She nodded. “One night, just as I was about to take the stage, I heard from one of the other performers that a very famous producer was coming to see Tosca that night as Carmine’s guest, and I knew immediately what it meant. Carmine was going to try to sell my opera to him.”
“How could he do so without your consent?”
“You don’t understand Carmine,” she said. “You don’t understand the influence he holds in the music world. He would have taken it and showed it to the producer, and even if I protested, he would have disputed my claims and would have been believed. This producer is his very good friend and together they would have taken my opera and made a success for themselves.”
I wondered fleetingly if she was overestimating the value of her opera, but I quickly rejected the thought. Unfortunately, what she said made sense. As a woman, her complaints would likely be dismissed. It might even damage her career if she was to challenge someone like Carmine De Luca. She could lose both her life’s work and her profession all because she had encountered a man who felt entitled to it. I felt a surge of indignation.
“My performance was not very good that night,” she said, continuing on with the story. “I went through it as if in a dream. All I could think was that I must find a way to keep Carmine and the producer from discussing my opera. But how? It was the final scene that gave me my idea, the death of Tosca. I thought that I could also make my escape in a dramatic fashion. Just as she fell from the parapet, I would fall from the stage until I could decide what was to be done. If I disappeared, if the world thought something had happened to me, Carmine would not be able to produce the opera. It would seem insensitive of him to do such a thing, at least until I was discovered, and he cares very much for his reputation.”
It was a dramatic solution but, I had to concede, not entirely without merit.
“After I made my exit from the stage, I went hurriedly to my dressing room. In my haste, the pearl headpiece snagged and a few pearls fell to the ground. I left the headpiece in the jewelry box on my dressing table. If Carmine promised that man a reward for information on the pearls, then he was deceiving him. No doubt he has hidden them to cast suspicion upon me in the event he could not locate me.”
“But the newspaper account said there was blood left at the scene,” I said.
“I had stage blood on my hands from leaning over Mario’s dead body in the opera. In my haste to gather my things, I may have left traces of it behind. The press, of course, exaggerate everything.”
I nodded, knowing this only too well from my own experience.
“I put my opera and the few items of clothing I kept in my dressing room wardrobe into my valise. They were winter clothes, unfortunately, but I had no time to get anything else. Then I slipped out into the night. I was very much afraid I would be spotted, but fortune was with me. I left my cloak by the river, hoping that it would seem as though I had fallen into the water or been thrown there. Then I booked a hotel room and hastily dyed my hair, hoping it would help to disguise me.”
“It was a very clever escape,” I said admiringly. Though it was not, perhaps, exactly how I would have gone about things, I was impressed by the way in which she had taken charge of her fate.
“Not clever enough,” she said sadly. “I didn’t consider that Carmine might accuse me of having taken the pearl headpiece. If he makes me look like a thief, I am ruined. Now that he has photographs of me, he will tell the world that I am alive and well, and have run away with his pearls. He will no longer need to pretend to mourn me and will try to claim my opera as his own before I return to Milan.”
“I don’t think you need worry about that,” Milo said, coming back out to the terrace. “We had a good chat, and I think you may count on your whereabouts remaining a secret for the time being.” He held up something, and I could just make out what it was: the film from a camera.
I wondered just how he had managed that.
“Oh, bravo, signor!” she cried, rising from her seat and moving to take the film. “Thank you! Have you a lighter?”
Milo produced his silver lighter from his pocket, and she ignited it, touching the flame to the film, which evaporated into ashes in the space of a moment.
“Now that this is gone,” she said, handing the lighter back to Milo, “Marco will have time enough to help me release my opera to the world.”
“Marco Rosetti?” I asked, still unsure of the role of the famous composer in this saga. “What part does he play in all of this?”
“He is a friend from childhood, almost a brother to me. We were at the conservatory together. I knew that he would help me. That is why I came to Capri. He has powerful connections in the music world. I knew that if anyone could defeat Carmine, it was he. All the way up from the ship, I rehearsed the wording of the message I would send to him.”
That explained the whispered plea for help I had heard on the terrace.
“But why meet him in secret?” I asked.
She laughed. “His wife is very jealous. I sent him a telegram asking him to have dinner with me the night he arrived, but he would not come. He did not even want to be seen with me here at the hotel, which was why we went to the Giardini di Augusto to discuss things. He agreed to come tonight to retrieve the opera, but not to my room, so I was forced to bring my valise to the dining room.”
“How very conscientious of him,” Milo said drily.
She nodded. “He is a very good man. When I gave him the opera tonight, I knew that everything would be all right. I could not help but cry tears of joy. I will return to Milan, alive and triumphant. I will star in L’uccello Canoro and the world will adore it.”
I didn’t doubt her for a moment.
She turned to me, reaching out to clasp my hand. “Thank you for your kindness, Signora Ames. If it had not been for you and your husband, I might have been exposed to the world before Marco had the chance to help me. In a way, you have saved my life.”
