Last Voyage of the Valentina(115)

“Like Valentina,” repeated Nero and his eyes filled once again with tears.

Alba wandered around the room, past a marble fireplace that still vibrated with the heat it had provided for the marchese and his lovers, past a tallboy of drawers, all empty. Then she flopped onto the bed. She felt uneasy. She didn’t want to look at Nero; she knew instinctively that he was about to divulge something terrible. She turned and caught her breath. Her eyes alighted on a picture of a beautiful young woman lying naked on grass. Her breasts were young and full, her hips round and soft, her pubic hair a shock of dark against the whiteness of her thighs. Alba recoiled. The long dark hair, laughing eyes, and mysterious smile that played about her lips were unmistakable. Indeed, inscribed at the bottom were the words Valentina, reclining nude, Thomas Arbuckle, 1945.

“Oh my God!”

“What is it?” Fitz hurried over.

“It’s Valentina.”

“What?”

“The last portrait my father drew of my mother. The one he searched for after her death but never found. She gave it to the marchese.”

Now Alba realized why her father had been so desperate to find it. It was the most intimate of them all. A picture that should have been for their eyes only. Yet she had given it away. Alba took it down off the wall and brushed the dust off the frame. Fitz sat on the bed beside her. Neither noticed that Nero’s shoulders had begun to shake. “How dare he!” she exclaimed in fury. “How dare she!” She remembered her father’s gray, tormented face when she had given him the first portrait. How little she had understood him. “It breaks my heart to think of Daddy searching for this, while all along it was here with this pig. Wherever he is, I spit on his grave.”

Nero turned, his face an open wound. “Now you know why this house is cursed. Why it’s in ruins. Why it will turn to dust. Why Ovidio was murdered.” His voice was a desperate howl, an animal in pain.

Fitz and Alba stared at him in amazement. “The marchese was murdered too?” said Fitz.

“My Ovidio was murdered.” He sank to the floor and curled up into a ball.

“Why was he murdered?” Alba asked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Because he killed Valentina,” he wailed. “Because he killed her.”





28




F itz and Alba found Lattarullo drinking limoncello in the trattoria with the retired mayor. When they approached, Lattarullo’s face turned serious for they were both pale, as if they had just walked with the dead. The mayor excused himself so that they could be alone. He knew what they had come to talk about. It was better that they discussed such matters with the carabiniere. After all, he had known the girl’s father and been the first at the murder scene. He had hoped that they wouldn’t rummage around in the past. Best left alone and forgotten.

“Take a seat,” said Lattarullo, forcing a smile.

“We need to talk,” said Alba. She took Fitz’s hand. “We’ve just been up to the palazzo.”

Lattarullo’s shoulders dropped. “You talked to Nero,” he said. “He’s a drunk. He’s got no money. Squandered it all on drink and gambling. He’s as ruined as the house.”

“The marchese killed Valentina. Why?” Alba’s voice was formidable.

The carabiniere sat back in his chair and bit the inside of his cheek. “You’ve solved a case that the best detectives couldn’t solve.”

“They didn’t even try,” she snapped.

“They had Lupo Bianco, what did they care about a domestic matter?”

“Why did he kill her? He loved her.”

“Because he didn’t want your father to have her.”

“He was jealous?”

“If he couldn’t have her, no one else should. She drove him crazy. That’s what Valentina did. She drove men crazy. The marchese was already crazier than the rest.”

“I know she had a German lover. I saw his letters.”

“Yes, she had a German protector. She had many. She drove them all crazy. Even the ones she didn’t want.”

“It’s so pointless.” Alba sighed heavily.

“And such a waste.” Lattarullo turned and ordered three limoncellos.

It was only later that evening, when Alba sat with Fitz and Falco on the terrace, that the full truth was finally revealed. Immacolata and Beata had retired to their rooms; Toto was in the town with friends. Cosima was tucked up in bed, hugging her rag doll and the happy memories of the day. The setting sun glowed golden in a pale, watery sky, dyeing the clouds floating upon it pink like cotton candy. It was a magnificent scene. Alba was aware of her imminent departure and her heart filled with unbearable sorrow.