Summer of Fire

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “Fell in where?” Sinclair asked.

  “He fell in the volcano,” Luca said, his eyes enormous, as if realizing the magnitude of the tragedy for the first time.

  “Your guide died?” Brindy gasped.

  “Yes, and Karl and I had to go down on our own. It was pretty scary.”

  “That’s incredible! They told us the Civil Defense came across you. How did you manage to find your way to the checkpoint?” Sinclair asked.

  “Jude Blackwell helped us.”

  “Where do I know that name?” Sinclair said, frowning.

  “He’s a world-famous photographer,” Luca supplied.

  Sinclair nodded. “Oh, yes. He’s a friend of Cordelia’s. A real daredevil. So was it Blackwell who suggested you climb the volcano in the first place?”

  “Not at all. Karl wanted to go up. Jude found us later and got us out of there. I guess Karl must be with him.”

  “I can’t believe that Karl would go off and leave you at the hospital alone,” Brindy said, irritably.

  “I think he was afraid to be recognized. He wanted to keep away from the press.”

  “Any idea where they might have gone?” Sinclair asked.

  “Back to a hotel, I think,” Luca said, looking confused. “I can’t remember.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Sinclair said, starting to the door.

  “Take your time,” Brindy assured him. “Luca has a lot of explaining to do.”

  CALDERA HOTEL, CATANIA, ITALY

  The clerk at the reception desk of the Caldera Hotel rang Jude Blackwell’s room, talked for a moment, and then turned back.

  “He says he doesn’t know you.”

  “Please mention that I’ve come to see about our mutual friend, Karl.”

  The next exchange produced the desired effect.

  “Mr. Blackwell has requested you meet him upstairs. Number 413. The elevators are on the left, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sinclair took the small lift to the fourth floor and peered down the corridor. The hallway was dimly lit with a frayed gray carpet and florescent lights. It was clearly a budget accommodation and rather shabby for the likes of a Norwegian prince.

  Sinclair rapped sharply on door 413, then heard the thud of heavy footsteps approaching. The door opened a crack, and the man who peered out at him was in his late thirties, very muscular, and dressed in a simple white T-shirt and jeans. His hair was still wet from a shower, and a towel was around his neck.

  “Are you Jude Blackwell?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yeah. Come on in. Karl is here.”

  Karl was standing near the window, shifting from foot to foot, as if ready to flee. He looked healthy and fine. Apparently, there were no ill effects from climbing Mount Etna.

  “Karl, you are in a heap of trouble.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “That doesn’t matter. You need to come with me right away. Your parents are frantic.”

  “I don’t have to do what you tell me. This is not your concern.”

  Sinclair bit back his anger. He had every impulse to grab Karl by the scruff of his neck and thrash him.

  “What is my concern is the sapphire necklace,” Sinclair said with controlled patience. “I believe you have taken it, and now I’m being accused of stealing it.”

  Jude Blackwell had been moving around the room sorting out gear. He glanced up when he heard the animosity in the exchange. Sinclair raised an eyebrow, as if to tell him not to intervene. Jude understood immediately.

  “I’m going to go get a coffee,” Jude said, grabbing his leather jacket.

  Sinclair nodded. “Thanks for the help with the boys. It was very kind of you.”

  “No problem,” Jude said. “I wasn’t going to leave two kids on the mountain, now was I?”

  When the door clunked shut, Karl opened his mouth to begin a long explanation, but Sinclair cut him off.

  “Save the sob story for your parents, Karl. I’m not interested. Just tell me where the necklace is.”

  GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON

  Charles Bonnard bounded up the steps of Cordelia’s townhouse and rang the bell. Malik answered the door with his usual polite reserve.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bonnard.”

  “Is Delia home?” Charles asked with a smile.

  “She just came in. You can find her in the library.”

  Charles entered the stately black-and-white marble foyer and tossed his jacket on a chair. By now, the townhouse was becoming like a second home.

