Intrigue in Capri

by Ashley Weaver

  My eyes moved back to her table just as a waiter approached her and handed her what appeared to be a note. She opened it and her eyes scanned the page, then I saw her start a bit and a look of uneasiness swept across her face. She almost looked as though she might cry. I was toying with the idea of going to offer her any assistance, but then she crumpled the paper in her hand and dropped it on the table. It rolled off the edge and fell to the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  She sat there for a moment, staring straight ahead, as though she was trying to decide something. Then she rose from her seat and, food untouched, hurried from the room.

  * * *

  What was in that note? I was desperate to find out. The crumpled piece of paper lay on the floor, half obscured by the long white tablecloth. With any luck, a passing waiter wouldn’t notice it before I was able to retrieve it.

  But how to do so without being obvious? As luck would have it, the orchestra struck up another song just then.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance now?” I questioned Milo, conveniently forgetting that our meal still sat before us.

  He looked up from his plate, his fork hovering above his food, and met my gaze directly. “Darling, if you want that note she dropped, you have only to say so.”

  I let out a sigh. He was fiendishly difficult to deceive. Most likely because he had so much skill in the area himself.

  “It might be something important,” I said.

  He shot me a skeptical look, but he rose once again and came around to pull out my chair.

  As he did so, I loosened the clasp on my sapphire bracelet.

  We began to move around the dance floor, Milo guiding me expertly toward the other side of the room in the guise of a waltz. As we neared the woman’s vacated table, I contrived to drop my arm, and the bracelet slid from my wrist onto the floor. “Oh, my bracelet,” I said, stopping.

  I turned and bent to pick it up. As I had hoped, it had landed very close to the note. I picked up the bracelet and crushed the note in my hand.

  “Well, aren’t you going to read it?” Milo asked.

  “Not now,” I said, moving back into his arms. “Keep dancing.”

  He obliged, and we finished the dance, the piece of paper pressed between our hands.

  The music ended and he stepped back. “Now that I’ve served my purpose, may I return to my dinner?” he asked drily.

  “Certainly,” I replied. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  We returned to our seats, and I tried to smooth out the paper on the table inconspicuously. It was not a telegram, as I had thought it might be, but a handwritten note. It was in Italian, so I slid it to Milo.

  “Translate, if you please.”

  “You are becoming rather an exacting mistress, darling,” he said. “But I live to serve.”

  He looked down at the paper. “‘I cannot come to you tonight, my dear. It isn’t wise. We must meet somewhere where our being together will not attract notice. Come to the Giardini di Augusto tomorrow at two o’clock. Stay out of the public eye until then. Don’t bring it with you. With much love, M.’”

  I looked up at him, my excitement building. I had been right. There was something afoot. Her mysterious behavior, the way she had refused to have her valise carried for her. There was something of value inside.

  “What do you think ‘it’ is?” I whispered.

  “It could be anything,” Milo replied as he cut into his fish, apparently more interested in his dinner than this intriguing clue.

  “But what shouldn’t she bring with her to their meeting? Has she stolen something?” A thought occurred to me. “Perhaps she’s a jewel thief and has come here to hide!”

  “I could think of a dozen things offhand, none of them as outlandish as all that,” Milo answered.

  I sighed, very much annoyed at his refusal to see the mystery that was unfolding before us.

  I supposed, however, there was nothing else to be done about it tonight. Answers would have to wait until we visited the Giardini di Augusto tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock.

  * * *

  My maid, Winnelda, brought coffee into the villa’s sitting room the next morning, along with a newspaper that was meant for Milo, who had not yet risen from bed.

  Milo’s initial suggestion had been to leave both Winnelda and Parks, his valet, in London to give us privacy on our holiday, but Winnelda had been very disappointed at the thought of missing a trip to Italy and, in the end, they had accompanied us.

  Winnelda poured my coffee and then placed the newspaper on the table, shaking her head as she looked at it. “They still haven’t found her,” she said with a sigh. “I wonder if they ever will.”

  I looked up from my coffee. “Found who?”

  “That missing opera singer,” she said, pointing to the newspaper.

  Immersed as I was in the simple pleasures of paradise, I hadn’t take much interest in news. In fact, I had rather been avoiding it.

  “What missing opera singer?” I inquired. Winnelda was a magnet for gossip, and I was quite certain she would be able to tell me everything that I needed to know on the subject.

  “You haven’t heard?” she asked, her tone hovering somewhere between aghast at my ignorance and thrilled at the prospect of being the first to tell me.

  “No, I’m afraid I know nothing about it.”

  “Oh, it’s very curious, madam,” she said, brimming with enthusiasm. “And so dramatic. And perhaps even tragic!”

  “Really?” I replied with a smile. “All of that?”

  She nodded eagerly. “You’ve heard of Rosalia Bianchi?”

  “Yes,” I said. I had heard quite a lot about her, in fact. Her performance in Tosca had garnered worldwide acclaim, and her name was already being mentioned with the great sopranos of opera history. I had hoped to hear her sing at La Scala one day.

