Killer Smile Page 15
His house was at the end of a long, narrow road, and she pulled up across the street from an apparently indestructible green mailbox, cutting the ignition. She’d broken a sweat that she knew wasn’t from the humidity. Mary couldn’t believe she was actually here, at Saracone’s house. A man who had been with Amadeo when he died. Was Saracone even still alive? The bills indicated he was, and Mrs. Nyquist had said he was one of the youngest in the internment camp. What had really happened the day Amadeo died? Had Saracone actually killed him? Part of Mary believed it already, but that was the part of her that jumped to conclusions. She told herself to calm down, then rubbed the steam from her car window with a fist and looked outside.
Colonial glass lanterns mounted atop stone pillars cast the only light on a seven-foot-high cedar gate that blocked the driveway and the entrance. It had to be an electric gate, because a gold-toned keypad on a gooseneck stem sat beside the cobblestone driveway. Mary tried to see over the gate, but rain and dense trees obscured her view. She rolled down her window, blinking against the rain, when suddenly the front gate started to open.
Mary slumped in the driver’s seat just as a black sedan glided from the gate and took a left turn down the road. She followed its red lights with a nervous gaze, and when it had driven out of view, she slid up in the seat. The cedar gates were closing. She only had a minute to make a decision. She wanted to see inside. She flung open the car door, grabbed her purse, and bolted into the rain. The gate was closing, narrowing her entrance to three feet, then two. Mary darted through the opening as the gate closed noiselessly behind her and she ran for the shelter of a huge, leafy oak tree and looked around.
A winding driveway slick with wet cobblestones and lined with low lamps curled to a huge stone mansion, four stories high and constructed entirely of fieldstones, their natural earth tones vivid with rainwater and illuminated by bright lights aimed at the house. How did Saracone come to afford such a place? What did he do for a living? How had he come so far? And the mansion was only part of the compound. Beyond the house along the driveway sat a large stone carriage house, and next to it, a barn converted to the most swanky four-car garage in history. In front of it were parked two black Mercedes sedans, the model favored by Eastern Bloc diplomats. Mary looked over the cars to a stone cottage, also of fieldstone, and to the cedar fence beyond that apparently enclosed a built-in pool.
Her gaze returned to the stone mansion and its massive front door, of dense mahogany with an ornately cut glass. Giovanni Saracone lived behind that door. If he were still alive, he’d be in his early eighties and was evidently wealthy. He would have survived a world war and maybe killed a man with his bare hands, alone in a Montana beet field.
If you can’t be brave, be determined. And you’ll end up in the same place.
She left the shadows of the oak tree and walked directly down the middle of the driveway toward the front door, with far more bravado than she felt. She reached the front step of a slate flagstone, too high-rent to be called a stoop. Tall white pillars on either side of the front door soared two stories high, supporting a white-painted porch that sheltered the entrance from the storm. Mary braced herself, pressed the lighted doorbell, and tried to remember that she was a cowgirl.
The door was opened by a young African-American woman wearing a fresh white nurse’s uniform embroidered with the slogan HomeCare, WeCare. Above the stitching glinted a fake-gold pin that read KEISHA. Keisha was a pretty twenty-something, with her dark hair close-cut and her lightly lipsticked mouth forming a puzzled frown. “Did somebody ring you in through the gate?” she asked.
“No, I was about to push the button for the intercom, but a car went out, so I just walked in.”
“You shouldn’ta done that.” Keisha took in Mary’s wet blazer and khakis with disapproval. “Are you selling somethin’?”
“No. I’m a friend of Mr. Saracone’s and I’m here to see him.”
“A friend?” Keisha repeated uncertainly, blinking against the rain spraying under the porch.
“Maybe if I could come in for a second, we wouldn’t both get wet.”
“If you’re Mr. Saracone’s friend, you know he’s very ill.” Keisha was still squinting against the rain, or maybe in suspicion. “He’s not taking visitors except for family, and certainly not tonight.”
