The Grey Beginning, page 22
Think. Think. Try to figure out their next move. How many more days? She had talked about the weekend. Wouldn’t she prefer to wait until after I had gone—until David was no longer on the premises? Why commit such a vile act with witnesses present, when she could easily rid herself of them?
I wanted to believe that. It would have given me more time. But every scrap of evidence confirmed the probability that Friday was the day. The ambiguous hints that had perplexed me took on a new and dreadful meaning. She had said the final decision as to Pete’s future would be made on Friday—“late Friday, perhaps.” She had suggested I wait until Saturday before calling home. By that time I would be in a position to tell my parents of my plans. Naturally I would want to stay over for the funeral….
If she had entered the room at that moment I would have gone for her throat. I no longer doubted her intention, even though I did not understand her motive or her reasons for not waiting until I was out of the picture. It would be Friday night. And since she was so certain of the result, the next attempt wouldn’t be like the others. It would be brutal and direct.
Don’t imagine it was easy for me to believe that Francesca was planning the murder of her own grandson. I kept turning the bits and pieces of evidence over in my mind, trying to find another explanation. One possibility, that Pete was taking the stuff himself, just didn’t make sense. The only person from whom he could obtain illegal drugs was Alberto; and in addition to the inherent unlikeliness of such an alliance, I felt sure Alberto wouldn’t dare do such a thing without Francesca’s approval. Nor was it likely that the boy could have brought a supply of drugs with him. She had made him discard his clothes, his books, his toys; where could he hide the stuff?
I would love to have cast Alberto in the role of chief villain, but that wouldn’t wash either. If he wanted to rid himself of an obstacle, he’d use a club or a gun. He and Emilia must be involved. It would have taken both of them to carry out the scheme with the kitten, and it was probably Emilia who drugged the boy’s food. But neither was capable of inventing a scheme so diabolically subtle. They were only the tools; the brain directing them belonged to someone else.
Francesca wasn’t the only candidate, though. There was another possibility.
David.
I knew nothing about him except what he had told me. Francesca had been satisfied with his credentials, but she wasn’t omniscient. Surely it was a strange coincidence that he should turn up now, on a job that was, to say the least, rather unusual. David had taken pains to ingratiate himself with the cook. He couldn’t always arrange to be hanging around the kitchen when the boy’s food was prepared, but the drug had not been used every night. There had not been time for David to fetch the kitten from Pete’s room, but if Joe had escaped by himself and David had spotted him outside, he might have been able to slip in and free the dog.
The most damning evidence against David was the drug connection. The night I saw him in the garden and mistook him for Bart he had been smoking pot. The smell was unmistakable.
I didn’t believe it was David. I didn’t want it to be David. I had not even thought of him initially. It wasn’t until I sat huddled and shivering in the darkness, forcing myself to think before I acted, that the thought occurred to me. Which proved I had been wise not to take Pete and make a run for it. I probably would have run to David.
I had read a lot of books with plots like this. I had often wondered how any heroine could be dumb enough to mistake the villain for the hero. I had often thought contemptuously, Why doesn’t the stupid wench go to the police? Now I knew why. I could see myself trying to convince a local cop that a member of one of the most distinguished families in Tuscany was planning to kill her grandson. “And who are you who make this accusation, signorina?” Oh, just a passerby, a stranger, a foreigner—a woman who is fresh out of a mental institution. I’d be lucky if they didn’t lock me up.
The night should have dragged on interminably, but it was all too short. The window was a sickly square of cloud-shadowed dawn before I knew what I must do. Get the boy away. By myself, confiding in no one, because there was no one I was certain I could trust. I was not completely without resources. There were people who would testify to my character. I had no criminal record; I had been sick, but raging paranoia wasn’t one of my problems. The boy’s aunt and uncle might help. My father…He’d hop the first plane if he thought I was in trouble.
Given time, I could marshal those allies and put up a fight, especially if I held the trump card—Pete. The only question remaining was where to hide him. I couldn’t get him out of the country without a passport. I think I would have risked a charge of kidnapping with hardly a qualm if I had had that essential document; but after I had considered the pros and cons I realized it wouldn’t work. The flight took too long. By the time the plane landed, they would know Pete and I were aboard, and we’d be met by a platoon of assorted law-enforcement agents. Besides, Francesca probably had his passport, and my chances of finding it were slim to nil, with Emilia watching every move I made.
There was only one place I could take him. It had the advantage of being so illogical only an idiot would have thought of it.
Chapter
10
I STILL HAVE NIGHTMARES OCCASIONALLY—NOT ABOUT Bart, but about that last, awful day. I’m carrying the child and trying to run through some dark viscous substance that sucks at my feet. Far ahead I can see the gray light of morning, but there is darkness all around me and behind, where the dog is close on our trail. The jingling of its broken chain gets louder and louder. Dim forms lunge at us from the side of the path as we struggle forward—Alberto, aiming his rifle; Francesca, reaching out with arms that stretch like rubber and end in taloned hands. I pass them in a desperate burst of speed. I’m gaining on the dog; the sounds behind grow fainter. The path ahead is clear. And then he is there, blocking the way, laughing, lank greasy hair covering his face. Almost all his face.
