But then, what could have been a perfect moment aboard our yacht, was ever-so-slightly altered. “Yoo-hoo!” came a dreadfully familiar voice, instantly breaking the spell. We both looked at each other in dismay.
“Lord, no!” Jeremy groaned.
A moment later, Rollo’s head popped around the corner with a searching look. Then he saw our expression, and he broke into a wide grin.
Chapter Twenty-three
"Well, cheers!” Rollo cried, ambling toward us without waiting for an invitation. "What’s this—a real English tea? Splendid! Wouldn’t mind a cup myself.” And he settled himself on the other side of the sofa, sinking in with a relieved, weary “Whuf!”
“Been looking for you all week,” he said, taking off his Panama hat and dropping it on the table. “Heard about the theft of Penelope’s Dream and the wreckage! Bad luck, old boy,” he said, turning to Jeremy. “Terribly sorry to hear it.”
“Everything’s fine now,” Jeremy said, tersely and gruffly. Rollo turned to me with a gimlet eye.
“Don’t wish to intrude,” he said, “but did I hear you say something about the Beethoven Lion? How extraordinary. I say, my man—” he addressed François, who had returned to see if we needed anything, “have you got any more lemon for the tea?”
I glanced up apologetically at François. “We have use for that third teacup, after all,” I told him. François observed that I had been as inconvenienced as he, and he nodded as if he’d do his best to lighten my load. He poured tea for Rollo before leaving again.
“Rollo,” Jeremy said warily, “what do you know about the Beethoven Lion?”
“Why, it’s a curious piece of aquamanilia,” Rollo said eagerly. “Prized more for its legendary aspect.” He turned to me. “Are you fond of aquamanilia, my dear?”
“I don’t really know much about it,” I admitted. It dawned on me that this sort of stuff was right up Rollo’s alley. He’d once tried to engage me in a discussion of the arcane items he collected. I wasn’t very receptive at the time; nobody was, not even his own mother, who had a sort of impatient contempt for his preoccupations. He now looked genuinely pleased to have a family member finally listening to him showing off his expertise.
“Aquamanilia were made with a complex metal-casting technique that medieval monks even wrote treatises on. It’s a real art form, but it takes the brawn and skill of a blacksmith to do it! Very complicated indeed,” Rollo explained. He paused to study—and appraise—a soft white linen napkin with navy monogram that said Penelope’s Dream on one side and N&L in smaller lettering on the reverse side. Then he set it in his lap, helped himself to the little petits fours cakes, and began to eat hungrily. He turned to me with a look of appreciation.
“Well, this is marvellous, sitting down to table with family,” he said. “Much, much better than eating in a restaurant or an hotel.”
Jeremy growled into his teacup, but I had seen something in Rollo’s face that I found oddly touching. Sure, he was still appraising everything in sight—like the silverware, for instance; yet, he also seemed like a kid who’d never had a cozy family meal around the table together. I could imagine that as a boy it would have been mighty hard for Rollo to snuggle up to his mum, because Great-Aunt Dorothy had all the warmth of a cobra.
“But this Beethoven Lion,” I prompted, “what’s so special about it?”
“A gift to old Ludwig,” Rollo said. “But it was lost. Or stolen. Some sort of feud, I think. Went back and forth for years. Are you in the market for this rare item? It will cost you a pretty penny—if you’ll pardon the pun.”
I looked him squarely in the face and said, “Rollo. Just tell me something. I will only ask you this one time, so I want an honest answer from you, because sooner or later, you know, the truth will out. Did you have anything to do with the ransacking and hijacking of our yacht? And did you by any chance find the Lion yourself, that night of the cocktail party or any other time?”
Even Jeremy gasped. He’d been thinking the same thing all along, of course, and watching for the slightest telltale sign. After all, Rollo had once had no qualms about stealing Great-Aunt Penelope’s painting from us. There was a moment of silence that hung in the air as heavily as a giant rock. Rollo’s pouchy eyes registered both pathos and craftiness. Finally he sighed aggrievedly and spoke.
“Child, you wound me to the quick!” he said. “Here I am, trying to assist you with all my might. And, I might add, at no possible gain to myself. Well, if you must ask, then I must answer. And the answer is, NO-Sir! I had nothing whatsoever to do with what happened to your boat. I swear on the soul of my mother.”
