Louie hopped out and opened her door. Tara fell into his arms like a little girl, seeking his strength and protection. All the bitterness and anger of the past week fell away from her, and she nodded compliantly when he said, “I’m going to take you home.”
At the Venezia fresh cut-flowers were on the side table in the foyer. Now Tara was glad she had been remiss in removing her new clothes, knowing they would have been destroyed. She marked that she felt no shame in taking Louie from his family and wondered at this abrupt change within her. In the bedroom the sapphire tennis bracelet she’d so unceremoniously refused was on the dresser.
Louie prepared a bath, sprinkling in the lavender salts she’d bought last week at Nieman Marcus. He sat on the ledge of the tub while she soaked and fed her tiny sips of Mexican brandy. He let her ramble about Emilio, listening without comment before helping her alight from the tub. He toweled her dry, and then he slid to his knees and parted her legs, kissing her on the spot no man before Louie had ever kissed her.
She closed her eyes and let the sensation take her, felt the climax building inside of her. She arched her back and moaned, crying out as pleasure rippled through her. Louie got off his knees and kissed her on the mouth, and she tasted herself on his lips.
In bed, their passions spent, he cradled her in his arms. He said, “You’re not going back to that apartment. You’re with me now, and I’m going to take care of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ceci Fontenay stood beside Tara’s desk and gazed at the pictures of Joey and Rosa. The child was so striking that she awed her hostess. Nothing Tara already knew about Louie’s love child had prepared her for the ten-year-old’s presence. Her mother’s mixed-blood heritage showed in her luminous black eyes and shiny hair. Her face was a perfect oval, her eyes almond-shaped and lush with lashes. Her skin held a lovely dusky tint, not quite olive.
It was Monday morning. Louie, Tara, and Victor had met Ceci and her adoptive father, Robert Fontenay, at the Fontainebleau for breakfast. Robert was a handsome Brooks Brothers type, the privileged scion of an old blue-blooded family. He had dark, French eyes and an aristocratic bearing, although he smiled warmly upon introduction. He wore a pale-yellow golf shirt that highlighted his beautiful coloring, the little girl beside him in a white sundress and sandals, her hair in a ponytail.
People did double-takes on Ceci, but the little girl seemed to take it in stride. She was more Mercedes’ daughter than Louie’s, more French than Italian. Over breakfast Tara learned Ceci had been expelled from the Catholic school she attended because she’d put a curse on another student, a girl named Heather. The day after Ceci purportedly worked her magic, Heather’s dog died. None of the school officials believed the dog’s death occurred as a result of Ceci’s spell, but all of her classmates believed it.
Returning from breakfast, they’d gone immediately into the office where Ceci had taken up her position by the desk. Tara tried to make pleasant with her. “That’s my niece and nephew,” she said.
Ceci studied them somberly. She turned and gazed at Tara, the luminosity in her eyes almost mesmerizing. She said, “When babies die, they become angels.”
Her voice was soft and hushed, almost musical, but her words turned Tara’s blood to ice, struck terror into her heart. Robert set a reproving hand on Ceci’s shoulder, drawing her away. He nudged her toward Louie, handing his daughter off to her real father. Due to the fact that Robert had married Louie’s mistress, Tara had imagined their relationship might be strained, but Louie treated Robert like a son, bestowing the same affection on him she would later see him bestow on Tony.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Robert. “Ceci sometimes gets … confused.”
But Tara sensed Ceci wasn’t in the least bit confused. Perched on the edge of Tara’s desk, Victor said, “Don’t go getting scared, doll. It don’t mean nothing.” He whispered, “She likes to shake up the adults once in awhile, flaunt her stuff. She’s not always right.”
Tara had a feeling Ceci was right often enough. And she’d gone directly for the jugular, amplifying Tara’s fears for Joey and Rosa. Tara sat at her desk and watched Louie and Ceci step to the couch, sinking into the red leather. Louie put a protective arm around her. He said, “Pumpkin, there’s a room up on the third floor that is haunted by the ghost of a girl who died a long time ago. She didn’t die in that room, but it’s where she was staying with her family. Her name is Francine—she shows herself sometimes and scares people. I guess she was about your age when she died.”
