Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  From the replies, Giò could see that Margherita had been rather resentful to start with, but then it appeared she’d accepted things when she’d invited him to join her to meet the entrepreneur who wanted her to write his autobiography. In the following emails, they simply discussed the details of their meeting and what Guido had to prepare to show to the entrepreneur. He had done other book trailers, short documentaries and author introductions, and she mentioned a couple of these that it’d be worth taking along.

  Giò put the laptop back on the desk. She was sitting on the only free chair.

  “Earlier, you mentioned that you wanted to tell me something else?”

  “Yes, Giò.” He ran both his hands through his curly hair, and for the first time since they’d met, he gave her the impression he was at a loss for words. “I’m not too sure how to go about this one. You see, I wasn’t expecting… to meet you.”

  Giò tensed, feeling her body go rigid. She didn’t like the sound of where this was going.

  “If it helps,” she said icily, “I hate it when people try to sweeten the pill.”

  “What I want to say,” he sat on the bed in front of her chair, “is… well, you’ve seen how hard I’ve been working on my book. I want it to be finished, or mostly finished, by the end of this retreat, because next week, I’m flying to Istanbul. And from there, I will travel the Silk Road.”

  Giò was somewhat relieved. As far away as he was going, it wasn’t the secret love affair with another woman she had been dreading he’d been about to confess. It was just a journey; he’d be back.

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “The thing is, I plan to explore all the locations, passing through Samarkand, Kyrgyzstan, the northernmost part of China, then its east coast, finally ending up in Jakarta.”

  Giò was startled by the list of places, her brain becoming a version of Google Maps, the Silk Road a long, long line reaching from country to country.

  “How long will it take?”

  “About a year.”

  “Did you say a year?” Giò cried.

  He nodded.

  “And you haven’t said anything to me about this until now?”

  “I really wanted to, but at the same time, I felt that if I did tell you, things between us would stop there and then. I thought it was better to let things happen and see where we were heading.” He took her hands in his. “I wasn’t expecting to feel this way about you – you took me by surprise.”

  She snatched her hands away. “And is this trip definitely going to happen?”

  “It is, but I’d love it if you were to join me and spend some time with me…”

  “Why are you going?”

  “It’s something I’ve had planned for years. I have been looking for sponsors, and a few brands have commissioned videos and will be supporting me financially.”

  “That means you can’t change a thing – postpone your departure; shorten the trip?”

  He shook his head. “It’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime things, Giò. I know you love travelling and I thought you’d understand. And you could join me from time to time and we could see what happens. Hey, come here.”

  He tried to pull her close, but Giò pushed him away.

  “I need time to think, I’d better go now,” Giò said, turning her back on him and leaving the room, shutting the door violently behind her.

  In the corridor, Giò stumbled into Annika, who read her agitation and confusion.

  “Oh, Giò, did he tell you?”

  “You knew he was leaving?”

  “I knew. He asked me if he should let you know, and I told him to tell you at the right moment. To let things follow their natural course, not to force them. After all, you can always join him – you love the travelling lifestyle, and I can just see the two of you wandering the world together…”

  “We hardly know each other!”

  “I didn’t tell you to marry him, just spend time together and see if you’re made for each other.”

  “But Maratea’s my home.”

  “Maybe you’re not meant to have a fixed abode. And Maratea will always provide a safe nest any time you need to return.”

  “I’m not sure I have itchy feet any more. At the moment, the ground’s just settling under them.”

  “Life never goes as planned.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. With Simone, you’ll settle in either Ystad or Tuscany and run your business from there, then travel and hold seminars all over the place.”

  “Has the nomadic bug left you, Giò?”

  “I don’t know. I need fresh air.”

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  “No, please, I need to think alone.”

  Leaving her friend, she went out into the starry night, the moon suspended over the sea. It was a quiet night, with just a gentle, cool breeze rippling the water. The only wild storm now was inside her.

  Why did you have to come into my life, you stupid man? Couldn’t you have just stayed away? If you want to go to Asia, fine, go, but forget about me.

  She descended on to the beach and walked briskly until she was close to the waves. There she looked for pebbles and started to throw them into the sea as far as she could, listening to the plop as they dropped into the water. So great was the turmoil of her emotions, she put all her energy into the exercise and had worked up a sweat in no time.

  “What the heck?” she cried. “Were you really expecting me to follow you, just like that?” She snapped her fingers furiously. “Forget it, Prince Charming.”

  She had just resumed her walk when she saw the lights of a car in the parking space overlooking the beach. Was someone else about? Had they heard what she’d been yelling?

  “Can’t I be left in peace in this stupid country?” she hollered, her temper getting the better of her. “There aren’t even 400 souls living in Acquafredda, so why is there always one in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  A figure waved at her from the balustrade.

  “Is that you, Giò?”

  “Paolo? What on earth are you doing here?” she cried. Although she felt angrier than ever, she still approached him. He switched off the car lights and came down to join her.