“To tell the truth, I’m not really his friend.” Mary scrambled to cover, digging a business card from her purse and handing it to the nurse. “I’m really a lawyer, and I represent a man who’s a very old friend of Mr. Saracone’s. A man named Amadeo Brandolini. I really do need to see Mr. Saracone, about him.”
“I don’t know.” The nurse edged away from the door, but on impulse, Mary thrust her hand inside.
“I swear, Mr. Saracone would be angry with you if you sent me away. He might even fire you.” Mary was winging it, but the nurse stopped closing the door.
“You serious? I need this job.”
“I’m very serious.”
“What’s your client’s name?”
Mary repeated it. “Please, just show Mr. Saracone my card, and tell him I’m here. I promise, if you tell him that name, he’ll want to see me.”
“Well, wait here for a minute,” Keisha said, her voice softening. Her gaze lifted to the rainstorm. “Sorry I have to make you wait outside in this weather. I can’t let you in until I ask Mr. Saracone.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Mary waited while the front door closed and was locked. Not only was Saracone alive, she would be meeting him any minute. Mary had no sooner had the thought than her determination evaporated, replaced by good old-fashioned fear.
Still she managed not to run back to the car and made herself stay until the front door opened again.
Twenty-Four
Five minutes later, it wasn’t the nurse who opened the front door, but instead a beautiful woman about Mary’s age. She had glossy black hair that grazed her shoulders in a chic cut, dark almond-shaped eyes with no crow’s feet, and a body that strippers would kill for. She looked way too young to be Saracone’s wife, which had to mean she was Saracone’s wife.
“Hello, I’m Melania Saracone, Giovanni’s wife.” She pursed thin lips and extended her manicured hand in a confident, if not friendly, way. “Please come in.”
“Thanks.” Mary felt her hand gripped a little harder than necessary as Mrs. Saracone fairly pulled her inside the house and shut the door behind her.
Okay, I’m intimidated. It had been a stupid idea to come here without telling anyone, putting herself inside this house, alone and vulnerable. Her determination had vanished, evidently figuring she would get them both killed. She could only hope it was calling 911.
“Would you like a drink? Diet Coke, or water?” Mrs. Saracone asked, leading her over a thick Oriental carpet through a dimly lit entrance hall, with one of those pretentious staircases that curved around in a costly curl. Her hair bounced like a shampoo commercial and her head was cocked stiffly to the side, as if awaiting the answer.
“No, thanks.” Mary followed her into an immense living room lined with books that reached all the way to a vaulted ceiling, topped by a dramatically arched skylight. Plush couches and matching wing chairs clustered in three different areas — one near a stone fireplace, one on the right, and one on the left — but the furniture looked more stage-set than living room. Mrs. Saracone sat down in a navy velvet chair next to a mahogany end table and motioned Mary into the identical chair opposite her. “Thanks,” Mary said, sinking into the down cushion. “This is a lovely house, Mrs. Saracone.”
“You can call me Melania. So you’re the lawyer for a man named Amadeo Brandolini.” Melania crossed one long leg over the other and brushed down charcoal slacks that broke above pointy black velvet mules. She wore a pressed white shirt with darts that emphasized the curve of an amplified C cup, and her waist didn’t bulge at her belt when she sat down. It was easy to see she worked out, and Mary tried not to imagine how many lawyers she could bench-press.
“Then your client died?”
“Yes, a long time ago. In 1942, by suicide.” Mary didn’t want to show her hand, at least not until her determination got off the cell phone and came back. All was forgiven. “It’s my understanding that your husband was with him when he died.”
“That’s odd, he never mentioned it.” Melania cocked her head again, either by habit or affectation, and Mary wondered what she really knew. It was doubtful that Giovanni would have told his trophy about Amadeo’s death, especially if he was involved, and there was nothing in Melania’s manner that suggested she was uneasy. If anything, she seemed interested, if only politely. “You say your client committed suicide?”