This was the kind of stuff that gave children nightmares. It was bizarre that a father would tell this tale to his daughter, improbable that all of the adults should listen and not protest. But Ceci was not frightened, merely interested. She cocked her head and listened to Louie. Seeing them side by side, Tara was starting to see the blood resemblance between them. Louie said, “The previous owner of this hotel, a guy named Franco, hid a valuable necklace in the room. He told us it was a necklace, but we don’t know what it looks like. He swears it’s up there, except that nobody can find it. Do you think you can help us?”
* * *
Louie and Ceci went up, with Robert staying behind. He talked with Tara and Victor, who explained that Ceci was destined to become New Orleans’ next great voodoo queen. Mercedes had made her living practicing voodoo. “Except that it’s not really voodoo, you know what I mean, doll? It’s witchcraft.”
Robert said, “I know Ceci has shocked you, but it isn’t always like this. We do try to live a normal life.”
Tara got busy with hotel business, leaving the men to talk. Thirty minutes later she returned to the office and saw, for the first time, Greta Harper’s long lost necklace. But nobody recognized the magnificent diamond that burned like blue fire. White diamonds were strung the length of the necklace, surrounding the radiant orb. Catching the light, they sent a shower of lightning-like prisms arcing across the ceiling.
Speechless, Tara stared with her mouth popped open. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she finally exclaimed. “How … what …?”
“Ceci found it right away,” said Louie. “In the base of the lamp. It was hollowed out at the bottom, an old-fashioned design.”
Ceci beamed. Tara glanced at Louie. “How was it up there?”
“Same as always. I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re asking. Ceci saw Francine—she said Francine told her where Franco put the necklace.”
“Franco hid it—”
“Doll, he was drunk. Probably couldn’t remember where he put it.”
Tara caught Ceci’s eye. The girl was smiling, totally unperturbed. She said, “Francine likes you. You don’t have to be scared of her.”
Tara didn’t reply—what could she say? Louie put his arms around his daughter and kissed her on the cheek. For a minute, they were all quiet, staring at the necklace. “Lou, that piece has got to be worth a fortune,” said Victor.
Robert said, “It reminds me of the Hope Diamond. Maybe a bit smaller, but a similar type of diamond.” He looked at Louie. “I’m no expert, but I think it’s real.”
Louie nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with you. I guess Franco has gotten into the jewelry business. No wonder he was desperate, him and that Manny character.” He turned to Victor. “I’d bet my left one that this is what that punk was itching for.”
“You know it.”
Louie shook his head, still amazed at the treasure Ceci had uncovered. He said, “Victor, call Ari Klein. Tell him we’re coming in, and that I want a private meet.”
Chapter Thirty
Tara hadn’t gone into Ari Klein’s flagship store when she visited the Bal Harbour Shops. Even with Louie’s money in her wallet, the displays in Ari’s window were made for millionaires and not their fledgling girlfriends. From Klein’s glitzy ads, Tara knew he had three locations, this one in Bal Harbour, plus a b
outique store on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach and one on Naples’ chic Fifth Avenue.
Robert and Ceci didn’t accompany them to Ari’s. Louie summarily dismissed them when he told Robert to go out and enjoy the day, but to be sure to bring Ceci to the Venezia later. He was planning on her spending the night.
Tara expected that she might not be included, but after Louie slipped the heavy necklace into his pocket, he put his hand on the small of her back and said, “Let’s go find out what this little trinket is all about, baby.”
Now Tara sat in Ari’s office, facing the distinguished jeweler. A tall man with shaggy, graying hair and a midlife paunch, Ari wore a silver-gray suit with a purple tie. His only jewelry was a wedding band. Greeting them in the showroom, Ari’s lovely wife, Elena, had spoken Italian with Louie. But she had not accompanied them into her husband’s office.
