by Marion Leigh
There was an element of pride in Sandrine’s voice as she conducted them into the cake section of the factory. ‘Diversifying into cakes was my idea, after my father died.’
‘Brilliant!’ Carlo said. ‘You must tell me exactly how you did it.’
While Florian closed the door behind them, Petra managed to whisper ‘That’s it, Carlo, keep her busy. Florian too if you can.’
The cake division was set up in a similar way to the biscuits. Industrial quantities of flour, sugar, fat, powdered egg, milk and other ingredients were poured into giant mixing vats. The women lifted the huge bags as though they were feather pillows and seemed impervious to the high-pitched whine of the mixers that grated on Petra’s ears.
Sandrine was responding nicely to Carlo’s ministrations. He had his hand on her elbow, and it struck Petra that their roles were reversed: now he was the one in charge. She hid a smile. She had seen Carlo use flattery before to great effect. One of the machines stopped and she caught the words ‘scrumptious fruit cake’.
Petra had left the phone Tom had given her back at the wine farm. Carlo had brought his, in case of emergency he said. Now Petra heard a loud ring from the phone holster on his belt.
‘I’m so sorry, carissima! Let me turn it off,’ he said to Sandrine.
Petra felt a stab of jealousy at the endearment and frowned. What was Carlo playing at?
He took the phone from its holster, looked at the screen and fiddled with a few buttons. ‘There, I’ve put it on silent,’ he said, winking at Petra.
The next moment an ear-splitting alarm began to sound. The din came from somewhere outside. Sandrine spun round and shouted at Florian:
‘That’s my car! Go and see what’s happening, Florian. I’ll kill anyone who’s been tampering with it!’
‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ Carlo said, patting Sandrine’s arm. ‘Those alarms can be triggered by the slightest thing: heat, wind … I should know, I have the same car.’
Petra couldn’t believe her ears but didn’t waste any time. Carlo was making soothing noises and leading Sandrine away from the mixing section towards the ovens and beyond to where a group of women were decorating cakes.
As soon as Florian disappeared in the direction of the noise, Petra seized her chance. Before he came back, she wanted to take a look at the office and administration buildings – the ones Sandrine had said were of no interest.
She moved swiftly across the courtyard and went into the first of the low buildings. Inside, a ceiling fan turned lazily. Two employees sat at desks in front of computers. A large bookcase on the wall behind them contained shelves full of green-bound ledgers.
The woman nearest the door hastily minimized the game she was playing as Petra spoke.
‘Hi! A friend of mine is getting married. She wants to order some dragées, sugared almonds, as favours. I believe you make them here.’
The woman shook her head. ‘We only do biscuits and cakes.’
‘Are you sure? I was told they were a specialty of yours.’
The second woman abandoned her screen. ‘She told you: biscuits and cakes, that’s all. Here, take one of our catalogues or have a look at our website.’
Petra took the proffered catalogue. ‘Thanks, I will. Do you know who does make them?’
Both women shook their heads.
‘Oh well, I guess I’m out of luck.’ No point flogging a dead horse.
The car alarm was still wailing like a banshee. Once it stopped, Petra judged she would have only a few minutes before Florian came looking for her. Behind the main buildings, there were several more she wanted to have a look at. Quickly she said, ‘Do you have a bathroom I can use?’
‘Go out of here and you’ll see it in the courtyard. It’s a small white building. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you so much.’
Instead of heading for the bathroom, Petra turned left and hurried to a long low building similar to the first one. The windows were closed and the door locked. Then there was an even longer building, shut up tight and no noise of machinery. Beyond that was an air-conditioned warehouse with a white van parked outside. ‘Delapore Biscuits and Cakes, the best you’ve ever tasted’ it proclaimed.
The roll-down door to the warehouse was open. Petra darted inside and looked around the dim interior. A forklift was parked in one of the aisles, but no one was about. She did a quick recce. The left-hand section housed bags of ingredients: flour, sugar, dried fruit, but nothing labelled as almonds. The right-hand side was reserved for the finished products: boxes of biscuits and cakes. No tins that she could see.