“Yes. He and Giovanni were very good friends, and ended up in an internment camp together in Montana. During the war.” That would be World War II.
“I so didn’t know that. Are you sure?”
“Yes, positive.” Mary reached in her purse, carefully avoided the Saracone legal bills, and pulled out a scanned copy of the photos she’d found at the camp. She had made three copies of the photos and left them at work, hiding the original in the coffee room; this time she was taking no chances. She showed the paper to Melania, both photos on the same page. “Isn’t that Giovanni, in the hat?”
“Whoa!” Melania’s liquid-lined eyes flared. “God, he looks hot! He must have been twenty or so!”
Read it and weep. “Yes, he was younger then. The short man with him is my client, Amadeo Brandolini. Giovanni never mentioned him? They were good friends.”
“No, not at all.” Melania handed the picture to Mary, who tucked it back in her purse. “How did your client commit suicide?”
“He hung himself.”
“Eeew.” Melania wrinkled her nose like a varsity cheerleader, and Mary stopped missing her determination. If the bad guys were going to kill her, they would have already. They had probably assumed that she’d told people she was coming here, thus making the classic bad-guy mistake of overestimating her.
“Melania, I know it’s late, but do you think it would be possible for me to meet your husband?”
“No, sorry, but you can’t. He’s really ill.”
Mary wondered if she were telling the truth, but she seemed to be, and the nurse had said the same thing. “I’m sorry. What is he ill with?”
“He has cancer, pancreatic cancer.”
“How terrible,” Mary said, with an inward moan. She thought reflexively of her mother. “Can I come back another time? Tomorrow, maybe? I promise I’ll be brief, and I—”
“To be honest with you, he’s terminal. I’m not sure how much longer he has left.” Melania blinked away tears that barely challenged waterproof mascara. “The doctor can’t say, so we take it day to day.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mary said, with regret, not grief. She had come so far, from the National Archives to Montana and back, tracing Saracone to this very house. If he was alive, it wasn’t too late. “So there’s no way, just for a minute, I could see him?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Melania swallowed in premature grief, but Mary wasn’t buying it for a minute. Anytime a sophomore marries a rich eighty-year-old, she’s not only prepared for the death part, she’s counting on it. Melania added, “I only let you in because Keisha said you were so nice. It’s really only family at the house at this point.”
“Family, of course. Do you have children?” Mary switched tacks for the moment, taking discovery.
“Giovanni does, from his previous marriage. A son, Justin. He should be here any minute.” Melania checked her watch, a gold Rolex. “He must be running late, with this weather.”
Mary could meet him if she stalled. “Oh yeah, I think I met Justin once. In town.”
“You might have. He did graduate from law school, but he doesn’t practice anymore.”
Melania smiled with new interest. “Where did you meet him?”
“If memory serves, it was at a bar function of some kind,” Mary answered vaguely. “So many lawyers quit practice, nowadays. I think of quitting all the time. Why did he quit?”
“Justin didn’t really quit, he works for the business.”
“What business?”
“Giovanni’s. You know, his investments.”
How had Saracone made all this dough? “What type of investments?”
Melania’s smile faded. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just making conversation, to distract you from your grief. Is it working?”
“No.” Melania laughed, and Mary leaned over.
“Look, I know this sounds weird and awful, but can I please see Giovanni? I swear, I’ll stay three minutes and that’s it. I could show him the photo of—”
“No, of course not.” Melania recoiled. “My husband is on his deathbed.”
“Is he awake now? Did he get my message about Amadeo?”
“Yes, Keisha told him.”
“You’re sure?”
Melania bristled. “I was there. What’s wrong with you? Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that it matters so much, to my client’s estate. My client had a special affinity for your husband. What did he say when Keisha told him?”
