Fatal Facade

by Wendy Tyson

  The inspector never returned that day with a translator to talk with Allison. She saw him on the grounds, speaking with Dominic and then, later, Elle, but he left Allison alone. It was just as well. Her concern about the two deaths being linked wouldn’t leave her, and she didn’t want to say anything to the police. Not yet. Not until she was sure.

  It was Elle who brought up Damien, giving Allison the opening she needed to broach the subject of his death.

  “He was charming, you know,” Elle said. “An old-school gentleman.” She smiled wistfully. “Sometimes I felt like he was the only person who really took the time to know me.” She shrugged. “Maybe because he was older. Or maybe because he knew my dad.”

  “Or maybe because you showed him the real you.”

  “Maybe.” Elle looked down at her newly-painted toes, watching the glint of sun on gold. She had on a wispy peasant skirt made of sheer white material, a white thong that showed through, and a pink and white-striped tank top. Her hair had been pulled into a messy chignon, and pieces floated about her face like a new age halo. At least twenty metal bangles graced one arm, multiple toe rings decorated her narrow feet.

  “How old are you, Elle? Your real age?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  Allison shot her a hard look.

  “Okay, fine. Thirty-nine.”

  Allison still didn’t believe her—Vaughn had her down as forty-two, and his sources were usually right. She maintained her stare, waiting.

  Elle threw her head back. “Fine. I just turned forty-two. Happy now? You cannot tell anyone.”

  “What’s wrong with forty-two?”

  “It’s old.”

  “It’s just an age.”

  “Not in my line of business.”

  Allison cocked her head to the side. “And what line of work is that?”

  Elle wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth. “Point taken.”

  Softly, Allison said, “You look like you’re still trying to figure out who to be when you grow up.”

  Silence, during which Elle’s Palomino wandered over and watched them from beyond the stockade fence.

  “You want me to dress my age?”

  “No. I want you to be who you are, not some mixed-up version of who you think you’re supposed to be.”

  They were outside, under a large spruce tree by the stables. Elle said she wanted help redefining her brand. She wanted a new look and a new attitude. What she needed was for someone to be honest with her.

  “Think about Damien,” Allison said quietly. “How did you feel when the two of you were together?”

  “Peaceful.” Elle rocked harder. “Safe.”

  “How did you act? Dress?”

  “When it was just the two of us?”

  Allison nodded.

  “I just acted like me. We swam, played cards, danced to his favorite music. He liked Salsa and Calypso.” Elle smiled. “I wore whatever I wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “Jeans. Long skirts. Flat sandals. Whatever. He didn’t care.” She frowned. “If they were here, I paid more attention.” She shrugged in the direction of the cottages, meaning—Allison assumed—her guests.

  “You were happy?”

  “Happy. That’s a funny word.” Elle unraveled her lanky frame and walked toward the fence, holding her hand out to the horse, who looked at her sideways but stayed where she was. “But yes, I guess I was happy.”

  “You loved him very much.”

  “Damien?” Elle swung around. “I met him when I was twenty-seven. Just a pup. He was already forty-eight, but I didn’t care. He seemed so worldly, and after the reality television shows and the paparazzi and my mother’s death, he seemed so…stable.”

  “You moved here when you were thirty-three.”

  Carefully plucked eyebrows arched up. “You did your homework.”

  “It’s my job to know.”

  “Yes, I was thirty-three. Damien was tired of my parties and my drinking and the constant crowds, so he put his foot down and moved us here. This castle was in his family. He bought it from his great-aunt before she died. My father bought it from him when money was tight.” Elle pursed her lips. “Little did Damien know it would be his final resting place.”

  They watched the horse as she walked, then galloped, across the pasture, her head down and her body all sleek, beautiful muscle.

  Allison said carefully, “What happened that night, Elle?”

  Elle’s torso seemed to curl in on itself. “He fell. Or so they said.” She glanced at Allison, who waited patiently for her to continue. “It was late. We were having a dinner party, and he took my dog, Bits, out for a walk. Normally Dominic or Karina would have done that, but I think Damien wanted some air.” She swallowed, nodded to herself. “He wanted to get out for a while. Have a smoke, walk the dog. I told you, he didn’t like the parties.”

  “Did he stick to a trail he knew?”

  “He went down past the stone wall, toward the ruins. It was late, but he had a flashlight. And Bits. They knew the way well. They’d done it a thousand times. Not at night, perhaps. But they were familiar with the path.”

  “He was an outdoorsman?”

  Elle laughed. A genuine smile lit up her face. “Spirit there was his horse. He’d ride, hike, climb, and ski. You name it, Damien had mastered it.” Her face fell. “As long as it was outdoors.”

  And yet, he managed to fall from a cliff along a trail he knew well, Allison thought. Had he been drinking that night? Under some other influence? Or simply very unlucky? She’d been here long enough to understand the easy hedonism with which nights flew by and days dragged on. Damien had died in a colder month. By then, the rocks would have worn a sheen of snow or ice, and the cliffs, already dangerous, would have become treacherous under the right conditions. Still, a man like Damien, someone accustomed to outdoor activities and acclimated to the schizophrenic weather patterns of the northern Alps, would be less likely to succumb to bad luck or foolishness. Surely.

