The land heaved up to become softly rolling hills dotted with picturesque homesteads and miniature castles and grazing cows and sheep. There were endless vineyards, fields of olive trees, plots of spent sunflower and lavender; majestic cypress trees and windbreaks of stately poplars. Tractors without cabs pulled rickety wagons and worked hard at the business of harvest.
A couple of hours later we arrived in the village of Castellina in Chianti and stopped to stretch our legs, buy water and consult the map Anthony and Jared had provided. It was hand-drawn and points of reference included a ruined mill, an overgrown mud hole, something called a
casalta
and a power transformer. These were our guides to the temporary country home of our friends. Studying it I began to imagine I'd somehow been magically transported into some sort of fairy-tale land; take a left at the dragon's lair, beware the troll as you cross the moat. Archaic, yes, but accurate, as only fifteen minutes later we were rolling up a steep, heavily rutted, stone-pitted, overgrown, dangerously winding, narrow road and found at its end the little bit of Italiano heaven we were looking for. Surrounded by a lush growth of trees and overlooking endless acres of grape vines ripe for the picking was a rambling, two storey stone house and emerging from it two handsome Canadian men, arms wide open.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome," Anthony greeted us warmly, his Robert Redford good looks burnished gold after weeks beneath the Tuscan sun. "And what remarkable timing. Jared and I were about to make for town to do some shopping for dinner. You must all come along."
Following a flurry of introductions, movement of luggage into guestrooms and freshening up, we piled into a jeep and headed back to Castellina. Dottie chose to remain behind to rest and Flora offered to stay with her. Anthony drove, with Charity taking the passenger seat next to him. Errall, Jared and I were squeezed in the back, me in the middle.
"Russell," Jared spoke into my ear as Anthony did his best to traverse the bumpy road without shaking us up too badly. "Are you sure you want to come along? You look a little pasty. Are you all right?"
"He's right," Errall said. "You do look a little off."
Although the spot where I'd been stabbed didn't hurt nearly as much as it first did, the headache I'd had since being attacked by Patrick Halburton was still a doozy. Perhaps it was from being beaned on the head with an ice bucket? Or maybe from being punched and throttled by the Sicilian tender captain and Aaron the fake gay guy? Regardless, it was becoming a real bother and I suspected I was developing a fever too.
I put it down to the travails of strenuous travel after suffering a rather serious wound. The ship's physician had counselled me to see my own doctor as soon as possible after getting off The Dorothy-just to keep an eye on things. Something about infection setting in or something like that. Yeah, sure, I'll get right on that.
But more discomfiting than my physical aches and pains was a growing apprehension I couldn't shake.
Something was bothering me. What made it even worse was that I had all these crazy ideas in my head but none of them seemed to fit together. There was Richard leaving without so much as a so long, thanks for the memories. Alberta's prediction that someone was lying to me, possibly Sereena. The possibility that Phyllis' leap off the deck of The Dorothy was not an accident. And the poison I'd found hidden in Faith and Thomas' room. Was it truly poison? What about Jackson's illness?-was he poisoned?-by the juice given to him by Dottie?-by Faith and/or Thomas?-by someone else?-and why? Patrick claimed that he wanted to kill Charity to protect his granddaughter's inheritance, yet, if Charity was to be believed, all this began with Morris the cat being poisoned. That happened long before Charity announced her bogus intention to change her will. The same with the "I'm going to kill her" voice Alberta kept hearing. And what of the wild goose chase Flora and I had been sent on? There had to have been a purpose for that.
Patrick Halburton certainly didn't use the opportunity to carry out his killing plan.
But reality couldn't be ignored. The man who attempted to murder Charity Wiser was caught and incarcerated. And the rest of the Wisers were gone, they'd scurried off The Dorothy like ants, back to their everyday lives.
"I'm fine," I assured Jared and Errall. "But maybe instead of the market, is there someplace in Castellina with internet access where Anthony could drop me off?"
"Me too," Errall piped up.
