Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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have seen that there are all kinds of other passages branching off the main tunnel, but they’re all filled with debris, and some have caved in. I’m sure if one was still open into the manor, the marchesa would know about it.”
The producer came to the door of the trailer and closed it as Moretti went down the steps.
Liz Falla was waiting for him back in the courtyard. She seemed excited.
“Good guess, Guv,” were her first words when Moretti joined her. “Giulia Vannoni left on that motorbike with Mrs. Ensor riding pillion. There were quite a few eyewitnesses. Tongues are wagging.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell Ensor?”
“A conspiracy of silence, Guv. Most people hate his guts, and got a kick out of seeing him sweat. Besides, as one of the cameramen said to me, ‘Let him get a taste of his own medicine.’”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that Ensor plays the field — boys and girls, if you get me.”
“What a charmer.”
“I got the address of Giulia Vannoni from the art director, who’s a friend of hers. Seems she has a place here she uses from time to time — somewhere out near Icart Point. She’s close to her aunt, so he says.”
“Interesting. Let’s get back into town. I’ll have to report to Chief Officer Hanley before too long.”
As they returned along the winding lanes that led to St. Peter Port, Moretti found himself thinking about love. About the marchese and the marchesa, still married, who lived coldly apart. About the tears of a young girl for whom kind words were as precious as the passion she felt for her risky choice of lover. About a redhead and a blonde on a scarlet and black Ducati, with the salt wind of the island blowing through their hair.
Fracas.
That was it. The name of the perfume. Uproar. Chaos.
He still couldn’t remember the name of the girl. But he knew it hadn’t been Valerie.
Chapter Five
Her heart was beating hard enough to burst the thin cotton of her shirt — as hard as the blows she would have liked to have given him, to wipe the taunting smile off her husband’s face. When Sydney Tremaine found herself in the corridor outside the marchesa’s sitting room, she was shaking with suppressed rage, the humiliation of being insulted in front of the civilized and quiet-spoken detective inspector. If they had been on their own, she would have picked up the nearest blunt object — anything that would have served as a missile — and thrown it at Gil.
What should she do now? Wait meekly around until the interview was over, babysit Gil for the remainder of the day, as she usually did, and then return to their hotel suite to scream and shout and rant at each other? Or to drink too much, have sex if Gil was not too drunk, and go to bed?
The prospect was appalling. Sydney leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she saw a figure at the end of the corridor. It was the woman who had arrived on the motorbike, the woman she had seen running along the cliff path — and whom she had told the detective inspector she didn’t know.
“Wait!” Sydney started to run toward her.
The woman stood and waited, her hands on her hips. As Sydney got closer, she saw she was smiling.
“You are Sydney Tremaine, the ballerina.”
“Ex-ballerina. You are the jogger I saw on the cliff path near the Héritage Hotel.”
One finely pencilled eyebrow was raised. “I don’t jog. I run. Yes. Giulia Vannoni.”
“You didn’t hear me call out?”
“I hear nothing with my iPod. Not the birds, not the sea, nothing.”
She extended her hand and Sydney took it.
“Someone threw a dagger at my husband at about the same time.”
“So they tell me. And missed. If it had been me, cara, you would be wearing black right now.”
Sydney saw that Giulia Vannoni had green eyes but, unlike her own, they were long and slightly slanted, and they were looking challengingly at her.
“Why were you standing outside my aunt’s study?” she asked. “Are you looking for her?”
“No. The detective inspector is questioning my husband. I — left. I didn’t tell him that I saw you. I’m not sure why.”
“Ah? Perhaps you hope I will hit my target next time?”
The pent-up anger of the past few minutes — of the past few days, weeks, months — burst from Sydney Tremaine in a flood of tears. “Christ! No. Yes. I don’t know!”
“Hey!”
Giulia Vannoni did not put her arms about her, pat her on the shoulder, talk in soothing tones. She took Sydney by the elbow and steered her toward the foyer that led out on to the terrace. “I’ve got to move my bike. Come on.”
The Ducati stood where Giulia had left it, with a small group of admirers around it — English and American crew members, and some Italian macchinisti, brought in to handle the equipment rented from Rome.
“Hey boys — don’t touch!”
“The bike you mean, Signorina?”
Puzzled, Sydney watched Giulia Vannoni explode. Most Italian women she knew enjoyed such remarks, or dismissed them with a shrug or a humorous comment. But this Amazon turned on the man with a burst of such rapid Italian that Sydney missed most of the meaning, although the language was pungent enough to make the joker flinch. The crowd quietly withdrew.
“My new baby. Superbike eleven ninety-eight, special edition. Beautiful lines, great control.” Giulia was smiling again.
“I like the logo.”
“Pretty, isn’t it? It is the emblem of many of my friends in Florence.” Giulia’s smile grew wider. “Like a ride?”
Sydney indicated the intricately painted gold and black helmet with its dark visor hanging on the curved handlebar. “I don’t have one of those,” she said.
“We’ll find one. Come.”
Sydney found herself following Giulia and the Ducati around the side of the manor, along the path that had led to what she now thought of as her point of no return. One thing was certain: wherever the path and Giulia Vannoni were now taking her could be no more disturbing than the scene of violent death on the terrace. The shock of seeing Toni Albarosa with a dagger in his chest — a dagger that looked distressingly like the one that had landed on the hotel patio at Gil’s feet — seemed to have deprived her of rational thought, and she was content to have this complete stranger decide what she should do next.
In an area to one side of the main courtyard, which was principally used for vehicles in the movie, were parked the hired limousines and the various cars, bikes, and motorbikes that belonged to the crew. Giulia propped up the Ducati and made for a line of motorbikes, sorting through any helmets that had been left as if she were in a store.
“No, troppo grande — mmm, no, brutto — si!” Triumphantly she held up a neat metallic black helmet with bronze highlights. “Bello, perfetto — from Roberto Stavrini, like mine. It will go with your hair.”
“But I can’t —”
But she could. The helmet was placed on her head, the strap fastened beneath her chin.
“Eh — Cosimo!”
Giulia called out to a tall bearded man crossing the courtyard, and Sydney recognized the art director, Cosimo Del Grano, who was on his way to the building where the costumes were stored. “Lend us your jacket.”
“Darling,