Claim You, page 5
He rolled his suitcase up and came to a stop behind her as the long line ambled along. “You’re going to the Tate villa, right?”
She nodded.
He pointed down the street. “Then you’ll need to go there. The ferry will get you there easier. The land taxi isn’t the best option to get to Isolde Santa Maria.”
“Santa Maria?”
“The Tate Villa is on that private island so the vaporetti won’t go there. In boca al lupo!”
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, hurrying off to the larger boat, dragging her suitcase behind her.
She made it just as the ferryman was getting ready to take off. Climbing aboard, she handed him the black card Goldie had provided for her expenses, and then they were off.
Daisy stood on the deck of the boat, letting the warm sea breeze caress her face and trying to enjoy the moment. The scenery was beautiful, the many-colored, tightly-packed buildings rising up from the green water. But she had other things on her mind.
The first thing was, what kind of reception would she get at the Tate villa?
According to Goldie, when she’d called the new wife and told her to expect an investigator, Kiki hadn’t taken it well. “Oh, she was as mad as a hornet. But I told her that if she didn’t cooperate, that it would only make her look guilty. She shut up, right after that,” Goldie had said.
It didn’t mean that Kiki Tate would welcome her to the estate with open arms.
Daisy was sure that a big part of that had to do with Goldie. Goldie was clearly a big personality—when she didn’t like someone, she made it known. And she obviously hated Kiki Tate.
But for what reason? Despite what she’d said, maybe there was jealousy there and Goldie Tate still held a torch for her old flame.
Yes, it was counterintuitive to think that the person hiring her could be the culprit, but Daisy couldn’t help being suspicious. She’d been hired for the last case, on the yacht, by a dead man’s fiancé, only to learn the fiancé had killed the man and hired her hoping that doing so would make her look innocent.
Based on the shabby Fortune Investigations office, the woman had thought Daisy was incompetent and would never put two and two together. She’d been wrong.
But Daisy couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was beginner’s luck, and she really wasn’t as skilled an investigator as the newspapers had said.
Goldie was a smart one. Maybe she saw that, too, and had hired Daisy for her incompetence. Though she hadn’t been aboard the plane, maybe she had an accomplice, and was behind her ex’s death.
Anything was possible.
A giant, pink-toned mansion rose up from the trees, with many arches and terraces. It clung precariously to a high cliffside, and there was a long stone staircase with many switchbacks, coming from the dock, cutting its way up through the trees. It made Daisy feel dizzy, just looking at it. There were no other buildings in sight.
As she disembarked, she asked the ferry operator, “Scusi, I’m looking for the Tate villa? Is that . . .?” She pointed up.
He nodded. “Tate? Si.”
Taking a deep breath, she began the long climb, dragging along her suitcase. She’d packed light, but halfway up it began to feel like it was full of rocks and her arm felt rubbery. She didn’t finish until she was well out of breath, her travel clothes clinging with sweat to her body. As she approached the archway to some thick, rustic, wood double doors, a bead of sweat trickled down her nose.
She scraped her wild blonde curls into a ponytail, trying to wrangle them into something presentable. Then she pulled on the knocker and let it drop, and almost immediately, a slight woman in a black polo and shorts answered. “Si?”
“Hi, there. I’m Daisy Fortune. I’m here to meet with—”
“Oh, yes. You are expected,” she said in broken English, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Daisy left her suitcase next to the front step and went in. The woman led Daisy into a modern foyer with a high ceiling and exposed beams. There were plants everywhere and, overhead, a stained glass window that sent crystals of every color onto the tile floor. Daisy didn’t have time to gape at the beauty. The efficient housekeeper walked at a hurried clip toward another large room with an enormous stucco fireplace as the centerpiece. Atop the rough-hewn wood mantle was a large, rather garish painting of a balding man and a much-younger woman with white-blonde hair. They were dressed in white, with olive leaf headdresses, much like Greek gods and goddesses, embracing in front of a sunset with an active volcano in the background.
“Nice painting,” Daisy remarked as she sat down on the leather couch, since she really couldn’t take her eyes off the artwork. The eyes seemed to follow her around the room.
“Hmph,” the housekeeper said, casting a sour glance at it. Clearly, she didn’t think it was nice, or she saw through Daisy’s attempt to be friendly. “Can I get you something to drink? I have fresh lemonade.”
“No, thanks,” Daisy said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a pad and pen. “I’d really just like to meet with Ms. Tate and get some background information on the case, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sorry, but Ms. Tate isn’t here. She had an engagement in town,” the woman said stiffly.
“Oh.” So much for her expecting me. Or maybe it was because she was expecting me that she decided to make herself scarce? “Will she be back soon?”
“No, not likely. She just left.”
That was perfect. Daisy snapped the cover of her notebook closed and stood up. “Is there someone else I can speak to, who knows about Franklin Tate’s death?”
The woman let out a sigh and sat down in a chair across from Daisy, wiping her hands on her thighs. “You may talk to me. But I can’t talk for long. I’m charged with keeping this house in order, and I have much to do, since Mr. Tate’s death.”