Jared nodded. He'd let his copper tresses grow long over the summer and now they fell into haphazard plaits across his forehead and over his brilliant green eyes. "Sure." He called up to Anthony, "Hon, can you drop Russell and Errall off at the internet cafe first. We can meet them there for a drink when we're done at the market." Anthony barked his affirmative reply over the din created by the truck's body and tires as they struggled over the rough terrain. Jared looked me in the eye, as if assessing my well-being.
"You're sure? We could take you back. You could have a rest before lunch."
"I'm good," I told him, not s
ure if I was telling the truth.
The internet cafe was the small Italian village version of a fast food cafeteria. Instead of bloated hot dogs on a rotisserie, greasy hamburgers and runny milkshakes, they were serving hearty slices of mouth-watering osso bucco, spicy olives stuffed with garlic, exquisite million-layered torts, and a cheap but tasty Chianti by the glass. Errall ordered wine and a coffee for me and we were directed to a group of four or five bistro tables in one corner of the dining area. Except that each had a computer on it, this could have been any charming European eatery in any charming European village. Traditional meets modern.
I decided to start with Richard. It was selfish and immature of me to be feeling miffed that he hadn't left me a note as he had Captain Bagnato. If indeed he'd had a personal emergency to attend to at home-serious enough to leave The Dorothy-then the least I could do was express my concern. Except for the keyboard having a few keys in unfamiliar places I quickly mastered it, found Google and typed in a search for GrayPride Tours. My request returned hundreds of hits. I was looking for the URL for GrayPride Tours but halfway down the first page something more intriguing caught my eye. I had found what it was that had likely beckoned Richard home.
I clicked on a link that took me to a news article from a popular west coast U.S. gay news weekly with the snippy headline:
"Beleaguered gay travel company cruising into bankruptcy?"
I scanned the article but found little detail. The news was too fresh and no one was talking much. But apparently Richard's business, GrayPride Tours, had infamously been in financial trouble for years. The not-quite-objective author of the article made thinly veiled accusations suggesting that Richard, as president and sole owner, used company dollars to fund an extravagant personal lifestyle far beyond what he or his company could sustain for any length of time.
I sat back in my chair and sipped my coffee. So, I wondered, had Richard run off to try to save his business? Or had he just run off?
I navigated back to the hit list and punched the appropriate buttons to get to the GrayPride homepage, hoping there'd be an e-mail address or "Contact Us" button I could access to send a note to Richard.
Instead I got a blue screen telling me the website I was attempting to reach no longer existed. I assumed I must have done something wrong and tried again, then a third time, always with the same result.
Thinking that perhaps I was at an old website that wasn't linked to a more recent version I went back to the hit list and searched for another web address. I found nothing for GrayPride Tours, but I did find something else.
The missing link.
My gasp was audible to Errall and several others in the tiny internet cafe.
Errall poked her head around the corner of her computer where, at my request, she was trying to contact Captain Bagnato about the results of the investigation into Phyllis' death. "What is going on over there?" she whispered, loud enough for only me to hear.
In a low voice I told Errall what I'd uncovered about GrayPride Tours' financial situation.
"That's interesting but surely not worth a gasp."
"There's more."
Hearing the ominous tone of my voice, she scurried over and, crouching at my side, studied the screen of my computer. "What's this? It looks like.. .an obituary?"
"Yes. I typed in Richard Gray as a search parameter and one of the links took me to a British Columbia newspaper archive site and the obit for Virginia Wiser...nee Gray."
It took my intelligent friend about two seconds to put it together. "Flora's mother?"
"Yes. Flora's mother and, according to this obituary, sister of Richard Gray."
"How can this be? How can Charity and Flora not have recognized him?"
"From all accounts Charity had little or nothing to do with her son, John, after he moved away from home. She may never have met Virginia, never mind Virginia's brother, Richard Gray."
"And Flora?"
"Well, I'm only guessing here, but John and Virginia were reputed to be serious alcoholics, and perhaps not the most interested in maintaining close familial ties. Flora, too, may have never met Richard, her uncle, or only as a small child."
