and I are the last real Campanas—along with you. We’re the grandchildren of the real Gustavo’s brother, your true cousins, and we have a right to the Eye of the Cat—”
“I don’t care what you claim your rights are,” Perla stated with finality. “I want nothing more to do with the Italian branch of the Campana family. Do you hear? Nothing.”
“Why? Because of your murdering mother? Gino Benedetto told me and Bruno what happened on that ship. He was there. He saw it all. He said your mother acted like a crazy animal when she attacked your real father and held his head under the rising water—”
Perla raised her open hand, and Donatella stepped back.
“Say another word and I will kill you where you stand. It’s done, Donatella. Over. Finito!”
Perla whirled and strode toward the light and music. Behind me, I heard the Campana woman call out a final threat. “My family is not done with yours, Perla. Not yet!”
Then Donatella Campana lit another cigarette and walked away. As she retreated, I could hear her chuckling over the chords of the distant piano.
Shaken by what I’d just witnessed, my mind raced.
Donatella mentioned a man named Gino Benedetto. That had to be the blackmailer from Rome who claimed he knew about the crime that took place on the sinking Andrea Doria.
Now I knew the crime, too—murder.
I was willing to bet this woman, Donatella Campana, and her brother Bruno were also behind Madame’s disappearance, even as Matt’s warning echoed in my head.
Vendetta.
I texted Matt that I found us a solid lead and told him to meet me on the Lido Deck. Then I rose to follow Donatella, who was heading for the bar. But as I moved along the cool blue glow of the pool to catch up, someone moved to confront me—and refused to let me by.
Looking up, I found myself face-to-face with a spitting-mad blonde, Matt’s estranged fashionista, Breanne Summour.
SEVENTY-NINE
THE expression on Bree’s face was priceless.
For her it was like being confronted by her own mirror image—albeit a slightly shorter one, even with my cruel stilts. For me, peering at the original model gave me an even greater appreciation for the theatrical tricks Tuck and Punch so earnestly applied on my behalf.
Hands on hips, Breanne (the real one) looked me up and down, her stare colder than the pool’s frosty light.
“I don’t believe this,” she hissed. “When Cora Taylor-Chase asked what happened to the Marc Jacobs dress that so awesomely displayed my new boob job, I wondered if the poor drunken woman was delusional. Then I saw Matteo slinking around, and I knew something was up. Who are you?!” she demanded.
By now, I had pressed the panic button on my smartphone—the one that connected me directly to my police backup at this floating shindig.
“Why are you here beside the pool on the Lido Deck, Breanne?” I said, loudly stressing the words I wanted my cop to hear. “Did you come to start trouble?”
“My God,” Breanne cried when she heard my voice. “Is that Clare Cosi under that fright wig?” She threw up her hands. “Of course it is. You and Matt are like Laurel and Hardy. He’s the big dumb cluck who does what he’s told while he follows your fat ass all over town!”
I gritted my teeth. Easy, Clare. You don’t want to get yourself thrown off this ship. Just remember what Nonna used to tell you. Count to ten before you react . . .
Bree folded her twig arms. “You know, I never understood Matt’s fascination with such a common woman.”
One, two . . .
“But then, Matt Allegro turned out to be as big a loser as you are. You’re both nothing more than glorified waiters, living on tips—the dribs and drabs of your betters . . .”
Three—Oh, forget it!
“Listen, you witch, if you say another insulting word you won’t need Botox injections to get a fat lip.”
“I’m calling security,” she said, lifting her phone.
“You stupidly gave up a good man, for what? Down deep, Matt is a better person than most I’ve known, and he’s way too good for an aging East Side gold digger like you. Sure, he’s not perfect, and he’s made a lot of mistakes. But one of his worst was saying ‘I do’ to a shallow, superficial, aging vampire, clinging desperately to her sinking career and floundering social status—”
Breanne cut loose with a banshee scream and lunged at me.
“Take that wig off!” she howled, groping for my headpiece. “Let’s see your mousy, mud brown hair so I can pull it out by the roots!”
Breanne was strong—hours of Pilates, probably—but she wasn’t a street fighter so she didn’t know the score. If she was going to grab my wig, then I was going to grab her hair.
Breanne howled, but her screams made me tug harder.
She tried to slap me, but only managed to send Punch’s Jackie O glasses into the posh pool.
That’s when the heels of my cruel shoes got tangled in the leg of a stool. I went down on one knee, but I never let go of her yellow straw. As I pulled Breanne forward, she tripped over my leg and did a somersault right into the water.
Wow. What a spectacular splash, I thought, as cold spray rained down on me. Then I stared at the wad of Breanne’s salon hair extensions still clutched in my hand.
In the pool, Breanne broke to the surface, sputtering. Then she began to yell—
“Security! Security! Help! Help!”