“I’m glad we were able to help,” I replied. Though I didn’t think we merited such effusive thanks, I felt glad that I had done my part to make sure that one of the opera world’s brightest stars would be able to receive credit for her skills as a composer. Rosalia Bianchi would return to the stage, and I knew she would now achieve even greater success than before.
“When next you are in Milan, come to see me. I will give you tickets to the best box,” she said.
I smiled. “That would be wonderful.”
“Again, grazie.”
And with that she went back into the hotel, leaving us alone on the terrace.
I turned to Milo. “What did you say to that man to make him give you the film?”
“I paid him very handsomely for it.”
“That was kind of you.”
“Yes, well, I thought I might as well try to put an end to this affair.” There was something in his tone that made it clear he had not forgotten that I had deceived him this evening.
“How did you know I would come here tonight?” I asked, remembering suddenly that I had expected him to stay out gambling long into the night.
“Because I know you, darling,” he replied. “I had absolutely no doubt you would see this thing through to the end.”
I should have known he would suspect.
“I only wanted to help,” I said.
“Perhaps next time, if you’re dead set on charging into a potentially dangerous situation, you’ll include me in your escapades instead of leaving me to play comprimario to your prima donna.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m sorry I deceived you, but you must admit things have ended very well.”
“They might not have ended well, though,” he pointed out. “You thought that man had a gun and you followed him here anyway.”
“But they did, and that’s the main thing,” I said, stepping very close to him.
His arms moved around me as if by habit, though he still looked cross. “You’re very vexing, Amory,” he said.
“I know, but it added a bit of
intrigue to our holiday, didn’t it?” I said, my hands resting on his chest. I could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart and knew he wasn’t truly angry.
“I don’t think it was quite the mysterious interlude you had hoped it would be,” he said. “I believe it would have appealed to you more had it indeed been a kidnapping or a murder.”
“No such thing,” I replied, incensed. “I’m very glad that Rosalia Bianchi is safe and that when she returns to Milan she will receive the recognition she deserves. It’s a great relief, in fact, that it wasn’t something more sinister at work.”
“If you say so, darling.”
“And now that this matter is resolved, we shall be able to continue our sightseeing,” I said, my arms sliding up his shoulders and around his neck. “Perhaps tomorrow you’ll row me around the Blue Grotto?”
“Tomorrow I am yours to command, my love.”
“And tonight?” I whispered.
A smile flickered across Milo’s lips before he lowered his mouth to mine and all thoughts of mystery faded into the soft lull of wind and waves.
Out in September 2017—the new Amory Ames mystery
THE ESSENCE OF MALICE
“For pity’s sake, darling, let me finish my coffee before you begin concocting schemes.”
When Amory Ames’s husband, Milo, receives a troubling letter from his childhood nanny, Madame Nanette, the couple travel to Paris where they become embroiled in a mystery surrounding the death of a famous parfumier. Helios Belanger died suddenly, shortly before the release of his new, highly anticipated perfume, and Madame Nanette, who works for his family, is convinced that her employer’s death was not due to natural causes.
The more Amory and Milo look into the motives of industry rivals and the Belanger heirs who are vying for control of his perfume empire, the more they are convinced that Madame Nanette may be right. When secrets unfold and things take a dangerous turn, Amory and Milo must work quickly to uncover the essence of the matter and catch a killer before the scent goes cold.
Turn the page to read the first chapter. . . .
Lake Como, Italy April 1933
If my husband didn’t die attempting this foolishness, I was going to kill him myself.
It was a glorious spring afternoon on the banks of Lake Como, but my mind was on neither the weather nor the stunning views of the lake with its backdrop of hazy blue mountains that lay before me. Instead, I stood on the balcony of the villa, a hand shading my eyes against the sun, and watched as a seaplane dipped and glided high above the glittering surface of the water. My husband, Milo, was at the controls, and to say I was displeased would be putting it mildly.
The morning had started out with no hint that such dangerous activities were impending. Milo had slept late, and I had gone for a walk along the shore after breakfast. I had arrived back at the villa an hour later to find a hastily scrawled note from Milo informing me that he was going out to fly a seaplane. I had had to read it twice to make sure I had not misunderstood. Considering he had never, to my knowledge, flown a seaplane—or any other type of plane, for that matter—in his life, the prospect was somewhat alarming.
I could not, however, say it was entirely surprising. Milo had been lamenting only yesterday that it was still too cold for water skiing, and so it seemed that he had seized upon another, more drastic way to risk bodily harm.
What was more, I knew perfectly well who was responsible for introducing him to this newest type of peril. It was André Duveau, our neighbor here at the lake. He had the villa nearest ours, and he and my husband shared an affinity for racing, gambling, and, apparently, endangering their lives. It was no wonder they had become fast friends.
The plane swooped low toward the water, and my heart leapt to my throat. Unconsciously, I reached out to grip the rim of the stone flowerpot that sat on a pedestal near the railing. Just when it seemed that the plane was going to plunge into the water, its nose rose and it swooped upward once again. I suddenly had the distinct impression that Milo knew I was on the balcony and was frightening me on purpose.
I watched the plane climb higher until, unable to stand there any longer, I turned around and went back into the villa. If Milo was determined to kill himself, I was not going to watch him do it.
