Widow - Anne Stuart [94]
The house was silent and still, and she walked through the empty hall to the kitchen, suddenly famished. It wasn’t until she was halfway through a slice of buttered bread when she thought about why she had left.
Her appetite vanished. She could hear someone approaching, the heavy, measured tread on the worn tile flooring. She held her breath and then released it as Lauretta appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, Signora Charlie!” Lauretta cried, looking distraught. “Why have you come back here?”
“Is something wrong?” Charlie demanded. “Did something happen to my mother…?”
Lauretta shook her head. “Everything is fine, little one. Your mother has driven Mr. Richmond into town to get airplane tickets. He’s going home, and he’s taking that Gia with him.” She gave a disapproving sniff.
“And where is Gia?”
“Gia’s off shopping. She needs new clothes to go to New York, she says. That one always needs new clothes. She won’t be back, and you shouldn’t be here, either. I told you it upsets Madame Antonella too much. She’s old, she needs peace and quiet and no disturbances.”
Charlie made a face. “You know I honor and respect Madame Antonella, but I’m not going to have her drive me away from here. She can stay in her cottage and not see me, but I’m going to stay here as long as I want to.” She felt childish and resentful and she didn’t care. She was tired of doing what everyone else wanted, and she wasn’t going to be driven away from La Colombala no matter how desperately she wanted to go.
Lauretta’s face was mournful, and she shook her head sadly. “Poveretta,” she murmured. “I tried to warn you.”
“Warn me of what?” Charlie demanded. And then she realized someone had come up behind her. For a moment she froze. The shuffling tread, the wheezy breathing. It was the same from yesterday afternoon, in the studio. Whoever had tried to hurt her then had come back. And it was too late to get away.
“I’m so sorry, Signora Charlie,” Lauretta was muttering.
She turned and looked into Madame Antonella’s face. It was creased with hatred, and in her gnarled, sturdy hand she held a long, vicious-looking knife.
For a moment she froze. And then she turned and made a break for it, dodging past Lauretta toward the kitchen door. Only to be stopped by Tomaso, his familiar face dark with sorrow.
And then everything went black.
22
It was his damned Irish blood, that was it, Maguire thought as he drove hell-bent toward Geppi. He’d spent thirty-five years happily free of premonitions and dark forebodings—the only thing the slightest bit psychic about him were his excellent instincts.
But it was more than instinct riding him today, and it pissed the hell out of him. Something very bad was going to happen, and Charlie was at the center of it. He had to get to her in time, before it was too late, and the damned car he borrowed had about as much pickup as a turtle. It made the Fiat seem more like a Ferrari.
He’d gotten off to a late start, as well—he’d had a couple of things to check up on before he took off, and the Italian records system was not made for easy access. In the end he’d given up—if there was a record of a marriage between Aristide Pompasse and Charlotte Thomas thirteen years ago in the town of Geppi or anywhere nearby, he couldn’t find it. But he suspected that it had never existed.
It was late afternoon by the time he reached the villa. His car was neatly parked by the old barn, and she’d left the keys in it. The day hadn’t warmed up much, so he didn’t expect to see her sunbathing on the terrace, but neither did he expect the house to look so closed up and deserted.
He called out her name as he entered the shadowy interior, but she didn’t answer. No one did. The place was abandoned, even Lauretta’s domain, the huge old kitchen, was empty.
He looked out the back door, up at the old cottage halfway up the hill. No signs of life there, either. Maybe Lauretta and Tomaso had taken