Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  When the gate opened, both Granny and she were stunned. Although the world outside had been scruffy and rough, inside was a beautiful green park, three terraces dealing with the sloping terrain. The lush grass, a real luxury in the southern part of the country, was cut very short; beautiful palms were stretching their large leaves towards the mountains behind them; centenarian olive trees with their convoluted shapes were scattered among white rocks in large terracotta jars and vases.

  Giò’s car climbed some more. On the second level was a beautiful swimming pool overlooking the gulf and the pier. One more climb and they were in front of a huge villa dating from the early 20th century, all turrets and gables and stucco decorations covering its facade. A portico overlooked the swimming pool below and the majestic view beyond.

  It was rare that Giò, not to mention Granny, stayed speechless for long, but that’s exactly what they did now. It took a few minutes before Giò could suggest a shy, “Shall we go?”

  Filomena Pecoriello, her short, sturdy body spilling out of a yellow and black dress, came over to welcome them. If she was concerned about how indiscreet she’d been, she didn’t show it. The woman invited them to sit in one of the rooms behind the portico, passing through some thick blue curtains held open by a white ribbon adorned with shells.

  Elegant sofas and a crystal table were arranged so as to make the best of the view outside. A small gas stove warmed up the room as the weather was still cool from the recent storms. A housemaid appeared, enquiring what they’d like to drink, and Mrs Pecoriello asked her to call the master of the house as well.

  Mimì Pecoriello was a short man, even shorter than his wife, with a square face that was more shrewd than handsome.

  “Good afternoon, Filomena told me you were coming. How are you?”

  “We’re fine,” Granny said, wishing he was one of her former students. She could still command instant respect from those she had once taught.

  “We were admiring this place, Mr Pecoriello, it’s simply beautiful.”

  The man nodded in approval, inviting the Brando grandmother and granddaughter to call him by his first name.

  “I’m sure my wife will be only too pleased to show you around. We had a much bigger property back in Venezuela – which is a beautiful country – but we missed our Maratea, despite the government over here seeming determined to prey on all our hard-earned money. So we had to downsize quite a bit, didn’t we, dear?”

  And Filomena Pecoriello nodded, her dreamy eyes surely still seeing all the luxuries she had left behind. Giò and Granny glanced at each other; they could hardly imagine anything richer than where they were just now, but a luxury lifestyle wasn’t their area of expertise.

  The housemaid returned carrying a heavy silver tray on which a pretty old-fashioned Moka pot sat and poured the hot liquid into thin porcelain cups with a red and golden design. As she disappeared, Mimì drank his coffee in a single gulp. Watching Giò, his piercing black eyes partially hidden by his bushy eyebrows, he then asked her a question.

  “So you knew Mrs Margherita Durante?”

  “Not exactly, but she was staying at the same hotel where I am attending a writers’ retreat, and she had once been part of the same group.”

  “Did you have much chance to speak to her?”

  “She had dinner with us the evening before the accident occurred.”

  “I see.” He looked as though he was pondering on her words, maybe deciding how much to reveal.

  “I heard that she was due to meet you on Sunday.”

  Filomena’s lips twitched nervously, but Mimì missed it as he was absorbed in his two guests. He was evidently used to making decisions quickly as he replied without hesitation.

  “Indeed, my driver was going to pick her up from the hotel. We were meant to have lunch together, until I heard what had happened. A terrible thing, poor woman. I’m not sure they have allergies in Venezuela; I think it’s something that only plagues civilised countries.”

  Giò thought that it was more a case of being knowledgeable about one’s own immune system’s reactions than anything else, but she kept the thought to herself. It was other information she was looking for.

  “And may I ask you how you knew her? If it’s not an impertinent question, I mean.”

  Granny nodded in approval. With this kind of man, you had to take a polite approach. A confrontational one would yield no results.

  “It’s no big secret,” he said. “You see, I have lived what can only be considered an extraordinary life. I’ve taken risks since I was a young man, and I believe life rewards the brave. Act like a rabbit and you’ll stay a rabbit. At my age, many successful people feel the urge to share all that we’ve learned, maybe inspiring other young minds. Although the more I see of youngsters – and I’m afraid that includes my own nephews and nieces – the more I think they are just a mass of spineless spoiled brats.”

  Filomena had kept very silent up until now. Realising that her husband was about to tell the story she had let out of the bag earlier, she relaxed, knowing she could no longer be held responsible. Looking relieved, she was anxious to have her say.

  “My husband won’t acknowledge that the times have changed, that the new generations have a different drive…”

  “Their only drive is buying things,” he frowned, “from video games to clothes, all sorts of useless stuff. But they have no will to become someone, create their own business, earn their own money. Anyway, I know I’m old fashioned, but I’ve long held this romantic notion of writing my autobiography. A mutual friend advised me to get in touch with Mrs Durante, and she told me she could come over this weekend.”

  “You mean you hadn’t met her before?” Giò asked.

  “No, it was going to be our first meeting, but we’d spoken over the phone a few times.”

  “And I understand she was going to put you in touch with a publishing house to get you a deal.”