I kicked Jeremy before he could snort at this. Rollo revered his mother—and her money—with utter devotion. Rollo now seemed to have recovered his good humor, but he was still very solemn when he said, “You have many fine treasures aboard this boat, but I did not see a Lion on her. Did someone lead you to believe that it was here?”
He glanced from me to Jeremy and back to me again, and when we didn’t answer his question, he said stoutly, “Well, you can believe me or not. When things go wrong in this family, I’m always the one people look at cross-eyed, understandably so, I daresay. But for what little it’s worth, I did not steal your Lion or anything else aboard this boat.”
I’d watched him searchingly, and I thought I saw the gleam of something genuine, under his usual flinty, jaded demeanor. “Okay,” I said finally. “I believe you.”
Rollo beamed, then jerked his head towards Jeremy, saying wryly, in a stage whisper, “He doesn’t quite believe in me, but perhaps he’ll come round, eventually.”
There was a noise from outside, and Jeremy said in brisk relief, “Ah, here comes the captain now.” A moment later, Claude entered the salon with his usual athletic, easy gait. Jeremy asked Claude, in low tones, about the fateful night that the Count said they’d taken the boat to Corsica and found the Lion.
Claude’s dark grey eyes registered all the nuances, and he nodded vigorously. “Yes, we did make that trip, exactly as he says,” he told us. “And I do remember that a man met the Count at the quay, and they went off to a dockside bar together.”
“That has to be the art dealer!” I exclaimed to Jeremy. Turning to Claude I asked, “Was he English?”
Claude shrugged. “I couldn’t say for sure, but I think so. Yes, I believe he was.”
Jeremy eyed him, looking for signs of perhaps too much loyalty to the Count. “What did he look like?” he asked.
“Oh, blue blazer, tan pants, dark sunglasses, brown hair,” Claude replied.
“Geez, that could be anybody,” I said. “And with a name like Jones. That’s as bad as Smith.”
“Huh!” said Rollo, interested. “Jones, you say? Why, I’ll bet it’s old Mortimer Jones. Antiques dealer, right?”
“Does he live around here?” I asked eagerly. Rollo chuckled.
“One might say he operates around here,” he said. “In Corsica these days, I’m told, but he gets around. He’s based in London, though.”
“What happened after they went into the bar?” I asked Claude.
“I don’t really know,” Claude replied. “The Count was gone for about an hour. When he returned to the boat to go home, he was alone. He was extremely agitated, and in a hurry to go, as if his life depended on getting away from there. But he was carrying a wrapped package in his arms, like a baby.”
Jeremy, having decided that there was no point now trying to keep this from Rollo, asked the captain point-blank, “Claude, did you see what it was?”
Claude shook his head. “He never unwrapped it in front of us. It was very strange, because he would not let any of us touch it, not even to put it away for him. It was not like him to be that way, so secretive. He had trusted us to look after his daughter’s children many times! Anyway, he took it into his cabin and I never saw it after that. We had very bad weather going home, and the Count became very sick. It was all we could do to get safely to port, and the ambulance m
et us at the dock. We feared for his life, and that was all that mattered.”
“Have you ever seen a metal sculpture of a Lion, here on the boat or anywhere else?” I asked.
Claude said, “No. Soon after he went into the hospital, the Count’s daughter came to collect his things. She was very thorough, and removed everything she thought was important—his luggage, clothes and personal effects. I was with her when she did this. There was no Lion aboard.”
“And no one else saw or removed anything else from the boat?” Jeremy asked.
Claude reminded Jeremy that Thierry and the older gendarme had thoroughly questioned the entire crew and found them blameless, even the unfortunate young man who’d left his night watch here, who was so penitent he’d even offered to pay for damages from his paycheck.
“Impossible, of course,” Claude said. “He’d be paying you back for longer than he imagines. He’s just young, that’s all.” Claude now informed us that Gerald had said he’d need more time to get the engine back in shape; and the security equipment was still being installed. Then he excused himself and went below.
