The House in Amalfi (31 page)

And yet when I’d telephoned, Cassandra Biratta had agreed at once to see me. Now I wondered why. Was she afraid that I was about to make her affair with Jon-Boy public? Was she afraid that I knew the truth about his death and was about to tell the world?

And there would go your reputation,
contessa
, I thought bitterly as I pressed my finger on the bell and heard it ring in the stone gatehouse. I’d expected some little old lady in black who’d been with the family for half a century to answer, but instead a uniformed security guard appeared, his hand ready on the gun at his hip. Obviously his family did not mess around, and I suddenly felt nervous about what I was going to do.

I gave the guard my name and told him the
contessa
was expecting me. He went back to check his list; then he opened the electronic gates and signaled me to enter.

A houseman in a white jacket and black pants stood waiting at the top of the impressive flight of stone steps leading up to the front door. He ushered me into the hall, offering to take my jacket, but I said I preferred to keep it on, thank you.

There was something decidedly chilly about the Palazzo Biratta, a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature but emanated all the way from its forty-foot arched ceiling to its marble terrazzo floors, via the sweeping staircase and lofty corridors and its tapestry-hung walls. It was filled with the over-the-top overstuffed things money had bought over centuries and reminded me of Grand Central Station, with antiques. I shivered, thinking you would be hard pushed to find a cozy spot to curl up in on a winter’s eve here.

I followed the houseman down one of the long corridors, past marble statues ensconced in spot-lit niches, past gilded consoles and formal flower arrangements fit for the lobby of a grand hotel. We ended up in what I guessed was one of the palazzo’s more modest sitting rooms, obviously suitable for a talk with a more modest, everyday person like myself.

“The
contessa
will be with you shortly, signora,” the man said. “Would you care for some refreshment? A cool drink or an espresso?”

I thanked him but said no. I preferred not to accept anything from the woman who had killed my father.

Left alone, I inspected the ornate furnishings, the great swags of silk brocade at the windows, the bibelots and silver-framed photos. It crossed my mind that this place must be hell to dust, and I wondered if it was worth it; living here would be like living in a museum. I had a sudden longing to be back in my simple house with its magical view the only ornament needed. I wished I was out on my terrace having dinner and sharing a glass of wine with Lorenzo.

Lorenzo.
My heart sank. Lorenzo had guarded his secrets and I was about to let those secrets out of the bag.
Oh, Lorenzo, Lorenzo
, I thought, and I could almost hear the sound of my heart cracking.
I believed you were my enemy; then you became my friend, and then my lover. . . . And now you’ll never want to see me again.

The door opened behind me. I swung round and looked at one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Jon-Boy’s description of her in his diary flew instantly into my mind:
“C” . . . wrapped in fur, face peeking from the big collar like a pretty little fox . . . or vixen is more like it. . . .

That face was a pale, perfect oval, her mouth a full, sensual scarlet. Her dark eyes tilted at the corners over the high cliff of her cheekbones. Beauty like this did not occur often, and at her age it definitely did not come cheap. She was, I guessed, in her sixties, slender and lithe as a girl, her long legs displayed by elegant high heels and a skirt that hit just above the knee. She was not the kind of woman to wear stilettos; these shoes were just high enough to show off her ankles and yet remain within the bounds of good taste. In fact, “good taste” was what the Contessa Biratta was all about, from her Mabé-pearl earrings, to the creamy ropes of very large South Sea pearls at her neck, to her armful of gold bracelets and the discreet gold watch.

She was so absolutely lovely, I had no wonder Jon-Boy had been unable to resist her. But then I also remembered Mifune’s description of her:
Like an elegant white crane, the kind you see in old Japanese watercolors. Graceful, beautiful, and with a heart of steel.
Shaking Cassandra Biratta’s hand and looking into her cold, dark eyes, I understood what Mifune had meant.

“Please have a seat, Signora Harrington,” she said in a low voice, cool as the air-conditioning. She motioned me to a formal pale brocade sofa and took a seat on a matching one on the other side of a glass table scattered with more priceless Biratta artifacts.

I watched her taking me in. I was an alien being in her rarefied existence, yet I knew she had been born into an impoverished peasant family in Apulia, one of the poorest parts of Italy, and that she had ascended to all this grandeur via her beauty. In fact, Cassandra Biratta epitomized the term
courtesan
, now more often known as “trophy wives,” because these days rich men marry courtesans instead of merely keeping them as pampered mistresses.

“You resemble your father,” she said, surprising me, because I’d thought she would deny ever knowing him. “So, signora, why don’t you tell me why you are here?”

“I came to ask you about Jon-Boy’s murder,” I said, and saw her stiffen.

“Then I cannot help you. I know nothing of your father’s death, other than what I heard.”

I nodded. “The great storm, Jon-Boy out alone in a boat, Jon-Boy presumed drowned, his body never found . . . that’s the way the story goes, Contessa Biratta. But you and I know better.”

Eyes narrowed to slits, she didn’t looked nearly as beautiful as she said, “That is what I was told. I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

“Then what if I ask you about Isabella? Surely you remember her? The young woman you replaced in my father’s bed?” I heard her hiss with fury, but I continued regardless, inventing as I went, somehow knowing what this woman would have done. “You were
jealous, Contessa.
You went to her; you told her Jon-Boy cared nothing for her. You made sure she didn’t get near my father until that night when she showed up at the house in Amalfi.”

Cassandra sat back on the hard sofa. Her tightly knotted fingers betrayed the look of calmness she had arranged on her face.