  “Well, they say she was secretly engaged to be married to her manager, a man named Carmine De Luca. He helped make her a star and loved her secretly until one day he confessed it, and she loved him, too.” She sighed. “It’s so very romantic. He had a pearl headpiece that had been in his family for generations, and he let her wear it for her performances. Then one night, after the opera, she suddenly disappeared. There were drops of blood and a few pearls outside her dressing room. Her cloak was discovered by the river.”

  “Oh dear,” I said mildly. Winnelda was right. It was quite dramatic. It sounded, in fact, like a narrative that would not be out of place in an opera. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had some of the details confused.

  “Carmine De Luca is very distraught. When she disappeared, he revealed their love affair to the world, and he has offered a very large reward for her return.”

  “Goodness,” I said. “Where have you heard all of this, Winnelda?”

  “Oh, here and there, madam.”

  For not speaking a word of Italian, Winnelda had certainly managed to glean information with great efficiency.

  “And there’s been no sign of her since?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “They have been saying that she might have been killed for the pearls. Some people say that she herself might have stolen Carmine De Luca’s pearls and run away, though I don’t believe she would do such a thing. It’s more likely that she has been kidnapped,” she said with great authority. “It will be a terrible tragedy if something has happened to her. I haven’t heard much in the way of opera, but they do say that she is wonderful. And beautiful, too.”

  I picked up the newspaper to have a closer look and gave a soft gasp of surprise as I saw the photograph printed there.

  The runaway opera star and the mysterious woman from yesterday were one and the same.

  It was all so farfetched that I was half tempted to believe I was mistaken. However, I was quite sure of it. Though her hair was dark in the photograph, there was no mistaking her features. She looked out at me with the same pensive expression I had seen on her face on the terrace and at
the hotel restaurant last night.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she,” Winnelda said. “I do hope they find her.”

  “Yes,” I replied, my thoughts whirling.

  “Is there anything else, madam?” Winnelda asked, too preoccupied with the grand drama to have noticed my reaction to her tale.

  “No,” I said slowly. “Thank you, Winnelda.”

  She left me alone to eat my breakfast, but I was no longer interested in food.

  Rosalia Bianchi was in Capri, and she was in trouble. I was going to help her, if I possibly could.

  I knew, of course, that Milo would not like this plan at all. Despite his proclivity for recklessness, he had always been very reluctant to get involved with investigations. I would simply have to convince him to see things my way.

  I picked up the newspaper and hurried into the darkened bedroom, drawing the curtains briskly.

  “Milo,” I said, moving toward the motionless lump beneath the covers. “Look at this.”

  He didn’t stir, so I sat down heavily on his side of the bed. His back was to me, and I shook his shoulder.

  He responded with a muffled murmur of annoyance.

  “Milo,” I said. “Do wake up.”

  He rolled over to look at me. Even after six years of marriage, I still managed to be distracted by how handsome he was with his hair disheveled by sleep and a night’s growth of whiskers on his face.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  He looked up at me through dark lashes. “Darling, you know you are welcome to pounce upon me whenever you wish, but it would be nice if you would pick a more decent hour to do so.”

  “It’s past nine o’clock, Milo,” I said, remembering my purpose. “Look at this.” I pushed the newspaper toward him.

  He took the paper, his eyes scanning the headline before coming back up to me. “You’ve woken me up to tell me an opera star has run away?”

  “Look at the picture,” I said. “It’s the woman in the hotel last night. Half of Europe is looking for her, and she is here in Capri with her hair dyed blond. She told you her name is Floria Rosetti. Floria is the heroine of Tosca and Rosetti is a common Italian surname.”

  “No doubt she has her reasons,” he replied with a maddening lack of interest. “In any event, I don’t see how it’s any of our business.”

  “I told you I heard her mumble something about needing help.”

  “I’m sure she wasn’t talking to you.”

  “She was speaking in a general sense.”

  He sighed. “All right. Assume she is the missing opera star and that she does need help. What makes you think you can offer it?”

  I didn’t answer this question, for a thought had come to me. “It’s the pearls!” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The mysterious item referred to in the note. ‘Don’t bring it with you.’ It’s the pearl headpiece given to her by her lover. She has it and means to do something with it. Perhaps she’s being blackmailed and the pearls are the price for her blackmailer’s silence.”

  This solution didn’t quite fit with the affectionate tone of the note she had received, but I wouldn’t let that stop me from speculating.

  “Or perhaps she stole them and ran off to another man, and it is none of our business,” Milo said.

  “I don’t know how you can say that. Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not particularly,” he answered. “Perhaps she tired of singing for her Svengali and took the pearls to fund a new life.”

  “One doesn’t tire of one’s passion,” I said.

  He looked up at me with a roguish smile. “No,” he said, his hand moving to my waist as he shifted toward me. “You’re right about that.”

  “We’ve got to start making plans,” I said by way of halfhearted protest.

  “Two o’clock is a long way off,” he said. Then he tossed the newspaper onto the floor and pulled me down into his arms.

  * * *

  I wore a blue-and-white-striped dress and a jaunty blue straw hat for our afternoon maneuvers. It was a beautiful day. The sun was high and warm as we reached the Gardens of Augustus, and the salty sea breeze carried the scent of rosemary, jasmine, and orange blossoms. We had come early so it would appear we had arrived by coincidence rather than by design, and we walked for a while in the tranquil gardens among the sculptures and greenery.