As we walked outside to the main deck with Rollo trailing behind us, Jeremy muttered, “I still say that the Count and Kurt know more than they’re telling.”
Rollo said, “Afraid you’re not going to get very far with this line of thinking, dear boy. Kurt and the Count are fairly well-known in these parts. Impeccable reputation and all. However, I’ve a notion about that dealer who may have sold the Lion to the Count.”
Jeremy gave him a weary expression, but I said eagerly, “What?”
“Well, if he’s who I think he is, he’s a bit of a bad hat,” Rollo warned. “You don’t want to just stomp around asking for him, because he’ll find out you’ve been nosing about, and he’ll keep away. The island has a reputation for being rather kind to fugitives, no questions asked. If you like, I can make some discreet inquiries among the sort of people I know who can get information quietly.”
“That’s all we need,” Jeremy said. “Perhaps somebody has already tried to warn us off, by molesting the boat.”
Rollo nodded. “I will be careful, I assure you.”
“Personally, I think we should take the boat straight out to Corsica the minute Gerald is finished with the repairs!” I said. “Retrace the Count’s trip. Find this guy—”
“If it’s old Mortimer, then he won’t be hanging about Corsica now. He always vanishes at the first sign of trouble,” Rollo said.
“That’s just what Kurt said, that the guy has disappeared,” said Jeremy.
“Laying low,” Rollo said sagely. “But he’ll pop up again, as soon as he thinks the coast is clear. Always does.”
“Really?” said Jeremy. “And how do you know so much about this guy?”
With a straight face, Rollo said, “I hear tell.” Then he turned to me and said, “The minute I get the word, I’ll let you know.”
“Or,” Jeremy said, “we could try a truly novel approach, and leave it to the police. Thierry must have police contacts in Corsica. ”
“My dear fellow,” Rollo said, “historically, the Corsicans are a proud people who would prefer not to be ruled by the French. I don’t think your French police will get very far. But it’s up to you. Meanwhile, I’ll let you know whatever I find out,” he promised.
He picked up his Panama hat, tipped it in the air in my direction, and shambled off to his silver Mercedes.
Watching Rollo drive away, Jeremy shook his head and said, “Well, there he goes, to sell the Count’s Lion on the black market, I suppose. He’s probably had it hidden in the boot of his car the whole time.”
“Oh, come on,” I chided him. “If Rollo had the Lion he wouldn’t bother hanging around here.”
“Sure he would,” Jeremy said, “just to see how much we know, and how much we’d pay to get it back.”
“Well, if you don’t trust Rollo and you don’t trust Kurt, how come you essentially took them on as partners in our little engagement? ” I asked.
“You know the old saying. ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,’ ” said Jeremy. He exhaled deeply, then turned to me and noted, “There are storm clouds over there. They look bad. But we might have time for a swim back at the villa, or—”
I never heard the rest, because at that moment a shiny, showy Range Rover came roaring into the parking lot and pulled up very aggressively alongside my Dragonetta. The driver was honking his horn like a schoolboy, and the woman in the passenger’s seat was hanging out her window, blonde hair trailing in the breeze.
As soon as the car completely ground to a stop, the woman hopped out as if she couldn’t bear to wait another second, and came tripping toward us on the highest strappy-sandaled heels I’d ever seen, and a daringly gauzy orange dress through which you could, well, see a lot of her. She was carrying an open bottle of champagne in one hand, and two glasses in the other; and she marched right up the passerelle and on deck, straight to Jeremy, and flung her arms around his neck, and planted a great big wet kiss on his lips.
“Lydia!” he said in a choked voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Chapter Twenty-four
The driver of the Rover came stumbling up after Lydia, moving with a rolling side-to-side gait like a bear who’d had too much to drink.
"Jerry, old boy!” he cried out.
“Darling, we’ve got the most wonderful news!” Lydia cried, still with one arm around Jeremy’s neck. “Congratulations are in order, and you’ve got to make a toast and wish us well,” she exclaimed, pouring champagne into one glass and handing it to him, and pouring some into another glass for herself, and then clinking them and saying, in an intimate tone as if telling him a secret, “Bertie and I are engaged to be married!”
Bertie had staggered up to us now. “Hullo!” he said suddenly, stopping in his tracks at the sight of me. “And who’s this adorable creature?”