Daisy looked around. The house looked spotless. “It looks very nice in here. I’m sure that’s a testament to the--”
“The courtyard is a mess. Ms. Tate has been spending all her time poolside, with friends. However they’re having a celebration of life in two days, and I need to make arrangements for that.”
“I see. And you are?”
“Roberta Principe. His head housekeeper. I’ve been with the family since he bought this place, with wife number one.”
“Goldie?”
She nodded. “Yes, the one who hired you.”
“And what did you think when you heard about that?”
The woman shrugged, indifferent. “The first Mrs. Tate was very shrewd. Okay, if she did it, I am sure there was a reason.”
“So you liked her?”
“I like all my employers.”
“Even Kiki?”
She pressed her lips together for a moment before looking away and saying, “You will not hear me say otherwise.”
I’ll take that as a no. “And what was your impression of Mr. Tate?”
“I liked him, too,” she said, without emotion. “He’s my employer, so of course, I appreciate him.”
“Okay, but what kind of employer was he? Was he difficult? Did he have trouble with any of the staff, that you know of?”
She waved her hand. “He wasn’t difficult. In fact, he’s very hands-off. If I didn’t clean the place in a month, I doubt he’d have noticed. And neither would Ms. Tate. I’m the stickler. They are not exactly the cleanest people, you see, so they need me.”
“You said they have a lot of parties?”
“Yes, they had one almost every other night, and they tore the place to shreds every time. It was my job to put it together. They always had someone new over.”
“What kind of parties were these? Did you serve at them?”
“The ones we had with Goldie were nice. Sedate. Elegant. The ones with Kiki . . .” She made a face. “He bought this place because he liked his privacy. Because he wanted to be away from the city proper. It was a jewel. But when Kiki came along, let’s just say she didn’t have the same respect for it that the other wives had.”
“These parties . . . they were wild?”
“A bit like a fraternity party, I’ll admit. At first, they were fine. But after a time, when everyone was quite drunk and they didn’t need us anymore, we were sent to our quarters. That was usually when the cocaine came out. I’d always find it in the morning, when we cleaned up.”
Daisy looked at her notes. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Tate?”
“The day he left,” she said, again, without emotion. “I always saw him off before his trips. He did everything the same. I gave him his regular carry-on bag, his suitcase with a couple changes of clothes, and he kissed Ms. Tate goodbye, and left, same as always.”
“So there was nothing different?”
“No . . . not that I remember,” she said, deep in thought. “Oh, well, there was one thing, now that you mention it. But I don’t know if it’s relevant. I usually pack his things for his protein drink. Just the ingredients, kale and whatnot, so that someone can make the drink for him on the plane. Mr. Tate didn’t trust anyone else to do it, so I did it for him. I suppose once, they forgot, and Mr. Tate had a terrible trip. If he doesn’t drink it every morning, he gets a terrible headache, because of the altitude. But when I went downstairs to put the ingredients into a bag, Ms. Tate had already assembled it.”
That sounded odd. “And she never did that before?”
“No. Ms. Tate never did anything in the kitchen. So I was surprised. But I think it was because of the argument they’d had.”
“Argument?”
“Well, yes. I don’t listen in on my employers’ arguments, but I’m sure they heard it all the way to downtown Venice, it was that loud,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “He said something to her about his money, and how all she did was spend, spend, spend, bleeding him dry.”
Now, her eyes were wide.
“That was unusual for him?”
“Oh, yes. He never spoke of money, and nothing was too good for his new bride. He threw money around like it grew on trees. So when he said that, I was surprised.” She shrugged and sat back in her chair. “I figured that was why Ms. Tate was in the kitchen. She was finally trying to help out and not simply drain his wallet.”
“So she never really lifted a finger to help him?”
“No. Typical twenty-five-year-old. It’s all about her. He made it all about her. And she loved the attention, loved being spoiled. He loved spoiling her. The only time I ever got a hint that the arrangement wasn’t working for him was that night.”
“The night before he left.”
She looked at Daisy as if she’d seen a ghost. “Yes. Now that you mention it. Yes.”
Daisy scanned her notes. “This protein drink . . . he drank it every time he flew?”
Roberta nodded.
If so, and if Kiki had poisoned the drink, then why had it not affected him until they returned home? “Do you have the itinerary of the trip?”
“Of course. It was a gambling trip, I believe. They always made the same rounds. Mr. Tate and his friends frequented Monte Carlo, and then they’d fly to Cannes or Lyon—one or the other—and try the casinos there. And then back to Venice. He’d always try his luck in Venice, on the way home. I believe it was superstition. He was a superstitious man.”
“Was he? And do you know the names of the friends he brought with him?”
She began to count the names out on one hand. Some of them were names that had been listed by the businessman on the airplane, and Daisy marked them off, then scribbled down a few new ones. Six men in all.
Daisy stared at the list. “These men were all friends of Mr. Tate’s?”
“Yes. Some were business relations, but they were friends, first. Mr. Tate was very good to his friends. He always made time for them. They had a club . . .” She frowned. “I can’t remember what it was called.”
“Frati?”
