Peach (66 page)

The book that had followed had swept him to fame and fortune, earning him far more money than he felt any man had the right to possess, and had opened up a whole new career as a guest lecturer in cities as far apart as Geneva in Switzerland and Stanford in California. It had also turned him into a reluctant television celebrity, and changed his life-style forever.

It wasn’t just that he could now afford a lavish apartment in Sutton Place that boasted oak paneling and its own library, as well as a view of the East River, or that he was on every New York hostess’s “A” party list, or that head waiters in smart restaurants rushed to give him their most prominent
table but, for a reason that still mystified him, fame seemed to have made him more attractive. Glossily beautiful women of the kinds seen advertising perfumes on billboards, or pictured in
Vogue
magazine displaying dresses by Calvin and Oscar and Bill, blackmailed their hostesses to allow them to sit next to him at dinner; they stroked his arm and flashed him intimate glances as he sipped his wine, and they purred suggestions in his ear that would have shocked his Aunt Martha back in Madison, Wisconsin.

If Mike couldn’t understand what women saw in him, Aunt Martha surely could. His features were rugged and his battered nose the legacy of a boyhood tennis smash that had gone wrong, but his deep-set eyes were the colour of a winter-gray sea and his thick dark hair was short and usually rumpled because he had a habit of running his hands through it when he was concentrating. Mike thought he looked like a thirty-seven-year-old has-been prize-fighter, but Aunt Martha understood women; she knew it was the unexpected combination of his six-foot-five truck driver looks, and his cultured mind and sensitivity, that caused feminine hearts to turn somersaults. And now, of course, to that was added his international success. “Mike Preston” was a name that could open any door.

Mike had earned a reputation as a man who could see beyond the public facades of the high and the mighty, to the raw emotions that burned beneath, motivating them to acts of folly that eventually caused their downfall. His three best sellers were written with that extra element of suspense—a who-done-it angle that had made them popular, whether he was writing about the real-life career of an automotive giant, a corporate scandal, or a spectacular murder. However, it was two years since his last book was published and he’d promised himself that here, at last, in Santa Barbara, he’d come up with the idea for his next. Yet he’d been here for six weeks and the typewriter still had its cover on, the wastebasket remained empty and the floor unlittered with balled-up
sheets of paper. He had fallen prey to the Californian sunshine, the blue skies—and the sunkissed blondes.

Yesterday’s L.A.
Times
was still lying on the countertop, unread, and Mike carried it out onto the redwood deck. Propping his feet on the rail, he began to read the usual daily reportage of stalemate politics, global terrorism, murder, property and automobiles, fashion and food … a quick summary of disaster, conflict, and consumerism in thirty pages.…

Flinging it to the ground, he stared down at it disgustedly … he’d promised himself he wouldn’t read a newspaper for two months, just so he could confirm his theory that when he did everything would be exactly the same … he wouldn’t have missed a thing. Or would he? He glanced again at the newspaper crumpled on the floor, his eyes drawn as though by a magnet to the black-bordered advertisement in the lower right-hand corner. It stood out from the pages as though it were written in scarlet letters. It was headed

Mike forgot all about the coffee perking in the kitchen, he forgot the blue skies and the blondes and the temptingly
slothful California sunshine. He knew a hook for a story when he saw one—and this was too good to miss. Poppy Mallory’s name seemed to breathe mystery and intrigue. He could only imagine the dozens—maybe hundreds—of hopeful people who would reply to that ad.

He stared out to sea, trying to figure out a reason why Poppy Mallory, a woman born here in this very county, had died alone in Italy, so far from her home. Why had her daughter not come forward to claim her inheritance in all those years? And if, as was possible, the daughter was now dead, then who would be the heir or heiress? There was just one place to find out. Checking his watch, he reckoned it would be four-thirty in the afternoon in Europe. Picking up the telephone he dialed the number of Advocate Johannes Lieber in Geneva.

Mr. Lieber was obviously an important lawyer—it took three messages via his secretary to convince him to take his call, and only then because Mike had emphasized his familiar name.