“Bertie, meet Penny,” Jeremy said in a slightly strangled voice, “and Penny, this is Bertie, a longtime friend of mine.”
Lord love a duck. The old school chum. The lawyer from another firm who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Lydia for us. In case she wanted to kill herself. Or something.
Bertie was a portly fellow, very tall and good-looking, with a long big-cheeked face and a big thick jaw and a good-natured expression that never seemed to leave him. There was something instantly affable and benign about him, although his eyes were sharp enough to comprehend someone else’s irony or disapproval. He wore an elegant tan-colored suit and white shirt, but his tie was loosened away from his neck. And one of his plump cheeks had a lipstick smear on it.
I was watching Jeremy now, to see how he handled it. Jeremy, sensing this, had gone all stiff and formal, and he did not invite them to come below deck. So we just stood there the whole time, a long time, talking like people who’ve bumped into one another in a supermarket aisle, frozen in their tracks, pretending to be great chums but stuck at some sort of social impasse.
Bertie and Lydia were so preoccupied with their own news that at first they didn’t notice that they hadn’t been invited to sit down and hang around. Then, at one point, Lydia did say, “Jeremy! Aren’t you going to show us around your lovely yacht?”
And Bertie chimed in, “Right—give us the royal navy tour!”
But Jeremy quickly dissembled, saying that the boat was under repairs, and he’d promised the captain that he wouldn’t bring anyone inside to get underfoot just yet. They didn’t really care. They had too much exciting news to tell about their wedding plans.
“And we owe great thanks to you, Jeremy,” Lydia exclaimed, “for bringing me and Bertie together again.” Her voice was excited and high-pitched, with a jarring false note at the end of it.
Even though I wanted to believe that she was being sincere (and finally out of Jeremy’s hair), I couldn’t. I glanced at Bertie, who beamed so happily that I actually felt a little sorry for him. I looked at Jeremy,
and he appeared quite uneasy, which only confirmed my suspicions that Lydia was still working on him.
Lydia was prattling on now about how she’d finally realized that she and Bertie had really always been in love with each other but had been committed to other people, the timing had never been right, when one was available, the other wasn’t . . .
I was actually rather horridly fascinated by this. I’d never seen anyone spend so much uninterrupted time talking about herself, in that breathless neurotic way. Nobody could get a word in edgewise, except Bertie now and then, when his participation served to enhance Lydia’s story. Over and over again she impressed upon Jeremy that she was so happy now.
I’d even begun to feel a bit anxious for her because she seemed so terribly agitated . . . until she lobbed another conversational grenade aboard. Guess what? Not only was she getting married, but she’d also reclaimed her passion for decorating, and after talking to some other school chums and their wives, she was convinced that now was the perfect time to set up her interior decorating business in London.
At this point, she turned to look at me directly for the first and only time on this visit, and she widened her eyes when she said, “You’ve been so nice. I’d like to offer you my services to redecorate your villa in Antibes—for free,” she declared, grasping my forearm with her long-nailed hand. “Bertie and I just drove over there today, and already I have so many great ideas! You won’t believe how terrific we can make that place look—and when we’re done, I can arrange to have my friend, who edits a decorating magazine, come down and shoot the whole villa for a multiple-page spread in her magazine, you know, ‘a makeover for your second home on the Riviera!’ It will be great publicity, and it could help my new business really take off! And your villa will be the talk of the Riviera. Won’t that be fun?”
She said all this girl-to-girl, as if we were old sorority sisters or something. But even though most of her face was smiling widely, her eyes were hard and cold, so angry, in fact, that I fought off the urge to shrink from her. And suddenly, the thought that she had, this very day, gone traipsing around Great-Aunt Penelope’s villa, freely poking her nose in all the rooms because the distracted workmen wouldn’t know enough to stop her as she went about plotting with her mental measuring tape . . . well, it made my blood run cold. Something fierce and protective rose up in me, some instinct I didn’t even know I had, when it came to defending, not only Aunt Pen’s memory, but the legacy she’d given to me and Jeremy, and the sweet future we were trying to carve out for ourselves.
A Rather Curious Engagement Page 17