“Yes, right. The brotherhood. He treated many of those men like his own brothers. It’s funny—I have been with him so long but I couldn’t tell you if he had any blood family. I never met them. But his friends, I met over and over again. He was very good to them. He always took them on trips. This one was to celebrate Matteo’s birthday, I think.”
She scanned the list. “Matteo Frenzi?”
“That’s right. Young man. But very successful. He was always here. People used to joke that the two were attached at the hip, they were always together.”
“Thank you, this is great,” Daisy said, still trying to decide where to go, next. Clearly, the wife wasn’t going to show up anytime soon, and the housekeeper’s manner wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t welcoming, either. She couldn’t ask to sit by the pool and wait for Kiki to return. “Could you tell me, is Mr. Tate’s private plane located at the Venice airport?”
“Oh, no. This is Mr. Tate’s private island. He had his own runway, hangar, and everything, right nearby so he could easily go off whenever he liked. It was the first thing he built, even before the house.” She stood up. “The first Ms. Tate said you might want to go see it. Would you like to?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be great.”
Daisy expected the woman would escort her there, but instead, she just pointed out the window. “Go out the way you came, down the steps, but at the dock make a left. Ask for Arlo. He manages things down there.”
“Great. That’s perfect. Thanks.”
The woman stared at her expectantly, hands on hips, as if to say, Now, please leave me alone. To confirm the fact, the moment Daisy stepped out the door and turned to thank the housekeeper again, she found the door already closed behind her.
And as she began her walk down to the airplane hangar, she couldn’t fight the feeling that someone, inside the house, was watching her every move.
CHAPTER SIX
Thankfully, the walk back down the steps was much easier, but by the time Daisy reached the dock again, she’d had it with her suitcase. She left it there, then walked inland. By the time she reached the clearing with the airplane hangar, she really could’ve used that lemonade. It was hot, and her mouth was desert-dry.
She doubted she’d find anything to quench her thirst, here. As opulent as the house was, this area was anything but. All it consisted of was a large tarmac overgrown with weeds and needing repair in places, as well as an old, rusting hangar. It looked closed up, too, abandoned.
Even as she drew closer, she saw no signs of life. She went to the service door, which had the only window into the place, cupped her hands around her eyes, and peered inside.
There was a man reclined behind a desk, sneakered feet up on it. She couldn’t see him very well because the place was full of smoke.
She knocked.
Immediately, the man sprang to attention, nearly falling back on his chair. He righted himself and jogged to the door, unlocking it, and cracking it open. “Si?”
The wall of pot smoke that hit Daisy was enough to give her a high. She waved it away, eyes tearing. “Arlo?”
“Si, that’s me. You that investigator from America?”
She nodded, still choking on the fumes. “Can I ask you some questions?”
“Sure! Come in, come in! Roberta told me you’d be around.”
She hesitantly looked toward his office, which was still lost in a cloud of heavy smoke. “If you don’t mind, could you show me the plane? I can ask you the questions from there.”
“Oh, sure, sure,” he said excitedly, feeling in his pockets. He pulled out a set of keys and led her to the doors to the hangar.
He struggled for a long time to find the right key, until Daisy nearly offered to take over for him. “Ah, here,” he said, holding up the right one. “Sorry. Didn’t really have much on the agenda, today, so . . .”
So you decided to get high. Makes sense, I guess. “Not a problem,” she said as he shuffled in. He had longish dark hair and a painter’s cap, and faded jeans that hung too low on his frame, showcasing the band of his white underwear. His t-shirt, though, clung tightly to his body, displaying his lean but fit frame. “You’ve worked for the Tates for a long time?”
“Sure, sure. I was here when they built this. Fifteen years ago? My first job out of school was FBO of this place.”
“FBO?”
“It means that I manage this place. We had more pilots and more planes, before, because we used to fly other people on the island. But gradually that dried up, and Tate sold it all off. Now, the only jet that takes off out of here is this one, and my little plane. And I’m FBO and pilot.”
“You’re a pilot?”
“I’m his regular pilot. Si. He has a couple of people to maintain the plane, but I pilot the aircraft and keep the place running.”
“That sounds like a lot of work for one person?”
He shrugged. “Not really. We were a lot busier before. Just flying him and his friends around wasn’t so bad. And it was steady work.”
He slid open the heavy doors. The first thing she saw was an enormous private jet, taking up much of the available space. It dwarfed the tiny prop plane next to it. “Wow.”
“It’s a beauty, no? I call her Big Blue.” He gazed at it proudly. “Mine, over there, is Little Blue. The boys got ol’ Big back in condition after the last flight. I let them go. Didn’t seem like much of a reason to keep them here if the Tates weren’t going to be doing any flying anytime soon. Ms. Tate doesn’t travel by air.”
“She doesn’t?”
He shook his head. “Afraid of flying, believe it or not. When they go anywhere, it’s by boat.”
“Oh.” Something dawned on her. “So does that mean . . .?”
“They’ll probably close this place down. Yeah. No sense keeping it.” He motioned her toward the plane. “Care to look inside?”
“Yes, please. So you piloted the plane on this last journey?”
“I did. Me and Bernie. He’s my regular co-pilot. Need two pilots to fly this baby. But he only comes on when I need him. Mostly for weekends.”
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