  It was a good thing he decided to stay in London. Scotland Yard had been here to question Cordelia about Sinclair’s whereabouts almost every day. The police simply didn’t believe she didn’t know his location. It was heartrending to see Delia under suspicion, and now virtually a prisoner.

  The police were insisting that she remain in London until Sinclair returned. She kept on with her work, spending her days at the Royal Geographical Society, writing a research report on the Mariana Trench. But in the evenings, Charles was made aware of her discontent as she railed about the bizarre twist of circumstances that left Sinclair free to travel while she had to remain under the thumb of Scotland Yard.

  In fact, until Sinclair was cleared, they all had to stay in the UK. But being kept in the UK was not a hardship for Charles. Victoria was at a nearby country estate, along with his sister. He could visit whenever he liked.

  Malik took Charles’s jacket.

  “Cordelia’s upstairs, Mr. Bonnard.”

  “Hallo,” Charles shouted up the stairwell. “Anyone home?”

  Delia poked her head over the banister.

  “Hi, Charles. I’m here in the library. Come on up, we’re just starting tea.”

  Charles sprinted up to the second floor.

  “Who’s we?” he asked as he entered the large book-lined room.

  Afternoon sun was pouring in, illuminating the lovely old leather-bound tomes and the rich colors of the Tabriz carpet. He looked around and saw that nobody else was in the room. Cordelia was standing, holding out a piece of muffin to Kyrie. The dog was sitting upright, offering a paw as if to shake hands.

  “What do you mean, who’s we?” she asked as she dropped cake into the dog’s open mouth.

  “Well I don’t know about Kyrie, but you shouldn’t eat too much cake,” Charles admonished.

  “Oh really,” she said, laughing. “And who put you in charge of my figure?”

  Charles blushed.

  “Your figure is fine. I just wanted to take you out to dinner.”

  “No you don’t; I’m taking you,” Cordelia said biting into a muffin. “What’s the latest on Sinclair.”

  Charles smiled with delight.

  “Brindy found him, and they managed to locate Luca and Prince Karl.”

  “Oh, what a relief!”

  Mondragone’s right-hand man, Tito, stood outside Cordelia’s townhouse. His collar was turned up, but that did nothing to hide the strangeness of his pale eyes, the shock of white hair, and the pronounced limp. Because of his bizarre appearance, Tito was not the best person to send on a surveillance mission. But he was a master at breaking and entering.

  Mondragone wanted the place checked out. The boss heard that someone in London was feeding information to the police. Detective Jaccorsi of the Naples police had come here a few days ago. The question was: Who lived here? And what did they want with Mondragone?

  According to the real estate listing, Cordelia Stapleton owned the house. He had seen her coming and going. There were also various members of the household who took the dog for a walk at least a couple of times a day.

  Daily patterns were as predictable as clockwork. The servants were not much of a problem. The housekeeper lived in, but she left every Wednesday for a day off. And the young butler went home every evening at 7:00 p.m. The only thing Tito needed was a little patience, and the rest would be easy.

  Cordelia came down the staircase wearing her nicest Clothilde Bonnard o
riginal. It was a white silk sheath with an appliqué of embroidered pink flowers at the hem. She had paired it with simple white high-heeled sandals and a natural-colored straw purse. As she came to the landing, she glanced down and saw Charles looking up at her.

  “Delia, what a vision you are,” he joked. “Or am I not allowed to say that?”

  “Your sister designed this dress,” she replied. “So I’ll accept the compliment on her behalf.”

  “Oh, I must say, you wear it very well. Now where are you taking me?”

  “Just a few blocks away.”

  They left via the front steps. Cordelia locked the door and turned toward the street.

  “Oh, Malik must have left this,” she said, noticing the garden hose draped over the banister. “He was watering the window boxes earlier.”

  She regarded the long length of hose coiled messily on the steps.

  “Want me to get it?” Charles offered, starting to reach for it. “I could put it in the garage.”

  “No, our reservation is at eight o’clock. I’ll get it when we come back. Let’s just go.”

  GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON

  Checking his watch, Tito walked quickly to the service entrance of the Grosvenor Street townhouse and entered the garage with an electronic skeleton key. The lights were off, but in the dim illumination he could see many expensive vehicles—a Triumph Speed Triple motorcycle, a black Aston Martin DBS, and a silver Range Rover.

  Just as he traversed the garage, a dog barked. He paused. The low growl that followed seemed only half-hearted. The dog poked her head out of the doorway, eyes curious.

  Tito moved slowly, reaching into his canvas satchel. The animal seemed interested. Tito extracted a ziplock with several chunks of steak. He opened the plastic bag and placed the meat on the floor. Then he took out a 12-ounce bottle of commercial antifreeze. It contained the chemical xylitol, which was toxic for dogs. He opened the screw cap and poured the mauve liquid all over the meat. It glugged out with a thick viscosity and pooled around the chunks of meat.

  The dog walked over to the antifreeze and gave it a tentative lick. It was sweet, and dogs were known to enjoy it very much. First, she lapped up the liquid, and then she wolfed down the chunks of meat. Tito was sitting on the floor of the garage, eyes shut, listening to music when the dog came over and nosed him a few times. He didn’t make eye contact with the animal, so the dog wandered off.

  After a few minutes, Tito checked his watch. In another half hour, the dog would exhibit signs of intoxication, then shortly thereafter, vomiting and respiratory distress. After six hours, there would be seizures, rapid heartbeat, and ultimately, kidney failure.

  Tito finally stood up and walked through the kitchen. The animal was already lolling on its bed, panting for breath, eyes rolled up in terror.

  Cordelia couldn’t help noticing that Charles Bonnard was employing his full powers of sprezzatura tonight. His conversation was delightful, as they walked to a neighborhood restaurant a few blocks away.

  Corrigan’s was one of her favorite places. It was fancy enough for a good dinner but not fussy. The décor was informal and witty. Pop-art photos of famous jazz artists like Dizzy Gillespie and Duke Ellington were on the walls, and a live pianist played all evening.

  Cordelia watched Charles perusing the menu, wishing with all her heart that she and Sinclair could get back to this kind of normalcy. Dinner out. Why did the simple things always elude them?

  Charles never took his food lightly. He ordered an appealing combination: asparagus with grated Parmesan and balsamic vinegar, followed by a lamb cutlet with peas, and rhubarb crumble for desert. Cordelia chose the spicy corn soup, the lamb, and rum raisin ice cream.

  She immediately commandeered the wine list, treating him to a fabulous vintage—Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion 1996.

  “Cordelia,” he admonished. “How extravagant.”

  “I’m celebrating tonight.”

  “What are we celebrating?” Charles asked.

  “Finding the boys. That means John will come back soon.”

  “Are you two going to be OK?” Charles asked, looking at her with concern. “He seems to be in a bit of a funk.”

  She was about to reply when the waiter came over and interrupted. He poured a bit of wine for her to taste, and she nodded her approval.

  When the man left, she continued. “Sinclair and I had a terrible fight the day before he went away. I think I misjudged him terribly, and it was unfair.”

  “It will work out. He loves you. But I’m sure you know that already.”

  Cordelia nodded and smiled.

  “To love,” she toasted, and they clinked the rims and drank.

  “So tell me what is going on with Luca and Karl,” Cordelia asked.

  Charles leaned forward to speak quietly. “Apparently, Prince Karl sold the necklace in Naples. The Norwegian royal family can’t afford another scandal. So Sinclair has to try to quietly find the person who purchased it.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Sinclair has contacts in Naples. He used to help recover stolen artifacts for the Italian government. Brindy is staying around to help.”

  Cordelia felt her heart sink. That woman again. All she could see was the tabloid picture of the Contessa Brindisi in a bikini, diving off a boat in Capri with her lover, Sinclair.

  “What’s wrong?” Charles asked, sensing her mood shift.

  “I don’t like John spending so much time with Brindy,” she confessed.

  Charles shook his head.

