Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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has taken sedatives, there is little to be gained by questioning him now. We will come back.”
As they left the room, Moretti looked over his shoulder. The marchesa had her head on Monty Lord’s shoulder and he was patting her hand. Beneath the shining dome of his shaved head, the expression in the American producer’s eyes was panic-stricken.
“Now, are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Betty Chesler thumped the pillows behind Sydney Tremaine’s head and tugged at the bedcovers with the grim determination of someone erecting ramparts around a threatened and vulnerable keep. The two women had met on the Pavlova movie and had kept in touch with the odd letter and card over the years.
“Thank you for coming with me, Betty. I’m so grateful. I’ll be fine now — I’ll take one of the sedatives you put by the bed and get some sleep.”
“You know, pet — it’s hardly the time to mention it, but you should think of getting back into the swing of things. You have so much to offer.”
“Oh, Betty, honey, I couldn’t dance professionally again!”
“I don’t see why not, but I was thinking of how well you worked with those children on the Pavlova set with their dancing. It’s been a while, but people still remember you. You should take advantage of that while you can.”
“Oh Betty, I don’t know —”
But the thought lingered after Betty Chesler had left. Sydney heard her speaking to the police guard outside the door, and then there was silence.
She leaned over the side of the bed, fingered the bottle of sleeping pills, and shuddered at the thought of sleep. The last thing she wanted to do was sleep, perchance to dream. She got out of bed, took a shower, and made herself a coffee.
For the first time in her relationship with Gil she was grateful he was an only child and both his parents were dead. In the past, she had thought that being a much-adored child had only made matters worse when fame arrived on the scene, because it had prolonged his indulged childhood into a self-centred manhood. Gil expected to be worshipped. She couldn’t bear to think of where he was now, and what would happen before he could be laid to rest — a new state of being, or non-being for Gil. Laziness came naturally to him, but not restfulness.
Sydney forced her mind away from the thought of what had to be done over the next few days, and concentrated on what Betty Chesler had said. Once or twice she had suggested to Gil she might like to put her talents to some use, only to be discouraged. No, she thought, not just discouraged. Derided. Gradually, the fragile flower of hope and belief in herself had withered and, she had thought, died. It would be ironic if it took the death of her husband to bring it back to life again.
Sydney finished her coffee, went into the bedroom, and pulled out a leotard from a drawer. She changed into it, went through into the sitting room, and put some music on the stereo. Slowly, with a sense of strangely unbroken continuity rather than that of a return after an absence, she started to put her body through the sequences followed by every classical dancer anywhere in the world.
About an hour later, she stopped. She went back into the bedroom, put on a tracksuit over her leotard and a pair of running shoes, and made a phone call. Then she unlocked the door of the hotel suite.
Outside the door of the suite sat a very young policeman. Sydney smiled at him, prettily.
“Thank you for watching over me. I’m just going down to the lobby to buy cigarettes — I’m gasping.”
The constable jumped to his feet, eager to help. “I’ll get them, miss. What kind do you want?”
“Oh no!” Sydney looked at him in alarm. “I can’t — I just can’t stay here with no one outside. I just can’t.” She allowed a note of hysteria to enter her voice.
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“And leave this place unattended? After what happened out on the patio I could never relax again, even if you searched it. Please — just stay watching for me, will you? If I’m not back in five minutes, then, of course, I’d expect you to come after me — okay?”
“Five minutes.” The young constable looked worried and confused.
“Right — thanks!”
She ran down the corridor, waving as she went.
Five minutes. Please God, she prayed, may the taxi get here in five minutes.
The lobby was quiet, with only the desk clerk in attendance.
“Mrs. Ensor — should you —?”
“I’m going in to the police station — they’re sending a car. The constable is staying to watch over my suite.”
Beyond the revolving doors, a taxi was pulling up. Sydney whisked through the doors and into the car.
“The tower on Icart point.”
As they exited through the gates of the hotel, she saw the young police officer standing in the doorway with the desk clerk.
She had no problems unlocking the gate, and the key worked easily in the lock of the Martello tower door. There was no sign of Giulia’s Ducati on the terrazzo by the door, and the place was in darkness. Feeling for the switch, Sydney found it and put it on, feeling relief at the sudden brilliance that flooded the space. She didn’t need a cigarette, but she needed a drink, badly.
In Giulia’s small kitchen she found the Aperol and poured herself a glass. It did not produce instant cessation of pain, but it did give an illusion of pleasure.
About fifteen minutes later, she heard a key in the door. Giulia appeared, pushing the Ducati ahead of her. She started when she saw Sydney and her hand went to the pocket of her leather jacket.
“Don’t kill me. All I took was a little Aperol. A large Aperol.”
“What are you doing here? You should be under guard somewhere, not tempting fate. Idiota!”
“You called me that before, I remember. Okay, so you didn’t sleep with Gil, but you did keep your mouth shut about — whatever it is that’s behind all this. About that I am no idiot, Giulia.”
Giulia paused, sighed and took off her jacket. “Bene. I’ll tell you about the past, but don’t think I have the answer, because I don’t. I’ll have some of that also.”
They carried the drinks into the living area and sat together on a sofa covered in soft black leather.
“The past, Giulia — how can this be about the past? Gil only spent time in Italy when he was researching Rastrellamento. Why kill him?”
“Rastrellamento is about the past. Do you know if he based the book on any actual events?”
“Not as far as I know, but Gil didn’t talk much about the process of writing — at least, not to me. Knowing Gil, I think he’d have preferred the world to feel Rastrellamento was entirely a product of his genius. His imagination.”
“Perhaps it was, but I think he stumbled on to something. And I know that clever policeman feels the same way — that’s where I’ve been, at the police station.”
“Clever policeman — Ed Moretti?”
“You are on first-name terms?” Giulia raised her eyebrows.
“Yes — well, I am, anyway, and I spent a night in his bed, and none of this is as it sounds.”
“Pity. You could do worse.”
“I did. I married Gil.” Sydney put down her empty glass. “So far I’ve answered most of the questions, Giulia. Tell me about the past. Your father, I guess, was a Vannoni.”
“My grandfather. My mother was not married, and she herself was the child of rape — no, don’t say anything, not yet.” Giulia got up, went into the kitchen, and brought the bottle back