Maroon striped chairs faced the desk; Tara and Louie each claimed a seat. Victor stood with his back against the door. Aware that her tennis bracelet had been purchased from Ari, Tara saw him glance at it, his brown eyes crinkling with his smile.
Louie pulled the necklace from his pocket, laying it gingerly on Ari’s desk. The diamond awed; seeing it, Tara held her breath. She kept her eyes on Ari, saw incredulity flash on his face. He stared at in, unblinking. Stared till she could no longer hold her breath and softly expelled it. Ari drew a square of white satin from his desk drawer, resettling the necklace on it. He flicked on a halogen lamp and reached for his loupe, holding it to his eye.
He examined the diamond for several protracted minutes. Finally, he looked up, and his eyes were fever-bright and brimming with excitement. From Victor, Tara knew Louie had met Nathan through Ari. Unlike Nathan, Ari had an Israeli accent. Clearing his throat, he said quietly, “Lou, where did you get this?”
“Tell me first: Is it real?”
“Yes, very much real.” He fingered the blue diamond, again examining the intricate setting. “Do you know what this is, what you have here?”
“You tell me.”
Ari did, but first he asked for Louie’s story, how he’d come to possess such a rare and beautiful jewel. Louie briefly explained, and then Ari launched excitedly into the history of the Blue Diamond, commencing with Greta Harper’s tragic tale and ending with the diamond’s disappearance in 1938. He told of the Romanov curse, the untimely death of the diamond’s previous owners, and Greta Harper’s misfortunes, dying broke and drug-addicted at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
“One of the rarest and most beautiful stones in the world,” Ari exclaimed. “Second only to the Hope Diamond.”
Nobody said anything; they were stunned. Then Victor put it together. “Christ, Franco must have known about it all along—that’s why he tore up the floor. It must have been hidden up there for years.”
Louie said, “No way would Franco let something like this sit beneath his feet. He must have just learned about it. But from who … Manny?”
Louie and Victor exchanged glances. Victor said, “You know, I think I saw a movie about the Blue Diamond when I was a kid.”
“There have been several movies, none of them very good. The Blue Diamond is one of the great mysteries of our time. It has always been understood but never proven that the theft was an inside job, that Greta Harper or someone close to her arranged to have it stolen. It was intended to be an insurance scam, but National Insurance investigated for so long that Greta was dead by the time they paid out. Speculation has it that the Saudi Prince paid a fortune for the necklace, but we now know that to be false.” Reverently, Ari touched the diamond, an expression on his face that reminded Tara of the way Louie looked when he made love to her—something elusive, sexual. He said, “This beauty never even left Miami. To think it was here all along.” He looked up, the consummate professional. “Through the years there have been dozens of fakes, some quite good. I’ve seen several, and I first assumed you had another.” He shook his head, amazed. “I can’t believe it’s sitting here in front of me.”
Victor said, “Ari, what’s the value on something like this?”
“It’s priceless,” Ari declared. “It belongs in a museum—the Smithsonian, next to the Hope Diamond. Well, it’s one of only two in that class.” Again, he shook his head, slightly dazed, and too shocked to think clearly. “A lot of people have died for this diamond.”
Louie said, “It appears there may be a few more willing to join them.” He laughed abruptly. “Give me a number, Ari. No artsy bullshit.”
Ari cocked his head, deliberating. “Last year a diamond half this size was auctioned at Sotheby’s for sixty million. It too was a rare stone, but not quite as rare: Nor as lovely. This baby could command close to a hundred.”
Tara gasped. Ari glanced at her, and then looked at Louie. “The problem is, Lou, you can’t sell it. You don’t own it—there are no finders-keepers with the Blue Diamond. The fact is: National Insurance Company owns this diamond. They are, however, offering a fifty-thousand dollar reward. That still holds. I can check—”
“Don’t bother,” said Louie. “You know I’m not going to do that, Ari.”
“But you can’t keep it.”
“Why not? Somebody else kept it for all of these years.”
“I wouldn’t want it.”
“Why?” asked Victor. “Because it’s cursed?”
Ari smiled. “I’m not that superstitious. But why keep it, if you can’t wear it or display it? What’s the point?”