I heard footsteps and turned to see Matt was already here. Right behind him, our police backup arrived with a pair of ship’s stewards in tow.
“What’s going on here?” Sergeant Franco calmly asked, his voice a low rumble. Then he spotted Breanne. “Isn’t it a little chilly to go for a swim?”
Franco was in uniform tonight, his wide shoulders stretching the blue material. The two stewards seemed relieved that someone with authority was taking charge.
The big cop helped Breanne out of the water and sat her on the edge of the pool. Then Franco stripped a table, and draped the white cloth around her.
Matt joined me. Breanne pushed her wet hair back and spied her husband. “Are you both happy you’ve humiliated me?”
“You humiliated yourself when you let a good man go,” I shot back, letting the sea breeze take her extensions.
A small crowd gathered. Breanne, shaking with rage, didn’t notice she had an audience.
“Matt, a good man?” She laughed. “He has nothing. He works with his han
ds . . . in the dirt, for goodness sake, and takes losses to help farmers halfway around the world with less than nothing—the stupidest businessman in New York.” She shook her wet head. “No, I have a real man now. Someone who can take care of me in the manner I deserve. A man with an empire I can help him run after I become his wife!”
“Okay, calm down,” Franco commanded. “Now what’s with all this fighting and ranting? What’s the problem here?”
“That woman.” Breanne pointed at me. “She’s the problem. You need to arrest her for theft of my identity.”
Franco flashed me a glance. Or was it a wink?
Then he scratched his shaved head in mock puzzlement. “But I know that woman. She’s Breanne Summour, editor of Trend magazine.”
“No, I’m Breanne Summour. The real one!”
“Do you have ID on you?”
“I only have my smartphone—and it’s at the bottom of the pool. But you can ask my date—”
“Tall guy? Older man? White hair? Brought his own bodyguard?”
“That’s him, Officer.”
“He left the ship fifteen minutes ago with an Instagram model.”
Breanne looked stricken. “That can’t be true!”
“No worries, though. Breanne Summour’s husband is standing right there.” Franco met Matt’s gaze. “So, Mr. Allegro. What’s the verdict?”
Matt didn’t hesitate.
“That one—the one who’s all wet—”
“See!” Breanne cried.
“She’s the phony.”
“You heard the man,” Franco said to the stewards. “Let’s get this gate-crashing mermaid out of here.”
Cursing like a sailor, Breanne tongue-lashed Franco and the stewards as they led her away.
“That was nice of you,” Matt quickly told me. “How you defended me, I mean.”
“How long were you watching? And why didn’t you intervene?”
“And miss a good catfight?”
As I shot him a dirty look, Matt draped a protective arm over my bruised shoulder. Ouch!
“We still make a good team, you and I,” he said, making up for my postfight pain. “Now let’s get back to that party and find the SOB who took my mother.”
EIGHTY
I hit the ladies’ room to freshen up—I’d been in a feline fight, after all. My makeup was smeared, my wig was falling off, and one of my false eyelashes threatened to drop into my plunging neckline.
While I was busy restoring my disguise, Matt went off to track down Donatella Campana. Unfortunately, when I came out, I found him waiting for me alone.
“She’s gone, Clare. I cornered that steward at the entrance and he told me she left in a taxi.”
“What!”
“Calm down. I found us an even better lead. The man from Rome is here, and I know his name.”
Before I could tell him, So do I! Matt stepped aside and pointed to a standing sign with the names and photographs of the Andrea Doria survivors in attendance tonight, in alphabetical order. Perla Campana was one of them, of course, and right above her picture, I recognized the man from Rome.
“Gino Benedetto,” I read under his photo. Just as I thought. “It says he was a first-class steward on the ship.” (Okay, that I didn’t know!)
“Now all we have to do is find him,” Matt said.
I almost did a double take when I glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t look now, but he’s right behind you.”
Of course Matt looked, but it didn’t matter. Benedetto, wearing a white evening suit as predicted, was in animated conversation with Victor Fontana. They continued to talk, and gesture, as the pair crossed the crowded ballroom.
The pair shook hands. Then Fontana moved toward the podium, while Benedetto backed away. As the ship owner mounted the platform, the lights dimmed.
“Call the Mook, quick!” Matt urged. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.”
I grabbed my phone, only to find a text message from said Mook waiting for me.
Gotta go. PD emergency. Quinn ordering all in. Good luck!
I told Matt we’d lost our backup, and he let out a string of curses, not unlike Breanne’s, but in five different languages. A woman at the bar heard Matt and laughed. I pegged her as a UN translator.
“Calm down, Matt, you’re making a scene.”
“Calm down? That jackass left us high and dry, just when we need him most.”
“It’s a police department emergency.”