The car alarm stopped as she was about to leave. In the ensuing silence that was welcome to her ears but not to her fast-beating heart, she heard whistling. A young man in a white coat entered the warehouse through a side door. He looked startled to see Petra.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m trying to find my way back to the cake section. I must have taken a wrong turn. If you’re the manager, you keep the warehouse very nicely,’ she added. ‘Do you ever have problems with rodents?’
‘Rodents?’
‘Yes, rats and mice for example. I’m sure they love all this stuff. Squirrels too probably. They love nuts.’
The young man gave her a bewildered look. ‘I keep the place free of rats and mice, and I’ve never seen a squirrel here. Anyway, there are no nuts. We at Delapore Biscuits don’t use them. Our products are allergen-free,’ he said as if he were a commercial.
‘What about gluten? That’s an allergen,’ Petra said before she could stop herself. ‘Never mind. I must get back to my party.’
‘You should never have left your party,’ Florian said, coming up behind her. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘I must have turned left instead of right when I came out of the bathroom. It’s easy to get confused.’
Florian’s blue eyes stared frostily at her through his lashes. ‘Come with me.’
Despite the car alarm and Petra’s unsanctioned deviation from the official programme they arrived back at the estate at exactly half past four. Carlo had persuaded Sandrine to let him sample some of the cakes.
‘I can confirm that there are no nuts,’ he said when Petra told him what the warehouseman had said. ‘Sandrine’s grandfather had a peanut allergy, hence the company policy.’
‘So we wasted our time!’
‘Not exactly,’ Carlo said smugly. ‘I think I’m making progress with Sandrine. She’s hot to trot, and I’m game!’ He gave a wicked wink.
‘Mercutio! Isn’t that incestuous?’
‘Not in my book – or in any book, for that matter. She’s no relation. Just a good-looking woman with needs, and I will definitely find a way to make her laugh.’
Chapter
13
Carlo and his dubious morality. Petra closed the door loudly in protest as she left the room. Sandrine was probably old enough to be his mother. Still, he had done a good job of keeping her occupied so that Petra could look around while Florian was busy with the car.
Petra wondered about the alarm as she walked round the rose garden Tony Broselli had shown them two days earlier. Was it coincidence that it had gone off just after Carlo’s phone had rung, or had he managed to set it off with some cleverly programmed gadget? She suspected it wasn’t just a fluke.
Opposite the rose garden was a large herb garden. After examining the plants, Petra made her way to the stable block. Inside were boxes for a dozen horses, but only four were occupied. She rubbed the nose of a chestnut mare whose soft brown eyes were trusting and warm. Although she had never wanted to audition for the Mounties’ Musical Ride, she was a competent horsewoman. Sandrine had the toned buttocks and legs of someone who rode regularly, Florian too.
In the next stall was a black stallion with a white blaze and socks. H
e whinnied when Petra approached and backed up temperamentally when she extended her hand cautiously towards him.
‘I wouldn’t touch him if I were you. He likes to bite strangers.’
At the sound of Florian’s voice, Petra took a step away from the box and whirled round. He was wearing riding gear and carrying a crop. And he was eyeing her up and down.
Two can play at that game, she said to herself. She met his gaze then let her eyes move slowly down to his boots. His beige breeches were moulded to his frame.
Florian smacked the crop against the palm of his gloved hand. ‘Do you want to ride?’ He threw the question at her like a medieval knight throwing down his gauntlet.
‘If you lend me a helmet and let me ride in these jeans.’
‘That’s fine with me.’
‘OK then.’
A groom entered and hurried over.
‘We’ll take my horse and the chestnut. Saddle them up.’