  “I was doing my night watch and saw someone on the beach. At this time of night, I wanted to make sure everything was OK.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Oh, I heard everything you said, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you know how much I hate you right now?” she said, too angry to be embarrassed.

  “At least I’m in good company.”

  She had to laugh, despite herself. “It wasn’t really gentlemanly not to reveal your presence.”

  “I had my headlights pointed onto the beach. I thought that was more than enough to let you know I was here, but you were really on a roll. So, who’s upset you? Is it that Guido guy?”

  “Yes, him!”

  “Has he cheated on you?”

  “Not sure. He certainly has a habit of not telling the whole truth, of leaving things unsaid.”

  They sat down on a boat that had been pulled up the beach almost to the level of the road to keep it safe from the stormy sea. It had been turned upside down to protect it from the rain and it offered a convenient, if not exactly comfy seat.

  “Love is so complicated. I wish it could be fair and simple; instead, it takes all sorts of tortuous routes, and no matter what you do or don’t do, it’s going to hurt you.”

  “I agree with every single word,” Paolo said.

  “But this time, I won’t fall into the trap. I’ll steer clear of it. As far as Giò Brando’s concerned, that love story is over – assuming it ever started.”

  They sat silently for a while. Paolo’s presence, as always, had a soothing effect on Giò, and before long, her thoughts started to wander along another path.

  “By now, even the carabinieri must know about Mimì Pecoriello and Margherita.”

  “So you know
about that, too.” Paolo sighed. “It seems to me we – the carabinieri – are always the last to know everything.”

  “That’s exactly what Granny said.”

  “Even the elderly make jokes at our expense. There’s no longer any respect for the authorities.”

  Giò chuckled.

  “It’s good to see you laughing.”

  “Indeed, you’re good medicine. But did you know Granny and I were at the Pecoriellos’ house this afternoon?”

  And she told him all that had passed. He listened to her, as he always did, not only with great patience, but also with interest to hear her point of view.

  “Did Mr Pecoriello mention Margherita’s fee?” he asked her when she had finished.

  “He said she was on the expensive side, but he seemed rather pleased with it.”

  “It was 80,000 euros.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I didn’t think a ghost writer earned that much.”

  “Most of them wouldn’t, but if you land a project for someone famous, where the book will potentially make serious money, then the contracts tend to be on the generous side. After all, we’re discussing the sale of intellectual property rights. A ghost writer signs away all her IP…”

  “I didn’t know you had such a deep understanding of the publishing world.”

  “I didn’t,” he confessed, “until I did some research this evening and asked the advice of a small independent publishing house in Naples. It’s run by a guy from Maratea – we were friends at high school, and he was willing to explain a few things to me over the phone.”

  “Eighty grand,” Giò repeated incredulously. “It’s a lot of money.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I take it you still suspect there’s something fishy about Margherita’s death?”

  “Interesting choice of words, given her allergy. Yes, more than ever. One minute, she’s fit and healthy, about to close an important and very lucrative deal; the next, she’s dead. And we don’t know why. The post-mortem was inconclusive – maybe there was a minute trace of fish in what she ate at dinner, but would anaphylactic shock have hit her so quickly that she had no time to call for help? Nor even reach for her EpiPen? And all the food used for the preparation of her meal was cleared by forensics.”

  “Is it possible that someone dropped something in Margherita’s food?”

  Paolo nodded.

  “But,” she continued, “it might also have been an honest mistake. Maybe the chef used the wrong spoon.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s assume Margherita was killed on purpose,” Giò said. “Why?”

  “I’ve no idea. Was anyone else aiming to win the contract from Mimì Pecoriello?”

  “Not that I know of. Mr Pecoriello mentioned that Margherita had been recommended to him as an authority in her field, so I don’t think anyone else would have stood a chance of going up against her. But I can see where your suspicions are heading.”

  “So?”

  “So, as I told you, Mrs Galli was supposed to go to the meeting with Margherita, posing as the researcher. But as Guido said, it’s unlikely that a glamorous woman like Margherita would do all the hard work herself. If she did, the whole thing would have been out of character.”

  “You think she wouldn’t ghost write for that amount of money?”

  “No, she’d rather hand the task to Mrs Galli, a dedicated ghost writer, paying her, I suspect, only a tiny fraction of what she – Margherita – would receive.”

  “You might be right. How about Gagliardi? Was he aware of how much money she stood to make?”

  “In the emails, Margherita just mentioned that Mr Pecoriello was a good payer.”

  “What emails?”

  “The emails Margherita wrote to Guido.”

  “How do you know what she wrote to him?”

  “He wanted me to read her emails,” Giò said shortly. She wasn’t going to explain everything to Paolo.

  “Maybe one of them thought they’d cut themselves a larger slice if Margherita was out of the way?”