  “Yes, my friend said she’s quite influential and has plenty of contacts. More useful than an agent as she covers all kinds of extra services too.”

  Giò looked at him questioningly. What was the man referring to? Again there was a short pause as he looked straight into her eyes.

  “I’m an excellent businessman, but writing is a different story.”

  “Margherita was to provide you with a ghost writer?”

  “She was going to be the ghost writer. I’d be no good at that, but she told me she’d study articles, have a researcher with her, a video maker. They’d interview me, present me with an outline and work with me to review the text if things weren’t correct.”

  “So on Sunday, you weren’t only expecting Mrs Durante?” Granny asked as Giò had been struck dumb the moment she’d heard the words ‘video maker’.

  “No, it was to be three of them: Mrs Durante, the video maker and the researcher.”

  “You don’t remember their names?”

  “Not really, but I may have them in emails.”

  “Was one of them Guido Gagliardi?” Giò ventured.

  “Yes, that’s right. He was the video maker.”

  Giò felt her heart tighten. He hadn’t been honest with her, not mentioning a thing about having business to conduct in partnership with Margherita. And he’d had the temerity to kiss her! She felt so angry, she wanted to get up and run away from this lovely house, go to confront him there and then. Why had he lied to her? Why had he wanted to get close to her in the first place?

  She remembered the way he’d described his affair with Margherita. Had it really been in the past? Well it was certainly in the past now the woman was dead, but how about Giò? Was she meant to be just another trophy in this man’s collection?

  A kick on the leg, and not a gentle one, called her back to the present. The Pecoriellos were looking at her, and she realised she didn’t have a clue where the discussion had gone.

  Granny repeated the question that Mimì had just asked of her. “Do you want to tell Mimì your other friends�
� names? Maybe he can identify the researcher?”

  Giò did as she was asked on autopilot, but Mimì shook his head, not recognising any of the names.

  “I’m sure it was a woman, and she wasn’t young from what I understood.”

  “Not Mrs Galli?” asked Giò with little conviction.

  “Exactly, Augusta Galli! So you know her too?”

  “Not really, but she’s a guest at the hotel, and after the accident we got to know each other a bit more.”

  The man simply nodded.

  “Do you plan to go ahead with the researcher and the video maker?” Granny asked.

  “I doubt it. I was interested in the full package Mrs Durante was offering me, but now I will have to look for a publisher who wants to take on the project. It will be the publisher who will supply the ghost writer and researcher, and decide whether we need a video maker or not. I’m less clued up about these things than Margherita was.”

  “So you’re not going to meet either of them?”

  “I can’t see the point of meeting them as there will be little chance we’ll work together. Retired though I am, I still have limited time.”

  “My husband is just too good at finding things to do, though he did promise me that once we were back in Maratea, we’d relax a little, travel more and visit our children.”

  “Men need a purpose in life,” he said, bending to kiss his wife gently. “Actually, I hope you will excuse me, but I have to go now. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, and please come back any time to visit my wife.”

  He shook hands with them in his strong, energetic fashion and left.

  “Men are so different to women,” said Granny. “Never take their work away from them, they need that kind of stimulus.”

  “That’s so true,” Filomena Pecoriello said. “Shall we have a walk in the garden? Although I’m afraid this year, springtime is proving elusive and we don’t have many flowers in bloom as yet.”

  Giò was grateful to Granny for doing all the talking as she followed the two older women silently. While Granny exclaimed in delight over some rare plants, Giò couldn’t help thinking about that stupid kiss at the statue of Christ the Redeemer, the intimate chats, the enthusiasm with which they had worked on the video. Damn! She had trusted him.

  As Giò tuned back into the conversation, Filomena was inviting them in.

  “We’d love to,” Giò heard herself saying, “but I’m afraid I can’t. I left my group at the hotel and we’re supposed to stick together. I hope you don’t mind.”

  As they moved towards the car, Filomena invited them to come over whenever they felt like it, adding, “It feels a bit lonely here every now and then. I do have a couple of good friends from my youth, but they’re often busy with their grandchildren as their families live nearby…”

  “You should join the Pink Slippers Society,” Gran suggested. “I’m sure you’d love the President, Ornella Capello. The Capellos, of course, are one of the noble families here in Maratea.”

  “Are you a member yourself?”

  “Not really, I’m more into bookish things, but they do lots for the community and I’m sure you’d find yourself well received. I could come back for a visit with Ornella if you wish?”

  “I’d love that.”

  When they got back into the car, Giò remained silent despite Granny’s remarks about the villa and the garden and the view.

  “And how about Mimì?” she said. “Didn’t you find it strange he never asked any question about Margherita’s death?”

  Giò flinched, her mind foggy as if she were waking up from a dream. “Maybe he’s just not as nosy as we are.”

  “He’s a shrewd businessman, I’m sure he must be curious about it. I find it weird he didn’t ask you anything about what happened during the dinner, or afterwards. Giò, are you listening to me?”

  “Of course I am, but I don’t have an answer.”

  “Remember, men lie for all sorts of reasons. It’s not necessarily because he wanted to mislead you. And he seems to be a nice guy.”