Fifteen minutes later, Petra mounted the chestnut mare and they set off. Florian led her away from the concentration of outbuildings, down a long track through the vineyards and through a wooded area. Soon the trees thinned out and they came to an area of rolling grassland. She knew for sure that he would challenge her. As they came to the top of a rise, he reined in his horse.
‘See that folly in the distance? It’s exactly four furlongs away. I’ll race you there.’
It was clear from the way the mare took off after the stallion that they had done this before. Petra had no need to guide her mount, just hang on and enjoy the wild gallop. When they reached the folly, the stallion a nose ahead of the gallant mare, the horses’ sides were heaving.
Florian swung down from his horse and tied the reins to a post. Then he held Petra’s mare while she dismounted.
‘Your mother’s mare I presume?’
‘Yes, her favourite out of all the horses she’s had over the years.’ The way he said it made them sound like lovers.
‘I hope she’s not as possessive about her as she is about her car.’
‘Oh, she’d tan my hide if she knew,’ he said, striking his palm with the riding crop. ‘Maybe you can do it for her.’
His tone was semi-serious, the blue eyes daring her to respond.
Suddenly Petra wondered if it had been sensible to leave the farm with Florian. She fingered the crucifix that was hidden under her T-shirt.
‘Come into the folly,’ he commanded. ‘Leave your helmet here with mine.’
He led her through a narrow archway onto a covered ramp. At the bottom was another arch leading to a high-walled area that was open to the sky and the sun. Farther back, the stone walls rose to form an elaborate grotto above and behind a long pool. Fountains splashed into the pool, the water spurting from between the legs of nymphs and satyrs.
Petra stood silently taking it all in. Whoever had built the folly had gone to a great deal of trouble, not to mention expense. Florian was testing her, watching her reactions.
He crooked his finger. ‘Come and see what an old devil my great-grandfather was.’
After a moment’s hesitation, she followed him to the grotto at the far end of the pool. In the shadows stood statues of mythical creatures – half-man, half-beast – cavorting with an assortment of women with long trailing hair. On the very edge of the pool stood the figure of a dwarf endowed with not one but a trio of tiny penises.
‘According to family lore, he was a small man with an immense lust for life. The only time he stopped carousing was when he had to take a piss. He didn’t do it often but when he did, it was full flow.’ Florian glanced at her face and let out a roar of laughter.
The next moment he was on her. He pushed her against the wall of the grotto with the grace and strength of a ballet dancer, vaguely effeminate yet all male. She could feel and smell his arousal. She struggled to throw him off but he had her pinned to the wall with his groin and his hands on her shoulders. His lips pressed down on hers and a hot current ran like wildfire through her body. His tongue began its exploration, slow at first, then harder and more insistent. She had no breath left with which to battle. Her legs began to buckle.
Without warning, he released her.
‘Mmm. Not so virginal. But I’d rather not have virgins, they cling too much.’
Petra was taking deep breaths to regain control of her body.
‘You’re my partner at the wedding. Now I know what kind of couple we’ll make: best man and senior bridesmaid, but not too senior.’
Petra bit back a sharp retort. Use your head. Think. That’s what Tom Gilmore would tell her.
‘Come, follow me.’
Chapter
14
Carlo never missed a trick.
‘You look hot and bothered,’ he said as soon as Petra stepped into the room. ‘What’s up?’
She tried not to let her embarrassment show as she said, ‘I went for a ride with Florian.’ Fortunately Carlo chose to joke about it.
‘Of course! I should have guessed, you’re a Mountie. Never separate a Mountie from his, I mean, her horse.’
‘Right on, Mercutio. Now I must change for dinner.’
After as long a shower as she could – to wash away the taste of Florian – Petra donned the gold silk shirt and skinny navy leggings she had salvaged from her trip to the Mediterranean. She made her way with Carlo to the tasting centre for another perfectly choreographed evening of drinks and dinner. The main players were all there, including the happy couple who looked happier than the previous night.