“What? The Doughnut Plant is about to close?”
“We have to be our own police now. Do you understand?”
“How? We don’t have badges. And we’re not armed.”
Fontana launched into a speech accompanying scenes of the ship’s construction. All eyes were on the show.
“Watch Benedetto,” I told Matt. “Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll be right back.”
“Clare! Where are you going now?”
“To the buffet.”
I hadn’t eaten for hours, but hunger wasn’t the reason I raced to the food tables—though, I must confess that when I got there, my stomach nearly overrode my brain.
The dishes were mostly Italian, several I recalled from an original Andrea Doria menu I’d found. Other foods were distinctly modern.
There was that heavenly chicken cacciatore I’d smelled earlier, and Marsala (chicken and veal), several different pastas, including a red sauce simmered with pork, and a white carbonara with pancetta.
At the cutting board there was Italian-style pork roast, an impressive selection of meats on a spit, and portobello mushrooms grilled like steak and served on warm semolina rolls. There were Chicken Lollipops with a slew of savory dips, and much more. I don’t even want to remember the desserts. I regard them as a lost opportunity, never to knock again.
Sadly, I was there for one thing. I found it, picked the biggest and heaviest, and raced back to Matt.
“Here,” I said, slipping him the ripe banana. “Now you’re armed.”
“Great, I’m all set if I have to fend off a gorilla.”
A few minutes into a time-lapse film showing the new Andrea Doria’s construction, Benedetto headed off to the men’s room. When he came out again, Matt and I were waiting for him.
I blocked the elderly man, while Matt stepped behind him and shoved the banana into his spine.
“Don’t make a sound, Mr. Benedetto, or this gun might go off.”
Under his too-large, too-long, too-dark hairpiece—and a pasty layer of foundation—the old man appeared to pale.
“Is this a robbery? What do you want?” he asked, in solid English, with a slight but detectable Italian accent.
“I want you to tell me what you did with Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois—”
“I never heard of—”
Matt dug the banana deeper into the man’s back. “Don’t lie. We have surveillance footage of you luring her into a black Jaguar.”
Matt leaned over his stooped shoulder to whisper into Benedetto’s ear. “I don’t know about Italian law, but in America kidnapping is a capital crime. Do you know what that means, Mr. Benedetto? The gas chamber, the electric chair, or maybe a lethal injection. And you know how they botch those.”
“All right, all right! I know where she is, and who she is with.”
“Your accomplices?”
He nodded. “There are two of them. Brother and sister, both named Campana—”
“Donatella and Bruno,” I said.
“That’s right.” Now Benedetto’s head was bobbing like a life raft on the Hudson. “I can take you there now, if you want.”
Matt’s mirthless grin scared even me. “Let’s go.”
EIGHTY-ONE
“HEY,” Gino Benedetto cried. “What kind of polizia are you, that you have to take a ta
xicab?”
“The kind who doesn’t want to alert your accomplices we’re coming,” Matt countered, in a fair imitation of Franco’s “cop voice.”
“Makes me wonder,” said Benedetto.
“Don’t wonder. Worry. We have backup just minutes away.” Matt shifted the banana hidden inside his jacket. “And remember, I’m armed.”
At Matt’s urging, Benedetto gave the exact address to the cab driver.
“Where are you taking us?” I asked the old man.
“Not far. They are here in Brooklyn. A home in Carroll Gardens.”
“A private home?”
“It’s a rental. Airbnb. The Campanas don’t have a lot of money to stay in a fancy hotel.”
I thought about Donatella’s expensive clothes, sterling silver lighter, and designer eyewear. “That doesn’t jibe with the facts. I’ve seen Donatella, and she dresses like a queen.”
“It’s all on the credit cards,” he said. “The Campanas of Florence have fallen far. Their once-honored jewelry business now consists of selling trinkets made in China to gullible tourists. But they put on a good show. Keeping up with the Smiths, as you Americans say.”
“It’s the Joneses,” I corrected. “If the Campanas of Florence are so poor, why did you go to them after Gus cut off your blackmail payments?”
“It’s true, signora, I did hope Donatella or Bruno would pay me money for the news that the Eye was not at the bottom of the ocean. That didn’t work out so well for me, so we made another arrangement.”
“You would help them get the Eye for a piece of the action . . .”
He nodded.
“Your English is pretty good for a man who lives in Rome.”
He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I worked for the Italia Line a long time ago. English was required.”
“And since then?”
“After the Andrea Doria, that man you know as Gus sent me the quiet money—”
“Hush money.”
“Whatever!” he said. “It was a lot of money. So I stopped working. For a while I entertained ladies: eager tourists, lonely housewives, bored little rich girls. My English got pretty good. I became so popular the women were soon entertaining me.”