The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  Maybe he had discovered something while he was in the office, probing about the system in his amateur way. Or maybe his killers thought he had discovered something. They were not to know that he was an impostor.

  Signor Bragora did not look well. The cold was biting into his knees, aggravating his arthritis. Emma saw that he was taking painkillers with his coffee and his hands seemed to tremble as he held the mug. He stayed in the office during the lunch break, not wanting to attempt the steep stairs.

  ‘Perhaps you should go home,’ said Emma, gently. ‘You should be tucked up somewhere warm and comfortable. Do you live on the mainland?’

  ‘Si, I live on the mainland. I cannot afford the rents in Venice.’

  ‘I’ll ask Bruno to drive you home.’

  ‘But there is so much work,’ he began. He waved his arms over his untidy desk. ‘This I must do.’

  ‘It can all wait,’ she said firmly. ‘You should go home.’

  As he left, Rocco said in an aside: ‘Time for il vecchio to retire.’

  But Emma heard him. ‘That is for Signor Marco to decide.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rocco agreed, backing off.

  Was it Rocco, Emma suddenly thought. Did he have ambition beyond his ability? But he was a pleasant young man, hard-working, nothing to suggest that he had a darker side.

  She was aware of when Commissario Morelli arrived, for the atmosphere in the office changed. It was charged with alarm. They were not used to the polizia arriving on their doorstep. Even a detective so quiet and unassuming as Claudio Morelli. He spoke in Italian so Emma found it difficult to keep up with him.

  ‘Please be seated,’ he said, sitting down himself and taking out a notebook. ‘I am only here to ask a few questions about your whereabouts last night. It was a ver’ cold night. So perhaps you did not go out? First give me your names and addresses.’

  They all looked bemused. They did not understand why they were being questioned, but they volunteered the information without hesitation. Rocco had gone dancing with his girlfriend, Luka had taken supper with his mother and stayed with her talking about family matters. The two girls, who shared a flat, had washed their hair and watched television.

  ‘What about me?’ Emma said. ‘You have not asked me.’

  ‘I know where you were last night. You met Marco dell’Orto at the airport, had fish soup for supper at the palazzo and stayed in all the evening.’

  ‘Correct, even to the soup.’

  ‘Maria’s fish soup is famous.’

  ‘But why do you want to know this?’ asked Rocco. ‘Have we done something wrong?’

  ‘A young man was found hanging under the lowest arch of the Ponte dei Tre Archi, close to San Giobbe, early this morning. The church of the plague. It was the young man who came to work in this office yesterday morning.’

  ‘You mean the professor?’

  ‘He was not the professor. He was impersonating the professor. He was a fraud.’

  Rocco nodded knowingly. ‘I knew he knew nothing.’

  ‘Triste,’ said Emma quickly. ‘It is so sad.’

  ‘So what are we to do?’ asked Luka.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Commissario Morelli, closing his notebook. ‘But I may have to ask you more questions. Please do not leave Venice.’

  He stood up. ‘All of you, please be careful. Take care of Signorina Chandler. We do not want to find her under a bridge.’

  That really cheered Emma, but she managed a smile.

  ‘The young man left his laptop behind,’ said Luka, going to the back of the office. ‘Do you want it? It may hold information.’

  ‘That would be most useful. We have a department that can decipher anything. There may be a clue. Grazie.’

  Commissario Morelli made his farewells, bowed politely, went down the stairs. He had a car waiting outside, a blue and white polizia sedan. Too cold to walk today. His short hair was no protection and his ears were frozen. He must buy a hat.

  Emma still looked shocked. But what could he do? He saw death every day. People were always falling into the canal.

  Emma was still combing through the records when Marco returned from the plant. He had not shaved. His chin was dark. He put his arms around her for the staff had long gone home. There was no one to see.

  ‘My little Emma. Why are you still working?’

  ‘I am waiting for you.’

  ‘And so it should be but now we will lock up and take a water taxi back to the palazzo, or would you like to eat out? You have not had much fun. It has been all work and the polizia.’