“Mike Preston? The author
Robbelard’s Getaway
? I admire your work very much, sir,” Lieber greeted him. “It was one of the best pieces of investigative journalism I’ve ever seen. Of course, we are all suspicious of corporate takeovers where people are making fortunes trading the market on insider information, but it took someone like you to bring it out into the open—and to name the culprits. I congratulate you, sir, on your courage in taking on the establishment—and in winning.”

Mike smiled. “Well, thanks, Mr. Lieber. I’m always glad to meet a fan. But I’m calling you in the hope of a little insider information myself. About Poppy Mallory.”

“Are you a relative then? Or maybe you have some new information?” Lieber was suddenly businesslike.

“No, sir, I’m just a writer on the scent of a good story. I was wondering if you could tell me who Poppy Mallory was, and how much her estate is worth?”

There was a long silence and then Lieber said, “I’m not sure of the ethics of this conversation, Mr. Preston. I must think of my client.”

Mike ran his hand through his hair impatiently. “Since you haven’t got an heir, do you in fact have a client yet?—sir.” he added appeasingly. “You just said how good a job you thought I’d done on
Robbelard’s Getaway
. Well, maybe I could do the same sort of job for you—with Poppy Mallory. After all, you could say I’m your man on the spot—I’m right here in Santa Barbara, where it all began. We could help each other. I follow up the Poppy Mallory story for you, and if I find your missing heir—or heiress—I get to write the book. If I don’t succeed—or if the missing heir turns up anyway and there is no real mystery—then no book. What do you say?”

“We-ll.” Lieber’s voice sounded cautious and Mike frowned. He suddenly wanted this story more than he’d wanted anything in years. He had to find out about Poppy Mallory, his instincts were telling him there was something more than a missing heiress, there was something special about this woman.

“I can tell you that the Mallory estate is considerable,” said Lieber, “yes, considerable … around five, six hundred—”

“Thousand?”

“Oh, millions, my dear man,
millions
. Maybe even more, when we are finally able to assess it all.”

Mike whistled softly. “Then I guess you’re gonna have a fight on your hands. You’ll be inundated with claims from every con man or woman who sees a quick way to a fortune.”

Lieber sighed heavily. “That presents a problem, of course, but we are still hoping to find Madame Mallory’s daughter alive. The ‘Madame’ is a courtesy title, you understand. Poppy Mallory was never, to our knowledge, married.”

“Okay,” said Mike. “And if the ‘heiress’ is dead? Then who is in line for the millions?”

“Who indeed?” asked Lieber with a chuckle. “If anyone.”

There was a short silence and then Lieber said: “I’m going to trust you, Mr. Preston, because I believe you can be helpful. I would appreciate your assistance—even though it is unorthodox. But then this is a very unorthodox case. Madame Mallory’s will only came to light because of the question of the title to a parcel of real estate in Beverly Hills. She died at her home, the Villa Castelletto near Verona in Italy. She had lived alone for many years. Apparently she entertained no one—and had not a single friend. Apart from that, no one in the area seems to remember anything about her. The first my office knew of Poppy was when we were contacted by California lawyers whose clients wished to purchase a Beverly Hills property, apparently owned by her. Poppy’s will had been prepared by a local country lawyer; he was an old man himself and neglectful. The Italians were very slack about the matter, and apparently it was never submitted for probate. The estate just moldered on and eventually the old lawyer died too and his business was taken over by another, who later moved to Milan, taking all the old files with him. The Milan office became successful in dealing with international law and eventually, in 1968, merged with ours. When the question of the title to the property arose, a search through our archives revealed an unwitnessed will—and the mystery. As it was unwitnessed, the will was never probated and it can only be taken as an indication of who Poppy’s heir, or heirs, might be. And that’s why we are in the position we now find ourselves. It’s up to us to find her true heir. So,” he concluded briskly, “Poppy remains an enigma.”

“I assume you ran this ad internationally,” Mike said quickly. “Can you tell me what response you’ve had to it so far?”

Lieber laughed. “Let’s just say, you are not
the first
to call.”