That was the mood of that final day—frustrated desperation, desperate frustration; I wanted to act, and I could not. The only thing in my favor was that the weather continued to be cloudy. For once in my life I was praying for rain. We’d have a better chance of getting away if we waited until nighttime—darkness veiling our movements, hours elapsing before our absence was discovered. It was the best plan, but it was susceptible to change, depending on the circumstances. I dared not assume Pete was safe until Friday night. I had to be ready to make a break for it if he was threatened, or if an unexpected opportunity presented itself.
I dreaded seeing Francesca that morning. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to hide my knowledge, that she’d see my feelings written on my face. It wasn’t easy, but I managed it. You can manage anything when you have to. She was distracted too, and that helped. When we sat down to breakfast she had a list in her hand, and the first thing she said was, “You haven’t forgotten that you have a fitting today?”
I had forgotten. I was trying to think how to get out of it—for I had no intention of leaving Pete unwatched for that length of time—when Francesca went on, “Unfortunately I will not be able to accompany you. You don’t mind going alone, do you?”
“Maybe I’ll take Pietro with me,” I said. “We could pick up a few things for the trip—games, comic books.”
“If you like.” The only emotion she displayed was the usual poorly concealed incredulity that I could possibly enjoy the boy’s company. So far so good, I thought. I went on, “We’ll have lunch in Florence.”
She nodded, studying her list. I couldn’t believe it. I said casually, “There’s no need for Alberto to drive us. I’ll take my car.”
I might have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Francesca looked up, frowning. “That would be foolish,” she said sharply. “It is raining and you don’t know your way. I won’t be needing Alberto this afternoon. I have a great deal to do here.”
I was afraid to press the point. I felt as if I were balancing on a tightrope; the wrong word, the wrong look could betray me. She continued to inspect me with a new keenness. “You don’t seem your usual self, Kathleen. Did you sleep well last night?”
I was prepared for that one. “I didn’t, as a matter of fact. I was worried about Pietro. It seemed to me he was a little high-strung last night. When I went up to look in on him he was awfully restless. I guess it was just overfatigue, but I didn’t like to leave him, and…Well, I fell asleep in the chair and didn’t wake till daybreak.”
Stop there, I told myself. Don’t explain too much. I had to have some sort of explanation, in case they had discovered I had spent the night in Pete’s room. It would have been wiser to avoid that change in routine—the only thing I had going for me was the fact that they believed I was unwitting—but I had simply been unable to face the alternative.
Francesca appeared to buy my excuse. “I admire your conscientiousness. But you mustn’t wear yourself out. Your health is important.”
I assured her I felt fine, top-notch, in the pink; but I knew I had better get out of that room. There were limits as to how long I could play the game.
So much for the hope of getting him away before nightfall. If I could keep from cracking under the strain, the trip to Florence would give me a chance to make a few essential preparations and throw Francesca off guard.
Pete graciously accepted my invitation. “Will we go to a movie?” he asked hopefully. “I have not gone to a movie since I came here. I like movies about murderers and robbers.”
“We’ll see.”
Pete had a good time, at any rate. I must have put on an adequate performance; he didn’t seem to notice anything odd in my behavior. He was bored at the couturier’s, but I cut that as short as I could by telling the astonished fitter that everything was fine the way it was. I don’t suppose she had ever had such an easy time of it with any customer, especially with Francesca or her kin.
I did derive some satisfaction out of running Alberto ragged. I made him drive all over town looking for the things I wanted, and I dismissed him as cavalierly as Francesca would have done while Pete and I ate lunch and sat through a long movie about bank robbers. I would never have permitted a child to see such a film under ordinary circumstances—when the “hero” wasn’t shooting guards or massacring witnesses, he was making love to his girlfriend—but I decided this was no time to cavil at minor moral issues. The important thing was to stay out of the house as long as possible. In the course of the day I managed to complete all my errands—stocking up on games and reading material for Pete, buying a carrier for Joe, and cashing my traveler’s checks. I had a little over seven hundred dollars, and I figured I might need it. I also bought Pete a coat and a cap and had the store wrap them. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was better than nothing.
My last move was to take Pete to a trattoria and stuff him with every filling item on the menu. It was getting late by then and Alberto was obviously resentful of the delay, but I didn’t think he was suspicious. He was not smart enough to figure out why I wanted Pete so full he couldn’t eat his supper. Pete was big-eyed with delight at the idea of choosing anything he wanted, and I watched benevolently as he finished off his meal with ice cream and an assortment of pastries.
Twilight was closing in when we returned to the villa, and my spirits began to revive. The interminable day was almost over. I would only have to face Francesca one more time, kill a few more hours, and then we would be on our way. The nasty encounters that were sure to follow didn’t worry me. There was only one thing that did worry me, and once Pete was safe, I could handle abuse, accusations, and anything else.