  Allison asked, “Had your husband been feeling himself?”

  “If by that you mean was he drunk, not really. Maybe a few glasses of wine? There’s not much to do here at night in the colder months other than drink. I don’t remember, though.”

  “I read there were drugs in his system.”

  “Yes, that’s true. He must have taken something. I gave him a tranquilizer that Hilda had given me. But drugs aren’t hard to come by.” She hesitated. “He seemed agitated that night, but I chalked that up to the dinner party and the pressure he was under.”

  “Pressure?”

  “He and Michael didn’t see eye to eye. Michael wanted him off the foundation’s board. Argued with my father about Damien. Damien was loyal to my father. Michael wanted some changes.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  “I don’t know, really. Probably in the way the foundation was funded. And then there were issues with money.” She gestured in the direction of the castle. “Everything Damien had was tied up in this place. He had to beg, borrow, and steal to buy it, and then he was forced to sell it.” She sighed again. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Allison took in the castle and the surrounding land. Upkeep for the massive structure, the outbuildings, and the hundreds of acres of property—not to mention the staff—had to be financially draining.

  “What did Damien do for a living?”

  “He was retired, mostly. Still did the occasional venture deal, and the foundation paid him a generous stipend. Otherwise, he spent his time with me, here.”

  Allison considered this. Damien had been tied to the foundation—like Michael and Sam. He had purchased this property from a relative without a lucrative job to fall back on. How did he think he could manage the costs of being a landowner, especially in South Tyrol? And especially given t
he fact that his land included an historic castle with majestic views? The taxes alone must have been astronomical.

  “Elle, are you involved with the foundation as well?”

  Elle shook her head, laughed. “No, I’m not. My father’s never asked me to be part of it. I really don’t have an aptitude for business.”

  “Would you want to be involved?”

  “I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “I guess it would be nice to be asked, but I don’t think my father has ever thought of me that way. He liked that Damien took care of me. I’m his little girl, to be forever coddled and protected.” She frowned. “Until now.”

  Allison assumed she was thinking of Sam’s memory loss and confusion. “Would you want to be seen as more independent? Someone capable of managing on her own, driving her own career. Maybe even having a hand in business.”

  It was a few seconds before Elle responded. “Maybe. For the right cause.”

  “What kind of cause?”

  “Something to do with children. Damien loved children. I think his biggest disappointment was that we never had any.”

  “You could get business experience through the foundation.”

  Elle’s eyes narrowed. “I’d hardly call the foundation a business.”

  Allison knew that running a nonprofit could be just as taxing—or more so—than running a for-profit company. Instead of arguing the point, she asked, “What does Pay It Forward do exactly?”

  “Gives away money. My father got the idea after his first heart attack. Some people find the Lord. My father decided that he had been given so much in life and he wanted to help other people. He had taken one of those vows, like Bill Gates and Warren Buffet.” When Allison’s face showed she didn’t understand, Elle said, “To give away most of his money before he dies. He’s not as rich as they are, of course, but he’s pretty loaded.”

  “Sounds worthy.” And like a motive for murder, Allison thought—only Sam wasn’t the one killed.

  “His methods are a little unorthodox.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Elle yawned, clearly bored with the topic of her father’s foundation. “I really don’t know exactly. That’s just what Damien told me.”

  Allison said, “I know we’ve talked about this, Elle, but I want you to really think about it in light of what’s just happened. Is it possible someone had a grudge against your husband? Someone who may have wanted to do him harm?”

  Elle answered immediately. “I’ve asked myself that same question over and over again. The only person who seemed to despise him was Michael.”

  “Do you think Michael is capable of killing someone?”

  “No.”

  Allison held her tongue, letting the silence hang between them. She glanced at Elle’s wrists. The bruises had healed to small yellowish orbs.

  Eventually, Elle said, “Michael would never hurt anyone.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Elle looked away. “Of course.”

  SIXTEEN

  Inspector Balzan showed up with a translator later that week. He asked to see Allison at nine in the morning, and he greeted her in the main dining room. His well-tailored suit and calf-skin Italian shoes caused Allison to wonder whether police in Italy were paid significantly better than police in the States. But before she could contemplate this further, he gave her a pleasant “hall-o” and returned to the papers he was reading.

  Beside him sat a petite, round, black-haired woman in her mid-twenties. She acknowledged Allison with a thickly accented “good morning” and asked whether Allison wanted some espresso. After Allison declined, she motioned toward the chair nearest the inspector.

  “My name is Julia Schenna, and I’ll be your police translator. Inspector Balzan will be with you momentarily.”