Louie said, “I’d rather find a private investor, Ari. You know the type. Maybe one of your European pals.”
Ari didn’t look too happy about this. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I’d prefer not be involved.”
“Hmm,” Louie tapped his fingers on the desk. “Have you developed a conscience, Ari? Shame on you.” He laughed softly. “I’d like to sell it, but first I want you to duplicate it.”
“What?”
“Make me a fake.”
Ari fingered the link of diamonds. “The whole thing?” When Louie nodded, he said, “Are you nuts? Outside of the Hope Diamond, which is on display at the Smithsonian, there is no other diamond—”
“You’re repeating yourself. I know there is no other diamond like this one. That’s why I came to you. Come on, Ari, be a sport. You owe me big, and you know it.”
Ari stiffened. He sniffed disdainfully. “You don’t have to remind me of the kindness you’ve done me, Lou.”
“For God sakes, I’m not insulting you. I intend to pay you for your time and materials. My question is: Can you do it?”
Now Ari was flagrantly offended. “Of course I can do it.”
“You have to do it alone, no help.”
“Naturally.” There was an edge in his voice; he was insulted Louie had told him this. “I’ll do it in my workshop at home, which means I’m going to have to keep Elena busy elsewhere. I don’t want her to see this.”
Louie said, “Send her to Italy.”
“Hah, she won’t go with the boys in school. But I’ll think of something.” He sighed. “I suppose you are going to need it soon?”
“As soon as possible.”
Another sigh. “I will have to pull a few all-nighters.”
Louie smiled. “I’ll make it worth your while, Ari. You know I always do.”
“Yes, Louis, you are very generous.”
Ari’s eyes slid to Tara, measuring her, instinctively distrustful. Louie took her hand. “Tara’s already in on this, Ari. They think she has the necklace. She’s been threatened because of it.”
Ari glanced apprehensively at Louie. “What do you have in mind?”
Louie grinned boyishly. “Call your Belgian friend Hans.”
Ari said sourly, “I rather thought that’s where you were going, Lou.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Franco’s rental was a fifties ranch tucked away in an older subdivision west of Andrews. It was a neighborhood of tall trees and narrow, interlocking canals, but Franco’s pied-a-terre lacked the prestige of being “waterfront” property. The best thing Franco could say about the house was that it had a decent backyard with a nice in-ground pool.
Of course, it was nothing like the pool he’d left in Coral Gables. No Moroccan tiles or fancy lighting, just a plain old-fashioned swimming pool in an outdated area of Fort Lauderdale. Half the houses on Franco’s block were remodeled and looking spiffy, the others looking like the kind of places where pedophiles buried victims in backyards. Franco’s house fell somewhere in between, well-maintained but far from swank. What a real estate agent would call a starter home.
The size of the master bedroom in his former home, the house had two small bedrooms and one tiny bathroom with a pedestal sink that was always slipping off its base. Life after the Walker was not pleasant. Franco’s world had gone silent, his phone powered off. He took calls from Kathy, but he’d told no one else where he was, not even his mother. Franco had gone from babe magnet and SoBe hotelier to an unemployed bum who was struggling with an alcohol problem. He spent his afternoons tanning by the pool. Evenings he watched Law and Order reruns.
He’d tuned out his old life and stepped into oblivion. He never expected Morelli to come for him—he’d told Victor to fuck off the last time the goon had called, pressing him for information after Tara tattled about a necklace hidden in Francine’s room. But that had been three weeks ago, before Franco left his dream home. He was only thirty miles from the Walker, but he felt as though he was three-thousand miles away. And in this state of ennui he never foresaw the potential for trouble, never envisioned Victor bursting into his bedroom in the middle of the night.
He was face down on the flimsy double, snoring softly. He had an old thirteen-inch angled atop a garage-sale dresser, and he’d drifted off during the World Series game, TV blaring. Franco always slept with the television on, and the sudden quiet in conjunction with the overhead light snapping on, jerked him wide-awake. Then Victor was looming over him, lifting him by the scruff.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 15