  “You have no idea how much he detests her. He’s more likely to strangle her than to get involved in any romantic entanglements.”

  “He hates her?” Cordelia asked, astonished.

  “You can’t imagine how much. It’s all I’ve been hearing for years. So don’t worry.” Charles took another sip of wine. “This is fantastic, by the way.”

  Cordelia ignored the wine. “But Charles, if he hates Brindy, why does he have anything to do with her?”

  Charles gave her a knowing look.

  “It’s Luca. He absolutely adores the kid.”

  Cordelia opened the door to her townhouse and flicked the light switch. The house was strangely quiet.

  “Kyrie?” she called, tentatively.

  “Where do you suppose she is?” Charles asked, tossing his jacket onto the hall chair.

  “Its odd, she usually runs to greet me …”

  Charles walked up the main stairs, looking around, his face serious.

  “Delia, I don’t like this, at all.”

  She got a sudden chill.

  “Let’s check the kitchen,” she said.

  “Do you think she’s down there?”

  “She sometimes sits with my housekeeper.”

  “I thought Margaret wasn’t here tonight,” Charles said.

  “You’re right, she isn’t.”

  Charles opened the door to the basement and listened.

  “Stay here,” he whispered and started down in the dark.

  He crept through the hallway to the kitchen, passing the pantry shelves filled with bottles and jars. His senses were hyperaware.

  There was no light on in the kitchen, but the iridescent clock on the stove painted the room with an eerie green glow. Passing by the counter, Charles slid a cooking knife out of the rack. He was faster with a fencing blade than almost anyone else in the world, and the ring of a steel knife against marble made a faint sound that boosted his confidence. Arm extended, he readied himself for any surprises. But all was silent.

  There was nothing in the kitchen but the hum of the refrigerator. A slight breeze fell on his cheek as he went over to the cooking island and looked around.

  Nothing.

  The fresh air was coming from the hallway that led to the garage. The door must be open. As he started over, he saw the dog sound asleep in her bed. But something was wrong. Kyrie never stretched out like this. Marked by her years as a stray, the dog always slept upright
, always vigilant.

  “Kyrie, wake up.”

  Again the feeling of danger passed over him.

  Kyrie was lying on her side, breathing heavily, her tongue lolling on the pillow. Charles bent down and smelled a sickly sweet scent, overlaid by the acrid stench of chemicals.

  He spun around and flew up the basement stairs to the foyer where Cordelia waited.

  “Go outside now!”

  Her gaze fell on the kitchen knife in his hand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Go outside, Delia. Someone is here,” he told her. “I’m going to look through the house. Call the police and a vet.”

  “A vet?” she asked.

  “Yes. Someone has poisoned Kyrie.”

  Cordelia walked down the front steps, her knees shaking. The vet’s number was in her contact list. Just as she dialed, the side door to the garage opened a fraction. A head popped out, with a shock of white hair. Then a middle-aged man emerged and looked cautiously around.

  Cordelia disconnected the call and flattened herself against the front door. From this angle, the man couldn’t see her standing on the steps. She kept quiet. He was only a few feet away, near the service entrance to the townhouse.

  Her mind went into battle mode. Somebody had to stop him. If she made a call to the police, he would certainly hear. But accosting him seemed risky. He might have a gun.

  The man was moving slowly out of the service drive, scanning the street to make sure that he wasn’t observed. As he moved, she noticed a terrible limp, his legs were half bent, and he walked with a shuffling gate. He was not strong. Perhaps she could stop him. But what should she do?

  Looking around, her eyes fell on the garden hose. Quickly she twisted the spigot on the wall to allow water to flow and raised the nozzle like a gun.

  “Stop right there!” she shouted, pointing the hose at the man.

  He turned and stared in astonishment.

  “I warn you. Stop! I know you broke into the house, and I have just called the police.”

  He took a step toward her, as if to grab the nozzle, but she backed up. The three steps of the front entrance gave her a slight height advantage over the man. He’d have trouble climbing up with his limp.