  ‘You have heard about Brad Phillips, the student who came to Venice instead of the professor? You know what has happened to him?’

  ‘The Commissario phoned me. He told me all that they know. And we agree on one thing. You should not be here. It is too dangerous. You must go back to London, tomorrow. I have booked you a plane. Bruno will take you to the airport.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Emma, almost exploding with indignation. ‘Is no one going to ask me? I don’t want to go back to London till my work is finished.’

  ‘You are not safe in Venice, caro. Do you think I want to see you go? But it must be done. I do not want to be identifying you on a slab.’

  Marco’s face was drawn, gaunt.

  ‘But I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay here, in Venice. I will be careful.’

  ‘They are unscrupulous people. They have no morals. You will be in the canal with stones in your pocket. No way will I allow this. We will have a life together when this is all over. So I have lost immense income from two years of grapes, but my grapes are still growing. They will be growing for my children and my grandchildren.’

  ‘But I want to be here with you,’ said Emma desperately.

  ‘You are going home.’

  ‘I absolutely refuse to go.’

  ‘Then I will put you in a bag and take you to the airport myself.’

  Marco’s eyes were dark and passionate. He looked as if he would bundle her in a bag that very moment. Emma burst out laughing. It was such a funny thought. They clung to each other, laughing, in the growing darkness till it was time to take a water taxi back to the palazzo. Emma paid. Marco had no loose money.

  ‘Now I am paying your fare,’ said Emma.

  ‘It is the way in Venice. The woman always pays.’

  ‘This woman doesn’t.’

  ‘This woman need never pay for anything ever again. I will make sure of that,’ said Marco, tucking her arm through his. ‘It is my promise.’

  fifteen

  Emma and Marco heard a violent knocking on the front door and Maria went to answer it. The bell was apparently invisible this evening. Then they heard voices in the hallway, rising, one shrill and demanding. Maria was being adamant.

  ‘The signor is not to be disturbed,’ she said in Italian.

  ‘I am not a nobody! Take me to him. I demand to see your master.’

  Emma moved away from Marco. She recognized the voice and now the sharp heel steps that were coming up the stairs to the first floor. The tall door burst open.

  It was the Countess Raquel Benedetti, statuesque and expensively overdressed. She stood in the doorway dramatically, her arms thrown wide open.

  ‘I am flooded,’ she howled. ‘My palazzo is flooded. I am ruined, everything is ruined. I have nowhere to go.’

  Unless the high tide had been worse further along the Grand Canal or the Countess lived in a bungalow-style palazzo, there was no way the damage could be as bad as she was describing. Emma said nothing. For a ruined woman, the Countess still managed to look amazingly sophisticated in a red trouser suit, a full-length mink coat thrown over her shoulders, her boots red leather with golden heels, a Louis Vuitton case at her feet. The colours begged not to be overlooked.

  She turned round and dragged in another suitcase. ‘I have brought my things. I am staying here, Marco, with you. Find me a room.’

  Marco stood up, always courteous and polite. ‘I am so sorr
y to hear of your unfortunate circumstances, Countess. So the flood reached the first floor, did it? How very alarming and distressing for you. Please sit down and I will ask Maria to bring us some fresh coffee.’

  ‘I will stay here tonight,’ said Raquel, shrugging off her mink coat. It fell onto the floor in a heap, abandoned. ‘Ask Maria to prepare a room for me.’

  ‘I am sorry but you cannot stay here tonight. There is no room and it is not convenient. This is quite a small palazzo, small but beautiful. ‘

  ‘I will sleep in the English accountant’s bedroom. Move her things to the servants’ quarters where she belongs. New linen sheets, of course. Everything new. Make sure the room is disinfected. I am allergic to anything cheap.’

  Emma bit on her tongue. She would not respond to this rudeness with her own brand of sarcasm. It was up to Marco to deal with her.