  Allison watched the inspector at work while she waited. He appeared to be reviewing photographs. His neatly manicured hands were smooth, fine-boned, and free of callouses, and they flipped through the photos at a frenetic pace, as though he was looking for something specific. Although Allison couldn’t make out the subjects, she saw enough grays, greens, and browns to assume the photos were taken outdoors—perhaps at the site of Shirin’s death. After a few minutes, Balzan looked up, squinted as though seeing her for the first time, and nodded curtly.

  He said something in rapid-fire German.

  “The inspector thanks you for joining him today,” Julia said. “He will not take up much of your time. He asked that you tell him what transpired between Shirin Alden and her husband on the night Ms. Alden died.”

  And so Allison repeated the events from that night, beginning with dinner and ending with the exchange between Shirin and her husband immediately before Shirin’s angry exit.

  “Do you know where Miss Alden was going?” Julia asked.

  “She didn’t say. I assumed back to her cottage, but that was only an assumption on my part.”

  “Did her husband follow her out of the dwelling?”

  “I left before Douglas did, so I don’t know.”

  “Who left after Miss Alden?”

  Allison thought about the night in question. She remembered the dropped glass, the muddled marble, and the author’s obsession with mopping up the red wine. “Mazy Coyne,” Allison said. “She left after Shirin but before me.”

  “Who remained in the room?”

  Allison explained that only Lara and Douglas were still there. Jeremy had left during dinner.

  The inspector removed a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. He’d been listening intently to the conversation, nodding while Julia translated English into German. Now he stared at Allison, his brown eyes digging deeply into her own. He had sad eyes. Long-lashed and very dark, they reminded Allison of a deer. An intelligent deer.

  The inspector turned his attention to Julia. He said something, she responded, and then he spoke again. His tone was curt.

  With some obvious hesitation, Julia asked, “The inspector wants to know where you went after leaving the main dwelling.”

  “I returned to my cottage.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Getting there? Yes. Once I arrived, my niece, Grace, and her babysitter were there.”

  “How long did it take you to get to the cottage?”

  “Five or ten minutes. I went straight there.”

  Julia relayed this information. Instead of appeasing the inspector, it seemed to agitate him further. He again flipped through the photographs, stopping at one, then turning to another. He spoke in Italian, switched to German, and ended in a question in Italian. He seemed more comfortable with Italian, although Allison assumed German was the translator’s native tongue.

  “Who was the babysitter?” Julia asked when the inspector had stopped talking.

  “Sam Norton’s nurse, Hilda.”

  “Where did the babysitter go when you arrived back at the cottage?”

  “I assume she went back to her room in the castle.”

  “But you don’t know for sure.”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Is there any chance she was meeting someone?”

  Allison tried to hide her surprise at being asked the question. “Not that I’m aware of, but I don’t know much about Hilda’s personal life.”

  “Did you see Michael Norton while you were at the main dwelling?”

  “Michael had left the previous day.”

  The inspector and the translator exchanged a loaded look. “Did you see him leave?” Julia asked without waiting for the inspector.

  “No.” Allison recalled her session with Elle, and Sam Norton’s insistence that his son was still there. She relayed this to Julia. “But Sam Norton seems to get confused, so he may have been wrong about his son.”

  After listening to the translator, the inspector grew silent. He s
tudied two photographs again, then pulled one and passed it to Allison. Allison stared at the paper before her. It was a picture of Shirin’s lower arm. Allison could see the faint bruises. They circled the circumference of her wrist and then traveled like footprints up her arm. Allison questioned the inspector with her eyes.

  “These did not happen from the fall,” Julia said. “Nor are they likely the result of a struggle immediately before the fall. They are too old.”

  Allison nodded. She kept her gaze on the photos. It felt eerie to see Shirin’s arm, knowing what had happened.

  Julia translated for the inspector: “You don’t look surprised, Ms. Campbell.”

  “I saw the bruises on her wrist earlier that day. She was walking with her husband.” Allison didn’t want to implicate anyone by name. She fumbled in her mind for what to say next, but the inspector cut her off.

  “Who did that?” he asked in labored English.

  “I don’t know.”

  Inspector Balzan asked a question in Italian, and Julia quickly translated. “Did you see Mrs. Alden with anyone other than her husband?” Julia frowned. “That is, in a way that suggested they were lovers?”

  Allison shook her head. She had not. But she thought of Elle’s wrists, the bruises she had seen on Elle’s delicate skin just days before, and wondered whether she should mention her client’s injuries. Could they be related—or was it coincidence? And if it wasn’t related, what trouble could she cause her client?

  Allison had just opened her mouth to speak when the inspector’s mobile phone rang. “Bonjourno,” Inspector Balzan said. After a moment of listening, he looked sharply at Julia and waved his hand dismissively toward Allison.

  “You can go,” Julia said. “But please don’t leave Bidero. The inspector may need to speak with you again.”

  “If they’re not accusing you of a crime, they can’t keep you,” Jason said later. Allison had left the castle and called him immediately. He’d been in a meeting with his new employers, but he’d found a private moment to speak with her.