“Now stop right there.” Melania’s fair skin flared in anger. “That’s none of your business!”
“I know it seems rude, but it is my business.” Mary struggled for an explanation. “It would mean so much to my boss if I could tell him what your husband said. Could you just let me know, girl to girl, so I don’t get fired? I need this job.” It was Keisha’s line, but it had hit home with Mary, and it seemed to hit home with Melania, too.
“All he said was, ‘Amadeo.’ Okay?”
Amadeo. “He didn’t say anything else?”
“No. He put his head back on the pillow and fell asleep.”
“You sure he didn’t say anything else? Something that didn’t mean anything to you could mean a lot to my boss.”
“No, nothing else. He’s been saying things all the time, things that make no sense, because of the morphine and the other drugs.”
“Things that make no sense? What do you mean? What things?”
“The man is dying! The man is dying, and he knows it. Have some decency, why don’t you!” Melania stood up suddenly and brushed her wool slacks down over her taut thighs. “I tried to be nice, but I’m over this. I’m going upstairs, and you’re leaving. Right now. I’ll walk you to the door.”
Mary couldn’t walk out, could she? She’d come so far and if she waited another day, Saracone could be dead. She rose to go, hoisting her purse to her shoulder. She couldn’t just give up and go home, but she didn’t know what else to do.
“You have some nerve, you know that?” Melania was saying, over her shoulder, but Mary was thinking.
Should I take a chance? No. Yes. No. “Sorry,” Mary said. She followed Melania to the front door, but her determination returned in the nick of time. As Melania opened the door, Mary spun about-face and bolted for the carpeted stairwell that led upstairs. She didn’t stop to question or wonder or even double-check.
She just ran.
Twenty-Five
“What! No! Hey! Don’t you dare!” Melania shouted from the door, but for once Mary didn’t apologize.
Go! She darted up the stairs as fast as she could. She could get there. She could see Saracone. She wasn’t too late, not if he was alive. She reached the landing at the top with Melania on her heels. Where was Saracone’s bedroom?
“Stop!” Melania shouted. “No!”
Mary looked wildly right and left, panting hard. Two rooms were at either end of the long carpeted hall. Which was Saracone’s? An open door, with lamplight behind it! Left! Go! She bolted for the lighted bedroom just ahead of Melania, fueled by thoughts of Amadeo, the hanging tree, and the noose, which trumped a StairMaster any day.
“No! Chico, help! Chico, hurry!” Melania screamed, the sound reverberating in Mary’s ears.
Go, go, go! Mary tore down the hallway. There! She could barely stop in time as she reached the bedroom door and grabbed the doorknob. She scooted inside the bedroom, slammed the door closed behind her with a bang, and twisted a brass thumbscrew above the doorknob to lock herself inside. Thank you, God!
Almost instantly, Melania started pounding on the other side of the bedroom door, which shook with the force of each blow. “Get out of there! Chico! CHICO!”
Mary didn’t want to meet anybody named Chico. She whirled around on her heels and came face-to-face with Giovanni Saracone himself.
The old man sat bolt upright in his huge, fancy bed, his wobbly head egg-shaped and bald. His dark, sunken eyes had gone wide with alarm in their withered sockets, and his parched lips formed a wasted circle of alarm. A transparent greenish oxygen tube snaked from under his nose to a portable tank beside the bed, and he was hooked up to an IV and a small home monitor for his vital signs.
The sight took Mary aback, or maybe it was just the shock of what she had just done, breaking into his bedroom. But what she saw in Giovanni Saracone was stark, cold fright. Saracone was afraid of her, terrified of her, and in that one instant, eye to eye, she knew exactly why. Because he had killed Amadeo. He had been told she was here and he knew why she had come. He must have been dreading this day, and now it had finally come, on his deathbed. The knowledge flooded Mary with unholy power.
“You killed Amadeo Brandolini!” she shouted at Saracone, against the pounding on the bedroom door.