  “No,” Giò answered stubbornly. “As I said, Mr Pecoriello doesn’t even want to meet them. His interest was in working with Margherita, her services and her contacts with publishers. No Margherita, no contract for Guido or Mrs Galli.”

  “Or maybe that’s what Mr Pecoriello wants us to think now we’ve found out about his liaison with Margherita.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And one more thing – if Guido Gagliardi is going away for a year, why was he so keen on getting a contract now?”

  “That’s not an issue. His trailer work would come last in the project, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the book took a year or so to write, then that much time again for publication. He’d have a nice contract waiting for when he came back.”

  An ugly thought crossed Giò’s mind: Along with a stupid woman.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Of course.” Desperate to find anything to camouflage her despair, she threw in the first thought that came to her mind. “The blackmail!”

  “What blackmail?”

  “Vittoria said she heard Mrs Galli blackmailing someone the night of Margherita’s death. I thought it must have been Margherita, as all the other hotel guests were in the restaurant.”

  “Hmm,” Paolo muttered. “Maybe Mrs Galli had found out how much money was involved.”

  “And she threatened to tell Mr Pecoriello that she, not Margherita, was going to be the ghost writer. She really thought she could get the contract, and… my goodness, she had a reason to kill her.”

  “Blackmailers never kill their prey. And you said Pecoriello wouldn’t be interested in a contract without Margherita.”

  “Only because he didn’t know who the real ghost writer was.”

  “I’m not convinced. You said Margherita’s value also lay in her contacts with publishers. I can hardly imagine Mrs Galli having the same kind of influential relationships. I believe she was simply trying to get more money out of Margherita.”

  “And then there’s the lost manuscript. Guido says it was there on the night of the murder, but it had disappeared by the next morning. And Mrs Galli was trying to get into the restaurant that morning, I saw her. Dr Siringa had to send her away.”

  “But if she had already taken the document, why go back?”

  “Maybe to return it.”

  “We would have noticed, and it was risky.”

  “Maybe, but she seems a little bizarre in the way she acts. Maybe she didn’t appreciate the consequence of her actions.”

  “So how did she manage to kill Margherita when she wasn’t sitting anywhere near her during dinner?”

  “You’re right. But there’s something fishy,” Giò smiled, “about her role in this story.”

  “I think I may have to speak to both Mrs Galli and Mr Gagliardi tomorrow. But how about calling it a night? It’s almost 2am.”

  “My goodness!” said Giò, standing up. “I need to get up early tomorrow, I’ve got work to do. I want to finish the outline of my travel memoir – did I tell you that I’m working on my own project?”

  “No, you didn’t, but you look far more enthusiastic about it than you do about the guides you generally write. Tell me more as I walk you back to the hotel. I’ll fetch the car later.”

  Giò was still speaking animatedly about her new book as they reached the terrace of the Pellicano Hotel.

  “Paolo, I feel so much better.” She didn’t know exactly how to thank him, and so she hugged him briefly, feeling a little embarrassed.

  “Now, be a good girl and get some sleep,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her towards the hotel door.

  “Goodnight,” she said, walking across the terrace deep in thought – so deep she didn’t notice the shutters of one of the upstairs window quietly closing. By the time she got her key from reception, her mind had returned to Guido.

  He’s going away
for a whole year. According to Annika, he hadn’t meant to mislead her, he had just been waiting for the best moment to tell her. Well, obviously there hadn’t been a ‘best moment’ at all. There couldn’t be a best moment for such a painful confession.

  He was leaving. No doubt about that. He’d never give up on his project, she knew that much about him, and he probably couldn’t either. There were contracts to be respected, agreements, sponsorships. No, it had to be her choice. She could visit him in a month or so, spend time together. And travel was always the ultimate test for budding romances. Either they’d get along, or they wouldn’t.

  It was 4am and she was still lying awake in her bed, her eyes wide open, adrenaline pumping ideas into her brain. Now it was Guido, then it was the murder case. Murder? No, safer to say suspicious death. Maybe she and Paolo had just been overthinking things.

  She jumped out of her bed, moving in nervous circles. She felt like she was close to solving the mystery, but there was something… something she’d heard that she absolutely had to remember.

  Restlessly, Giò opened her balcony doors and went outside, the chilly air making her shiver. Looking over the balconies on either side of her, she saw light coming from one of the rooms. It had to be Guido’s – he was the only one in the group who preferred to work in the hours of darkness.

  Then the light went out. Had he decided it was finally time to sleep? She went back into the room and was just about to give sleep another try when she heard a light noise from the corridor. Was it someone closing a door?

  She switched off the lights in her room and quietly opened her own door a tiny bit, just enough to see torchlight – most likely from a mobile phone – moving along the corridor towards the stairs. She couldn’t fail to recognise the familiar physique and gait: it had to be Guido.

  Did he suffer from insomnia too? It was none of her business anyway, so she pushed her door closed. And then it came to her mind.