“My dear Signora Harrington,” she said quietly, “this is all hearsay. You were a child when I knew your father. You were not even living in this country. How can you believe all this nonsense?” She shook her head. “No, no, no, you are wrong. Your father had a ‘relationship’ with Isabella Mancini for a while, I knew that, but it was over by the time—”

She stopped abruptly but I knew she had been about to say “I came on the scene. . . .” But of course, that would have been an admission that she had an affair with Jon-Boy, and she wasn’t about to fall into that trap.

“I met Jon-Boy here in Rome,” she said instead. “I admired his talent. My husband and I have a policy of helping artists, as this family has since the days of the Renaissance. The count took a great liking to
il dottore.
They spent many pleasant evenings together discussing literature, especially Hemingway and Dos Passos and other writers of that era, who have always fascinated the count. As have the great classic Italian poets whom Jon-Boy was apparently studying for his new novel. The two men got along very well and Jon-Boy came often to the palazzo.”

I tried and failed to imagine Jon-Boy at ease in this rarefied atmosphere, lounging against these hard sofas and discussing
Dante with the count over a glass of vintage port. Jon-Boy was of the earth and he would never willingly have spent more than ten minutes in a place like this.

“There was a dress of yours, hanging in his closet,” I said to her. “A red chiffon. The designer was Giorgio Vivari.”

She shrugged. “Many women have dresses by Vivari.”

“Not this one,” I said, watching closely for her reaction. “I showed it to Signor Vivari. He told me he designed it specially for you. There was only ever
one
dress like that made,
Contessa. Your dress.
”

She took a deep breath, obviously gathering her thoughts, and also, I guessed, her wits. I was on my mettle for whatever she might throw out next, but then she surprised me.

“So what do you want me to say?” She spoke in a low, quiet voice, as though afraid she would be overheard. “You want me to admit I had an affair with Jon-Boy? And why should I,
cara
? So you can tell my husband what he already suspects was true? So you can wreck my marriage and I’ll end up in the divorce courts? And all for a man who is already dead?”

I hated her for the sheer callousness of that last remark, but trembling, I held myself back. “I have no interest in wrecking your marriage,” I said coldly. “I simply want to know what really happened to my father. And how you killed him.”

Her face dropped and her eyes flew wide open. She got to her feet. “I told you I know nothing. I was not there that night. . . .”

“You were seen,” I said. “You were out on the cliff that night, with the rain and the hail pelting down and the wind blowing up from hell. You
know
what happened to my father, and now you must tell me.”

She stalked angrily to the window, where she stood, arms folded across her chest, staring out at the tall plane trees shading her beautiful courtyard.

“There were witnesses,” I said softly. “If you wish, I can bring them here, so you can ask them yourself what they saw.”

She was silent for a long moment; then she turned. “I did not kill your father,” she said simply, “and that is the truth.”

I looked into the beautiful face of my father’s lover, the woman I had considered evil, a murderer. Her eyes met mine and I saw the tears in them.

And to my astonishment, I believed her. And I believed she still loved Jon-Boy.

Framed by the tall silk-curtained window, Cassandra might have been a portrait by Sargent: moneyed, titled, timeless, and ever graceful.

When I told her I believed her, her lovely face seemed to crack just a little, showing the faint stirrings of emotion. She came to sit next to me on my hard sofa. Her eyes searched my face.

“You are so like him it’s uncanny,” she said at last. “When I walked into this room and saw you standing there, I was suddenly swept back to a place and time I had hoped to forget.” She shrugged. “Of course I should have known better. Your father is unforgettable.”

She pressed a bell to summon the houseman and I thought she was going to tell him to show me out, but instead she asked if I would care for a drink. Surprised at her hospitality, I asked for water. She requested a vodka and tonic on the rocks, and to tell the truth, I thought she looked as though she needed one. Her face was suddenly drawn, her eyes locked off from me.

The houseman was back in minutes with our refreshments. She sipped hers gratefully while I sat wondering what she was going to tell me, because it was obvious that something was on her mind.

“Thank you for believing me,” she said at last. “Yes, I had
an affair with Jon-Boy, and yes, I was in love with him, in my own way. I enjoyed him.” She shrugged. “You know
il dottore
, charming, handsome, irresistible.” She thought for a moment. “Of course Jon-Boy was more than just that. He was a man of deep feelings, of heightened emotions, a sensitive man, and his own worst critic. He was mercurial, wanting peace and solitude one minute, parties and people and lovers the next. I wasn’t faithful to him and he knew it,
and
knew why. He was too in love with me and I couldn’t allow that. I know that sounds contradictory, but after all, I was a married woman. I had my own life and I was never going to give that up. Jon-Boy knew it when he met me, knew it was to be nothing more than a wild flirtatious affair. But for him it became more. He was obsessed by me; I felt smothered by his love. Finally I could stand no more, and besides, I knew it was dangerous and that he might go to my husband. I told him it was over and he begged me to come one last time to the house in Amalfi.” She lifted her shoulders again in a shrug. “I said yes.”

She gulped the vodka. Her hand was shaking so much, the ice cubes rattled against the glass.

“I’m grateful to you for telling me this,” I said in a low voice, because I didn’t want to disturb her confessional mood. I wanted to encourage her to tell me what happened next.

“Jon-Boy asked me to bring the red dress. ‘Wear it for me one last time, Cassandra,’ he said. ‘I want to remember you the way you were the night we first met at the New Year’s Eve party.’

“So I wore the dress for him at dinner that night, and the perfume he liked on me, Shalimar. I no longer use it; it’s too associated with him. He was his usual happy-go-lucky self, talking about his new book, the new restaurant in Capri we had to try together. . . . He was talking like a man making
plans for a future and I reminded him I was there to say good-bye. He refused to accept that. I was a little sad to be leaving him, but I needed to get on with my own life. I was a woman with a social position to think of, my responsibilities, my husband. It was very much over for me.”