Pete went rushing up to show Joe his carrier. I doubted that Joe would share his enthusiasm, and cautioned him about introducing it gradually and tactfully. If Joe started howling when we carried him out, we were in trouble. I took the parcel containing the coat and cap with me and locked it in my suitcase.
My next stop was the kitchen, where I told Rosa Pete had already had his supper and cautioned her not to give him anything more to eat or drink. I was ninety-nine percent sure of Rosa, but she couldn’t help me; she was too much in awe of Francesca.
After I had returned to my room I sat down and went over my plans again. Was there anything I had neglected, anything else I could do, any emergency I hadn’t anticipated? The answer to the last question was a resounding, depressing yes. The definition of an emergency is something you have not anticipated. But I’d done everything I could and I was now at the point where my thoughts ran around in circles like a hamster on a wheel.
I walked into the salone without knocking. Francesca was at her desk. My unannounced appearance startled her so that her pen made an ugly jagged line across the page on which she was writing.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Slowly and deliberately Francesca crumpled the paper and dropped it into a wastebasket. She was edgy, no question about it, and her nervousness lessened mine. For in spite of all my logic a doubt lingered in my mind. Was I committing the same error of which I had been accused so often and so justly—misinterpreting facts, building fantastic theories on inadequate foundations? I knew myself well enough to know it was possible. The very monstrousness of the plot made it hard to believe. It was not the first time I had faced that possibility, but the answer was simple and incontrovertible. Right or wrong, sane or demented, I had to carry out my plan. I could not take the chance of being…right. So I met Francesca’s frown with a bland smile, and when she asked if I had completed my errands, I said glibly, “Yes, we had a great time. I cashed a few traveler’s checks and bought a carrier for the kitten. I almost forgot that.”
“The cat?” Her eyebrows arched. “It can be left with Rosa. She will stay on as caretaker.”
“Pietro is very attached to it. You know when a child is facing a big upheaval in his life it helps him to have some familiar object to cling to. The cat won’t be any trouble. I thought I would take it to the vet tomorrow and get the necessary papers.”
“I see.” She shrugged, dismissing the subject. “Was the fitting satisfactory?”
“Oh yes. They said they’d have everything ready by Saturday afternoon.”
She nodded. Of course they would have everything ready. Her pen hovered over a fresh sheet of paper, and I said, “I can see you’re busy. Please go on with whatever you were doing. Can I help in any way?”
“Thank you, no. Unless you will be good enough to ring for Emilia. I must just finish this note and then I will join you.”
Emilia responded to my touch on the bell, and as she arranged glasses and carafe on the table, I thought how seductive it must be to have such power at one’s disposal. A little pressure of a single finger, the contraction of a few small muscles, could produce an industrious bustle of activity. It would be fatally easy to become accustomed to controlling other people’s lives with one push of a button.
When Francesca sat down beside me she again apologized for her distraction. “There is always so much to do when one travels.”
“I’ve been trying to get organized too,” I said.
“Maybe I should return that rental car tomorrow, instead of waiting till Sunday. Would it be possible for Alberto to drive me back?”
“Of course.” Her smile was warmer. She approved of that idea. (Don’t ask why, don’t try to find double entendres and hidden meanings—you’re far beyond that now. Just stick to your plan.)
She had left the businesswoman at her desk and was now the charming hostess, but there was a change in her manner—not so much nervousness as suppressed excitement and anticipation. If I hadn’t known better, I would have supposed she was looking forward to her trip. (Il principe, monsieur le comte, waiting in a secluded chalet in the Swiss Alps.) Her moments of dreamy abstraction and her veiled glances at me—glances that seemed to hold a greedy pleasure—began to wear on my nerves. I wondered if I could get through the evening after all.
Unwittingly, Francesca provided a distraction. “I have asked Professor Brown to join us for dinner. I felt I owed him that, since he will be leaving soon.”
I had been careful to avoid David. Guilty or innocent, Francesca’s accomplice or independent villain, he was not a factor in my plans, only an obstacle to be avoided at all costs. I was not happy at the prospect of spending an evening in his company.
Francesca saw my reaction and appeared to be amused by it. “I hope you won’t be too bored, Kathleen.”
“He does tend to go on and on about subjects I find somewhat tedious,” I said. “But one last evening won’t kill me.”
At least I hoped not.
David was wearing a proper shirt, for once, with a relatively respectable jacket over it—probably a concession to the chilly weather rather than a mark of respect for his hostess. He was carrying a brown cardboard box.
“These are the Coptic fabrics you wanted to see,” he explained, dropping the box at Francesca’s feet.
She studied it with disgust. It was far from clean, and there were cobwebs clinging to its sides. Unaware of his faux pas, David beamed at her. I was reminded of a dog who has just presented his owner with a particularly smelly dead rat.
“Mind if I move this stuff?” David went on, shifting the decanter and wineglasses. “I’ll lay the pieces out here. I’m afraid some of them are a little damp.”
They were damp, and they smelled of wet fabric, chemicals, and sheer musty age. However, they aroused Francesca’s interest; she actually touched one or two, commenting intelligently about the type of embroidery used and questioning David about the age and history of the specimens.