Not an hour later, I heard footsteps approaching the sitting room where I had been examining a French fashion magazine and hoping I would not be required to wear mourning in the summer.
My husband came into the room, followed by André Duveau. They were both dressed casually in shirtsleeves and trousers tucked into boots, the requisite flying costume, I supposed.
Milo had grown tan during our weeks in the Mediterranean sun, and his darkened complexion set off his black hair and made his blue eyes appear even brighter. I was not, however, in the mood to be swayed by how handsome he looked this morning, his hair tousled by the wind. I made sure to give no indication of my relief that he had arrived home safely.
“So you made it back alive, did you?” I asked, setting the magazine aside.
“Got my note, I see,” Milo said, smiling. He came to where I sat and leaned down to brush a kiss across my cheek before dropping into the chair across from me, apparently not fooled by my show of indifference. “You needn’t have worried, darling. You know no one brings me back to earth as well as you do.”
I refrained from a retort and turned to our guest, dropping the pretense of acceptance. “I should be very cross with you, Mr. Duveau.”
He smiled. “Allow me to beg your pardon, Mrs. Ames. I should be devastated to find myself in your bad graces.”
Despite his very French name, he had almost no trace of accent, having spent the majority of his childhood, he had told us, in England. He currently made his home in Paris, among other places, but Como was his favorite retreat. He owned an expansive villa and kept several aeroplanes that he flew frequently.
“I cannot lay the blame entirely at your feet, in any event,” I said to Mr. Duveau as he took a seat. “Milo always does just as he pleases.” Considering how Milo loved to live recklessly, I supposed I was lucky that he had not taken to the skies before this.
Fortunately, we would not be in Como for much longer. We had only let our villa for a fortnight and would be returning to London within the week. Having spent the past month on holiday in Capri, we had been about to start the journey home when Milo had suddenly decided that a stop at Lake Como was in order. I had been perfectly willing to extend our stay in Italy, and our time here had been lovely and further improved by Mr. Duveau’s acquaintance.
“Then I am forgiven?” Mr. Duveau pressed, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Yes,” I allowed. “I suppose.”
He flashed another smile, and I thought it would be difficult for anyone to be cross with Mr. Duveau for long. Like my husband, he possessed the irresistible combination of startling good looks and a great deal of charm. His fair hair always looked a bit windswept, whether or not he had been out flying, and, in the short time I had known him, I had seen many women flush under the dual appeal of his warm dark eyes and roguish grin.
“It is I who shall have to work to earn forgiveness,” Milo told him. “My wife doesn’t approve of aeroplanes.”
“I fully appreciate the benefits of aeroplanes,” I said. “It is the idea of my husband careening about a thousand feet above the ground that doesn’t appeal to me.”
“You may rest assured, Mrs. Ames, that your husband has the makings of a fine pilot. A few more outings and perhaps we might be qualified to vie for the Schneider Trophy.”
I was not at all assured at the thought that Milo might make a habit of flying, let alone take up participating in seaplane races. If that was the case, I certainly had a few things to say about the matter, but now was not the time to discuss it.
“Will you stay for lunch, Mr. Duveau?” I asked.
“It is a tempting offer, but I’m afraid I haven’t time. I’m returning to Paris in the morning, and I have a great m
any things to attend to before I leave.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that you were leaving so soon,” I said.
“I hadn’t intended to, but there are . . . certain matters that require my attention.”
A woman, I thought at once. The careful way he avoided mentioning just what urgent matter called him back made me suspect that there was an affair of the heart involved. I assumed that the lady in question would appreciate his flying to her side. It was rather a romantic gesture.
“It’s a shame you must leave,” I told him. “But I wish you safe travels.”
“Thank you. It’s been lovely making your acquaintance. I feel as though I shall be leaving old friends behind. In fact, I’ve brought a parting gift for you.” I hadn’t taken much notice of the small box in his hand until he held it out to me.
I took it and opened it to find a small glass bottle nestled in a bed of velvet. It was a bottle of perfume. I removed it from the box and examined it. The glass was cut in facets that gleamed in the light shining through the big windows behind me. “How lovely,” I said. I removed the stopper and the rich floral aroma drifted upward.
“It’s a brand-new scent,” he told me. “You’ll be one of the first women to wear it.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, taking the stopper from the bottle and dabbing it against my wrist. It smelled wonderful, soothingly familiar somehow and yet exotic.
“I noticed that you wear gardenia,” he said. “I thought you might like this. It’s called Shazadi. It’s a floral, but there is a warm, sensual undertone to it that suits you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I shall enjoy wearing it.”
He smiled. “I hope so. Now I must bid you adieu. It’s been a pleasure meeting you both. Perhaps I shall see you in London sometime?”
“We should like that,” I said.
“And perhaps next time a fighter plane, eh, Ames?” he said. Then he winked at me and made his exit.
When I was quite sure that he was gone, I turned to my husband. “I know it’s useless of me to ask you not to do such reckless things, but you might at least wish me farewell in person before you make me a widow.”
Intrigue in Capri Page 4