As usual, Sandrine made herself the centre of attention. Dressed in a cling-fit dress made out of some shiny material that appeared to be closely related to aluminium foil, she looked almost as young as the bride-to-be and many times slimmer and sexier. Julia was wearing the green brocade and diamonds that didn’t help her rather sallow complexion.
Sandrine swept her eyes round the tasting centre and tapped her glass with a spoon to call the assembly to order. The main purpose of the evening, she announced, was to introduce Father John who would be conducting the ceremony on Saturday. Petra was eager to meet the man whom Florian had called “a washed-up pervert”, but still he did not appear.
Finally, after they had all taken their allotted places at smaller tables facing a long head table, Sandrine escorted into the room a tall, black-robed figure with unruly hair and a chin covered in stubble. Petra noted that he was not wearing a dog collar. His robe was a loose-sleeved kaftan with a round neck slit in typical North African fashion. Age-wise she estimated he was in his fifties, somewhere between Sandrine and Tony Broselli. Robustly built, not fat.
Petra found it hard to put Florian’s derogatory comments out of her mind as she sized him up and listened to Sandrine’s introduction.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to introduce a very close friend who has magnanimously agreed to officiate this Saturday at the marriage between Julia Broselli and Max De Witt. Father John is one of our most trusted counsellors. He has advised us on religious and secular matters since I was a child.’
‘She’s giving him a good build-up,’ Carlo whispered.
‘Marketing doublespeak if you ask me,’ Petra replied.
Sandrine continued. ‘He has graciously offered to spend time with us tomorrow and give us the benefit of his wisdom. I hope you will all take the opportunity to talk to him. You will find details in the schedule you have been given. Now I will ask Father John to bless the food we are about to receive.’
Father John stood up and made the sign of the cross. He bowed his head and began to intone something in Latin. Petra recognized the first few words then lost the thread.
‘Is he a Catholic priest? Do you understand what he’s saying?’ she asked Carlo.
‘It’s not one of the standard graces or blessings, but he does look as though he’s seen a lot of medieval portra
its of Jesus Christ.’
Petra nodded. ‘I noticed he was wearing sandals.’
Father John finished with the sign of the cross, raised his eyes to the assembly and took his seat at the head table between Sandrine and Julia. He exchanged a few words with the bride-to-be then turned to speak to her stepmother.
While the priest was occupied, Petra saw Julia slide her chair away from him. She kept them under observation while she tucked into the food. The ride had sharpened her appetite – Florian’s too. Her cheeks flushed as she watched him devour the rack of lamb with scalloped potatoes and French-cut green beans.
Julia seemed to be eating very little and set down her knife and fork before Petra was halfway through her meal. Again Petra put it down to nerves. It wasn’t uncommon for brides to lose weight in the run-up to the wedding, sometimes to the point where the wedding dress had to be taken in at the last minute.
Suddenly Julia pushed back her chair. She stood up quickly and walked out. Max, who was chatting with his mother, simply nodded when she left. Carlo was engrossed in a long tale about killer whales. No one seemed concerned about Julia. Petra had a strong feeling something was not right. She got up to follow her.
Most likely Julia was heading for the ladies’ cloakroom, but when Petra checked, she wasn’t there. Outside on the terrace where the pre-dinner drinks had been served, Wellington was filling a tray with short crystal glasses. He looked up, his dazzling smile absent.
‘Have you seen Julia, Wellington? She wanted to speak to me about the toasts.’
‘It’s not my business to watch who goes where. Nor should it be yours, Miss.’
‘This is important, Wellington. I won’t tell anyone I spoke to you.’
‘I don’t know where Miss Julia is,’ he said firmly. At the same time he waved his white-gloved hand in the direction of the manor house.
Petra nodded. ‘Very well. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
In houses with serving staff, the old retainers always knew what was going on far better than anyone else. If she could win his confidence, Wellington would be a good source of information, but she would have to determine where his allegiance lay. First though, she had to find Julia.