  As two o’clock drew near, we sat together on a bench looking out at the sea, the pure blue of the Mediterranean broken only by the majestic shapes of the Faraglioni jutting from its depths. For a moment I forgot why we had come, and simply enjoyed the pleasure of the coolness of the breeze and the warmth of Milo beside me.

  My attention was called back to the matter at hand as a man came up the path and stopped suddenly when he saw us. He was tall and dark, wearing a white suit and a hat pulled down low across his forehead.

  He nodded to us without enthusiasm, then walked past the bench before stopping to look out at the sea, his hands behind his back. It was obvious from the tension in his posture and the furtive way he turned occasionally to sweep the garden with his gaze that he had not come for the sea views.

  “It’s so lovely here,” I said to Milo, loud enough for my voice to carry. “I could look out at the sea all day.”

  Milo turned his head toward me, leaning to whisper in my ear. “If she meets him here, they’re not going to say anything important with us sitting nearby.”

  “Let’s wait at least until she comes, to be sure we’ve got the right person. Then we’ll amble away.”

  “Whatever you say, darling.” Despite his apparent show of disinterest in the matter, I knew that some part of Milo wanted to see what would happen next. Whatever he claimed, he enjoyed a puzzle as much as I did.

  The gentleman, it seemed, was feeling anxious. He glanced more than once at his watch before staring back out, unseeing, at the breathtaking views before him.

  A few moments later, she made her appearance. She was wearing a hat and dark glasses, but I recognized her at once, even more so now that I had seen her photograph in the paper this morning. She wore the same black traveling suit she had arrived in yesterday, though it appeared to have been freshly laundered and pressed.

  It occurred to me that if she spotted Milo she would remember him from their dance the previous evening. He was the sort of man women did not soon forget. Of course, this was a popular tourist spot, and it wasn’t unusual that we might have found ourselves here at the same time. I needn’t have worried, however, for she didn’t even glance our way as she hurried to the man and threw herself into his arms.

  I watched the exchange with interest. He embraced her and patted her back with apparent affection, but after a moment he pulled back to look down at her, his hands on her arms.

  The wind was high and they weren’t speaking loudly, but I managed to catch a few snatches of the conversation.

  “If I am found out . . . ,” she said.

  “I’m glad you came to me. All will be all right now, my dear. . . .” Then he lowered his voice and I could no longer hear what was being said. He spoke calmly, his expression very controlled. It was apparent that she was feeling some strong emotion and he was doing his best to calm her.

  Intrigued as I was, I knew that if we stayed here much longer, it would be clear that we were watching them.

  “Let’s walk,” I said to Milo.

  I took his arm and we began walking along one of the paths parallel to the overlook, keeping them in our view. They stood where they were for a moment, before he took her arm and they, too, began walking, making their way deeper into the garden.

  As I watched them, I tried to determine what their relationship might be. Winnelda had said that Rosalia Bianchi had been in love with her manager, but I wondered now if perhaps she had run away to be with this man instead. Something about that didn’t seem to fit, however. While she and the gentleman seemed very comfortable together, I did not get the sense that there was any sort
of romantic connection. At least, the way they touched one another did not speak of passion.

  “They’re not lovers,” Milo said in that habit he had of echoing what I was thinking.

  “No,” I replied. “I thought the same thing.”

  My gaze was caught suddenly by a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision. I glanced that way and was startled to see a man standing half hidden behind a bush. He was smoking a cigarette, attempting, it seemed, to give the appearance of ease, but it was very apparent to me that he was watching Rosalia Bianchi and her companion.

  “That man over there,” I whispered to Milo. “I think he’s watching them, too.”

  “Yes, I know,” he replied in a low, pleasant voice, no change in his expression or his stride. “He came up the walk shortly after she did, though he made sure to stay out of sight, and has been watching them ever since.”

  “How did you know he wasn’t just another tourist?”

  “Because tourists don’t enjoy the views from behind a bush, darling.”

  He did have a point.

  “They don’t seem to notice that he’s watching them,” I said, my eyes on the couple. I wondered if we should warn them. Then again, what could we say? That we had been watching them and noticed that someone else was doing the same?

  “I doubt he means any harm,” Milo said.

  I wasn’t sure I agreed. After all, priceless pearls might be very tempting to someone who had recognized Rosalia Bianchi. Perhaps she had been followed all the way from Milan.

  “I want to get a closer look at that man,” I said suddenly. “Pretend to start a quarrel with me so I can march angrily away.”

  “Amory . . .”

  “How could you say such a thing?” I demanded loudly before he could finish his protest.

  “Darling,” he said calmly, “I’m not going to . . .”

  “I don’t care to discuss it any further,” I interrupted, tingeing my voice with what I hoped was a fair impression of wounded anguish. “You’re being cruel, and I want to go back to the villa.”

  Then I turned and walked quickly away, toward the man standing behind the bush. One of the paths led right past his hiding place, and I felt that I could probably get a good look at him as I passed.