Moretti and Falla Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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of a project. Need I remind you that you will make ten percent of the gross — besides that humongous fee we paid for the rights to Rastrellamento?”
Greed, thought Monty Lord. Appeal to “what’s in it for me?” and even this so-called creative genius becomes a mere mercenary. Just like me.
“Deus ex machina, you said. Will Tom Byers be rescued by his guardian angel, flown in on wires?”
Monty Lord laughed. “Perhaps in the sequel? No, seriously, Mario has dreamed up another character who will interract with the two principal groups: a schoolteacher, not originally from the village. An outsider who observes the unfolding drama and finds himself drawn into the web of events.”
“Jesus wept! Shambolic — it’s a fucking farce, that’s what it is. An utter shambles!”
In an instant, the mercenary was replaced by the writer, and Monty Lord realized he was in for the all too familiar scene of Gilbert Ensor in a rage. Only this time, Sydney Tremaine was not here to control her husband. All he could do now, as producer, was resort to the use of legal ultimatum. Raising his voice above the noisome stream of continuous obscenities that poured from Gilbert Ensor’s lips he shouted, “Need I remind you, Ensor, that under the terms of the contract I don’t have to get your permission for this kind of change? None of your original characters have been removed, as per our agreement. The teacher is in — get me?”
“You Yankee swine! We’ll see what my lawyer has to say about that! We’ll see what difference it makes to ‘as per our agreement’ when it turns out the director is a junkie and should be in the nuthouse! We’ll see!”
“If you want to waste your time and money, feel free, Gilbert, but directors with a drug problem are a dime a dozen — really good directors with a drug problem are as rare as rubies.”
Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.
The biblical echoes of Monty Lord’s choice of simile reminded Gil of his missing wife. Sydney’s show of independence was new in their relationship — oh, she fought with him, but in the end it was all sound and fury and signified nothing. Her unexplained absence had shaken him, and now Mario Bianchi was at it again.
“Tell Mario I’ll fight this one — no, I’ll tell him myself,” he said, and burst into noisy sobs.
Not a pretty sight, thought Monty Lord, as he surveyed the blubbering figure beside him on the sofa. He stood up. “I’ll see myself out,” he said.
As the door closed behind him, Monty Lord heard a scream from inside.
“Sydney!”
Like Marlon Brando screaming “Stella!” thought Monty. As theatrical. As desperate.
As he left the hotel, a taxi drew up. Inside he saw the red hair and Dresden profile of Sydney Tremaine, returning home from her night on the town.
“Well, what do you think, Guv?”
“Think?”
Moretti looked up as if he had been miles away, thought Liz Falla. In fact, he had been years away.
He couldn’t go back, either.
Dan Mahy’s words kept running over and over in his head. Drip, drip, drip. That and “Maladetta Maremma.” All he knew about the Maremma was that it was an area in Italy where the marshes had been drained, but more than that he didn’t know.
“Does any of this have anything to do with the death of Toni Albarosa? A place like this sometimes has trouble with prowlers, doesn’t it?”
“True. But two things are interesting about these reports. First, there’s the business with Dan Mahy. I’m not sure I’d have seen that as significant if I’d not just spoken to him. Let’s go over what we have.”
What they had on the table in front of them at the Hospital Lane headquarters were three incidents at the Manoir Ste. Madeleine; two incidents had taken place within a month of each other in April, the third just after the arrival of the film crew. In the first, one of the live-in staff was making sure the fire was out in the marchesa’s sitting room at about eleven o’clock at night, when she saw someone peering through the window at her. She ran screaming from the room and, apart from her lurid description of the prowler’s eyes as “glowing like living coals” — which might well have been inspired by her task and not based on observation at all — she could not even be sure if the prowler was a man or a woman. She assumed it was a man.
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