"So what does this mean, Russell?"
"I've been perplexed by the fact that Patrick Halburton admitted to wanting to kill Charity
after
he heard about the change in her will. Yet the voices Alberta heard and the death of Charity's cat happened long before. But neither were proven or provable signs of a plan to kill Charity. Maybe Alberta is a charlatan and the cat died of natural causes. Maybe they meant nothing. But if they did..."
Errall's eyes widened. "If they did...there's another murderer out there!"
I nodded. "The real murderer... or rather, the first murderer...had to have had his plan in place as far back as last spring, in May when Morris was poisoned." My eyebrows referenced the obituary. "Richard Gray."
"But why?"
"Vengeance for his sister's death," I theorized. "He must somehow blame Charity for Virginia's death, which, according to Kayla Moshier, was more like a suicide by drunk driving than an accident."
"How could he possibly believe Charity was responsible for that?"
I shrugged. "Responsibility by way of inattentiveness?" I took a shot. "By being a bad mother, shunning her only son, ignoring him as if he was unworthy of her love.. .her money.. .her help when he needed it...she drove him, and by association, his wife Virginia, to an early death. John and Virginia Wiser died horrible, senseless deaths. Deaths like that can cause loved ones great anger."
Errall shook her head. "Oh dear God. I suppose it's possible. And if so, he's unhinged."
Richard Gray was unhinged. How could I not have seen it? How could I have...? My headache was growing worse at the thought. I'd dated jackasses before, but never a murderous jackass. I felt betrayed, disappointed...ashamed.
"But we can't be sure of any of this, Russell. It's all conjecture, possibly wild coincidence. We can't prove any of it."
Errall was right. But I didn't believe it for a second.
"And even if he did try to kill Charity," she continued, "he failed, thanks to you, and now he's gone.
Maybe that's why he left The Dorothy early. His attempts to have her knocked off flopped and he finally gave up and decided to call it a day, before anyone could suspect him of anything."
Not good enough, I growled to myself. If Richard Gray was guilty of this, as my gut told me he was, I wanted him to pay. And, somehow, I would see to it that he did.
As a travel professional, it wasn't hard to believe Richard Gray could secure connections in foreign ports of call to commit the acts of violence we'd experienced. But each attempt had been foiled. So when Patrick's threatening notes started to show up, Richard realized his great stroke of luck-there was another murderer on board, spurred by Charity's announcement, who would do his dirty work for him. So Richard orchestrated the wild shipboard goose chase to keep Flora and me occupied and Charity without protection to give the killer a chance to do the deed. When that also didn't work he resorted back to poison, his original weapon, but somehow poisoned Jackson instead of Charity. And then he planted the poison in Faith and Thomas' room to point suspicion at them, the poor relatives living hand to mouth, who'd just learned they'd get nothing from their rich sister.
I knew it was the truth-or close to it-but I couldn't prove any of it.
"Are you just about done over there?" Errall had returned to her own computer station and was slugging back the last of her wine.
The coffee seemed to be helping my headache, but I was still feeling uncomfortably hot. And uncomfortably bothered. Something, something, something more...
But there was nothing else I could think of to do on the internet to help me bring Richard Gray's actions to light or the man to justice. "Just a sec..." I was about to log off when I remembered yet another niggling bit of unfinished business. I returned to the search engine and typed in the words: A&W Incorporated-the registered owner of the Kismet.
One hit. It wasn't a website for the company, but rather some kind of public notice, referencing the initial incorporation of the Compaq several years earlier. It was mostly legal mumbo-jumbo that made little sense to me. Except for two words that jumped out at me, hitting me in the face with an almost physical force. I jerked back from the computer screen, the legs of my chair screeching against the cement floor. I stared at the two words: names.
I now knew what A&W stood for.
The first name was hauntingly familiar, a name I knew I should recognize.
Ashbourne.
Where had I heard that before?