  ‘That is not possible,’ said Marco coldly. ‘Miss Chandler is far too exhausted from her day’s work to be moved anywhere, and she is certainly not a servant. She is a valued and efficient member of my staff. Please remember that or I shall have to ask you to leave.’

  He said nothing about Emma returning to London. He said nothing about his embezzled fortune. The Countess was a small irritation compared to these problems.

  The Countess began to cry, her eyes filled with tears, but she was being careful not to smudge her heavy black mascara. She took out a lace handkerchief and began to dab at her eyes.

  ‘Marco, Marco, how can you speak to me so, after all we have been to each other? All these many years of caring for each other. We have been so close, so intimate, such amazing lovers. Do you not remember all our times, all those intimate times together?’

  Marco’s face went even darker and colder. It was as if glass formed over his face. If icicles could have appeared, they would have. His eyes glinted with ice.

  ‘There have been no such times together, no intimacy, never lovers. It is all in your imagination, Raquel. What intimate moments? Only in your imagination. Perhaps you should see a doctor? You are obviously a very sick woman. You need medication. It is a mental problem.’

  Raquel broke into fresh howls and hurled herself across the sofa, spilling Marco’s coffee. The brown liquid dripped over the sofa and onto the white carpet in a pool. It spread like dark blood.

  Emma swiftly picked up the cup and saucer before there was more damage. She put them on a side table and sat on another sofa, well away from the drama and out of Raquel’s reach.

  ‘Oh, Marco, un grand’uomo, how could you speak to me so?’ Raquel went on, her voice at a dramatic pitch. ‘I am distraught. You would not be so unkind and act this way if that little English miss was not sitting here like a rabbit. We would be together, in a loving embrace, celebrating our united love.’

  Emma had never heard herself described as a rabbit before. It was a new one.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Marco said. ‘I am asking you to leave now. You are making a fool of yourself.’ He was lapsing into Italian so Emma did not understand all that he said.

  Ye gods, thought Emma, it was like something out of an operetta, an amateur production.

  Raquel made to throw herself into his arms, but Marco was faster than she and he stood up abruptly. He went over to the other side of the room, to find his jacket. He took out his mobile phone and turned away. He began speaking rapidly in Italian. He nodded several times. ‘Prendo questa. Grazie, grazie.’

  He switched off, a polite but icy smile on his face. ‘I have arranged for you to have a deluxe room at the Hotel Gritti Palace. Only the best for you, of course, Countess. You will be very comfortable. I have arranged for the account to be sent to me so you will not be inconvenienced. You may stay there until your palazzo is dry and redecorated.’

  He emphasized the last three words as if to make sure she did not think she could stay there forever. The five-star Hotel Gritti-Pisani Palace was one of the three most expensive hotels in Venice. Emma had seen it from the outside. It was on the final stretch of the Grand Canal, a two-storey historic fifteenth-century palazzo of pink and white marble with a long canopied terrace and waterfront for launches and gondolas.

  ‘I have also arranged for a water taxi to take you there. Now you will be able to sleep dry and warm, something which your bones will appreciate, as we all appreciate warmth and comfort as we grow older.’

  Emma thought Raquel’s face would crack. She would not admit to any age. She was ageless. The tears dried immediately but she knew when she was beaten. Besides, the Hotel Gritti-Pisani had many other attractions. It was where the rich and famous stayed. Ernest Hemingway had stayed there and so had John Ruskin. She might meet someone richer and more gullible than Marco dell’Orto. A new and available millionaire, waiting to be snared. It might be the open door to a new life. She was always optimistic.

  ‘Since it is obvious that I am not wanted in this little love nest, I will leave you,’ she said smoothly. ‘Please send your servant for my suitcases.’

  ‘Maria does not carry cases,’ said Marco. ‘The driver will carry them down for you when he arrives. He will be here immediately.’ He did not point out that she had managed to carry them up by herself.

  Raquel swept out of the room, trailing her mink coat like a Hollywood star.

  She did not look at Marco. She did not want to see the expression on his face.