  “Who?” Giò cried, now fully awake with all her senses alert.

  “That Guido guy.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about him!”

  “Not much,” replied Granny smugly.

  19

  The Valley Of The Assassins

  By 8am on the Tuesday, Rolando and Angelica had already enjoyed their generous breakfast at the hotel, checked out and were waiting in the foyer for their travel companions. Soon a taxi would take them to the Alamut Valley, also known as the Valley of the Assassins.

  A couple about the same age as them stopped at the reception desk and the concierge pointed to Angelica and Rolando. The two came forward to meet them.

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Karen.” A puffy-faced woman with brown hair and a pleasant smile stretched out her hand.

  “And I’m Liam,” said her companion, a tall man with blond hair and sparkling grey eyes.

  “How do you do?” replied Rolando in a friendly tone. “This is my wife, Angelica.”

  It took a little while for Angelica to offer her hand as she was recovering from her surprise. Liam was the man she’d seen in the bazaar, conducting some shady deal with the boxer.

  “My wife has not yet got over the long journey,” Rolando added.

  “I’m sorry, it was a very long journey,” Angelica muttered.

  “Tell me about it!” Karen nodded. “We come to Iran a number of times a year, but every time it requires a few days to get over the flight.”

  Liam looked at Angelica as if evaluating her before inviting them all outside.

  “I think our car has arrived.”

  Had he recognised her from the bazaar? Was it just a coincidence that they should meet again?

  The driver, Sajad, had a pleasant round face, thick beard and even thicker eyebrows. He welcomed them, put their luggage in the back of the car and asked if they suffered from car sickness.

  “Is that a warning?” Angelica asked, smiling.

  “No, Sajad is right to ask,” Liam explained. “The journey is long, and as we get closer to the Alborz Mountains, the road will get rather rough.”

  “If you need, we can stop at the pharmacy before leaving,” Sajad said. But all the passengers shook their heads. No, they would be fine.

  “So you mentioned you’re often here in Iran,” Rolando said to Karen once they were in the car. “How come?”

  “Partly for pleasure, partly for business,” Karen answered. “We have an antiques shop in Birmingham and we love to look for hidden treasures from North Africa and the Middle East. Iran is possibly our favourite country.”

  “Though possibly the most difficult to deal with from a business point of view,” Liam added. “So possibly our worst supply market.”

  “But we finished the business side of our travels yesterday, and from today we’re officially tourists.”

  “Unless we spot a good opportunity,” Liam added.

  “The random deals are often the best,” Karen agreed.

  The two went on, chatting amiably about the country’s hospitality and its rich beauty. They were very knowledgeable about Iranian traditions and customs, attractions and food. But as friendly as Liam was being, Angelica felt rather ill at ease with him, and she was sure he was sizing her up. Why, though? Surely, as far as he knew, she had left the shop before the mysterious transaction had taken place, so why would he be suspicious of her? Had her surprise at seeing him given her away? But why would he care if, as the couple had been implying, their business dealings in Iran were all above board? She must be overthinking things; perhaps he was just surprised to meet her again too.

  The road got more and more narrow and started to climb. Occasionally, trucks and cars overtook them, even though there was only just enough space. A few centimetres’ error and they could have ended up in the deep ditch on the side of the road. But Sajad kept his cool, slowing down to let the cars pass while managing to explain what they were see
ing.

  Then the mountains that had been tempting Angelica from a distance since she and Rolando had landed in Tehran were right in front of her, breathtaking in their imposing glory. The overcast sky had partially cleared, apart from some long streaks of low cloud. The rays of sunlight hitting the pinkish-brown rocks made the valleys come alive as if in Technicolor, the vegetation consisting of low bushes and a few scattered groups of hardy trees that could resist the wind.

  Sajad had to stop the car quite a few times so his passengers could take in the view, and he seemed to know the best places for the most dramatic sights. Many of the rest areas were near small cafés that served a strong, aromatic tea. The first sip was bitter and unusual, but then Angelica discovered it was delicious, as was everything she’d consumed in Iran, and the pungent scent cleared her thoughts.

  She felt both intimidated and captivated by the landscape, so natural and yet so powerful. With the snowy tops of the mountains so close, she felt as if she could reach out and touch them, her heart thumping with awe and excitement. She looked at Rolando, who was gazing out of the café window, fascinated. For the last 20 minutes or so, he had been silent, refusing to get involved in small talk with their travel companions.

  Should she tell him about Liam? No, not now. Later maybe, in their lodge.

  Once another cup of hot tea had disappeared, they returned to their car. As the road rose higher and higher, chains of mountains revealed themselves from behind crests. Amazing. She had thought of Iran as a desert, always hot and sunny. It was a good job Rolando had warned her to pack warm clothes.

  “Gâzor Khân welcomes you,” Sajad said. They were finally beneath the Alamut Castle. “I suggest we have a quick look round first.”

  A pity about the scaffolding, which had been placed around the ruins after an earthquake and never removed, but what a view! No wonder the assassins had decided to build their fort there – they could dominate the whole valley around them, see what was going on, and at the same time defend themselves easily. The place must have been impregnable.