“Thanks, Mr. Lieber.” Mike was already riffling through the pages of the Santa Barbara telephone book and finding nothing under the name
Mallory
. “I appreciate your cooperation. Do you think you could fax me a list of all the claimants so far? I promise I’ll guard it with my life,” he added jokingly.

As he put down the phone he knew exactly where he was heading next.

The old parrot ruffled his feathers against the damp, penetrating chill swirling in with the mist from Venice’s Grand Canal. It oozed its way through the crumbling ocher stucco walls and brittle windowpanes of the Palazzo Rinardi, rising to the lofty beamed ceilings and clinging to the faded silk curtains that were now so fragile with age, they threatened to disintegrate into dust. The bird’s plumage was the only blaze of color in the once sumptuously hued bedroom, but this morning even his gay jungle attire seemed submerged under Venice’s watery November light.

He unfurled a leg from beneath his feathers, flexing it stiffly, and the emerald and diamond rings caught the light with astonishing brilliance. Poppy had had them made at Bulgari, instructing the jewelers to use only the finest stones, and for more than eighty years her beloved pet had worn a ransom in jewels around his stick-like legs. His thick perch was of solid gold, scratched and worn from his constant skittering up and down, and at each end was a knob the size of a tennis ball, clustered with fine jewels. An enormous gold cage shaped like a palace in a story by Scheherazade, its curves and arches battered by the bird’s lifetime of use, stood on a table in a corner of the room. But mostly, nowadays, the parrot just sat on his perch, watching and waiting for Aria, the way he used to wait for Poppy.

The soft rustle of slippered feet sounded along the marble corridor and he cocked his head as the gilt door handle rattled and Fiametta, limping with arthritis, placed the
breakfast tray on a seventeenth-century painted table. His weary, hooded eyes watched as the old woman tugged back the white linen hangings on the half-tester bed, tut-tutting as flakes of paint fluttered from its newels, adding more scars to the exquisite decoration of scrolls and flowers and trellises that had lasted for more than two hundred years.

“Aria,” she called, shaking the girl’s shoulder, “wake up!”

Her voice sounded different this morning, she was excited and the parrot scrabbled along his golden perch, flexing his wings. “Go away, Fiametta,” replied Aria’s muffled voice, “I don’t want to wake up.”

“But you must, it’s your birthday!” The old woman’s voice trembled with excitement as Aria stirred restlessly.

“That’s exactly
why
I don’t want to wake up,” Aria mumbled into her pillow, “just go away and let me sleep.”

“Now that’s a fine thing to say!” Fiametta pulled the blanket back firmly.

“It’s
freezing
,” Aria moaned, pulling the covers over her pajama-clad shoulders. “Oh, go away, Fiametta, do. Just leave me with my misery!”

The old woman stared at her with an expression of mixed tenderness and exasperation. She never failed to be amazed by Aria’s beauty, especially because as a child she could not even have been called pretty; her extreme thinness, along with her huge dark blue eyes and the thick fringe of curling lashes that dominated her tiny face, had given her the air of a badly nourished waif. Many a time Fiametta’s heart had been in her mouth, fearing a broken limb, as she watched her charge climbing trees with the agility of a monkey, or surefootedly leaping the stepping-stones across the rough stream that bisected the parkland surrounding the Villa d’Oro. But Aria’s delicacy had been deceptive. She was as strong as an ox, thought Fiametta proudly, and as graceful and fleet as a gazelle. There were those who compared Aria’s gamine looks to the young Audrey Hepburn, and
others who argued she had the pure beauty of Grace Kelly, but no matter, Fiametta knew that Aria resembled no one but herself. She was unique.

She arranged the pillows comfortably behind Aria’s back as the girl wriggled reluctantly upright. “There now, that’s better,” she said as Aria flung a slender arm around her neck and kissed her affectionately on either cheek.

“
Ciao
, Fiametta” Aria murmured, a smile lighting up her smooth young face. “Why all this fuss? I haven’t had breakfast in bed since I had my tonsils out when I was twelve!” She was smiling but her eyes were sad, and the parrot skittered along his perch squawking to catch her attention. “Luchay,
caro
,” she called, “come here to me.”