  ‘This is not the end,’ she flung at Emma. ‘You will not snatch this man from me. He is mine. He has always been mine.’

  Marco waited a few moments, listening to her footsteps retreating downstairs on the marble, and then let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, coming over to Emma.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Emma.

  ‘I thought she might turn on you, but she had more sense.’

  ‘She took it out on your sofa.’

  ‘I shall have to buy a new one,’ he said. ‘And a new carpet.’

  ‘Maria and I will get the stain out of the carpet,’ said Emma. ‘Then you can stand the new sofa over the spot if we are not a hundred per cent successful.’

  Marco laughed and linked his arms loosely round her body. ‘Ah, says my thrifty little accountant. She’s always looking after my money. And always talking in percentages.’

  ‘You’ve been quite generous enough, paying for the Countess at that expensive hotel. If you have any money left to meet the bill.’

  Marco laughed again. ‘I was not that generous, caro. I did not book her into a Heritage Suite. It is well worth a few thousand euros to get rid of the woman. A buon prezzo at the price. She will soon find herself another millionaire. I will take you there one day, to the Gritti Palazzo, to eat a fine meal, the two of us alone. The restaurant is perfection. Or if it is sunny, we could eat on the terrace. You would like that?’

  ‘You are still a very generous man.’

  ‘And to you, I will be even more generous. I will give you my heart, my soul, my body. Everything I own will be yours, yours and mine together. We will share my wealth and my life.’

  Emma fingered the gold chain that lay around her neck. ‘But I have nothing to give you. I have only a small flat in Brixton and even that has a horrendous mortgage.’

  ‘You will give me yourself, when you are ready. And your love. That is all that I want. You and your love.’

  She moved against him in almost total surrender. She was lost in her need for him. It was a tide of emotion that refused to be stemmed, like a dark Venetian flood surging at the door. She knew that life with Marco would be unlike anything she had ever dreamed.

  Their love would be a pleasure too intense to be denied. She could feel his heart hammering against her and knew that he wanted her too. It was almost too intoxicating to bear. She slid her fingers up his arms with butterfly probing. She longed to give him everything possible, but there was still that frightening reserve in her.

  ‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘It will be very soon.’

  ‘I will wait.’
<
br />   Emma left him. He was sending her back to London the following morning. London was so cold and bleak at this time of year. She did not know how she would survive the separation.

  Marco worked late in his study, anything to take his mind off the coming separation.

  The house was asleep. His sweet Emma was asleep. One day, soon, she would learn to trust him and invite him to her bed. It would be worth waiting for.

  He heard a noise. Someone was outside. At this time of night? He sensed it even though no one had knocked on the great door or rung the bell. He went to open the door carefully, an old sword in his hand.

  But something hit him straight in the face. A heavy piece of masonry. He did not know that it was a fallen piece from the Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. The first church that was built by Franciscan friars in 1250. Then the larger building which was completed in the mid-fifteenth century. Titian’s spectacular masterpieces adorned the walls, Canova’s tomb was planned as a marble pyramid. But this piece of masonry came from the restoration work.

  Marco stood in the hallway, blood pouring from the wound in his head. He managed to slam the door shut before staggering into the kitchen. He grabbed a kitchen towel to staunch the bleeding, blood dripping between his fingers.

  Maria’s phone was in its usual place, on the wall. Marco took down the receiver and dialled the emergency number.

  ‘Polizia. Ferito gravemente. Qualcosa e successo. Fretta. Un’ambulanza.’

  He dared not speak loudly. He did not want to wake the whole house. Emma must not know of this incident. She might not come back. And that would shatter his heart.

  sixteen

  London was like an alien city. Emma kept looking for water taxis and vaporetti and all she saw were red, double-decker buses trundling along and black cabs. The streets were as crowded as Venice but not as good-natured. People shoved and pushed without a word of apology. She began to think she was invisible as she was again forced to walk in the gutter or was bashed by a lumpy backpack.