Daggers and Men's Smiles by Jill Downie Read Free Book Online Page B

mother would have called it “an old-fashioned look,” but that seemed particularly inappropriate for this young woman.
    If the outside of the manor house was Walt Disney or Bram Stoker, depending on your aesthetic point of view, the inside was as close to Renaissance palazzo as the designer could get, given the architectural constraints. Moretti and his colleague walked under a succession of high, embossed ceilings, past long stretches of walls hung with what looked like family portraits, heraldic devices, the heads of animals slaughtered long ago and in other countries. Overflowing baskets and jugs of flowers filled the empty summer grates of stone fireplaces built into the thick walls.
    â€œImpressive,” said Moretti, stopping briefly to admire a luscious still life of flowers and fruit. “I wonder how much of this was changed by the film company — or does it always look like a Medici palazzo?”
    â€œAll I know is that one of the staff who’s my father’s cousin said working here was like being in Tuscany, where she’d done a wine tour one year.”
    Ahead of them now was the principal reception room. And in the centre of the stateroom, amid golden brocade-covered walls, were gathered the marchesa, the woman Mario Bianchi had identified as Giulia Vannoni, and another man whom Moretti didn’t recognize. He was young, in his early twenties, handsome, but with a softness in his features that suggested a character flaw rather than gentleness or any more positive quality. The incongruous presence of two movie cameras against the golden walls added to the impression that the group was waiting for someone to shout “action!”
    The three sat side by side on a gilded sofa, unsmiling, staring unblinkingly at the two policeman. Giulia Vannoni stood by the fireplace, drinking from a bottle of mineral water. She had unzipped her tight-fitting red leather jacket, displaying a minute black lycra bandeau and a tanned length of torso. Her black leather pants looked as if they had been spray-painted onto her spectacular haunches. The quintessential mesomorph , thought Moretti. He introduced himself and DC Falla.
    â€œI’m sorry we kept you waiting. If I could first make sure we have your names correctly. You are —?” Moretti directed his first question to the young man.
    â€œGianfranco Vannoni.” He spread his hands and gave a shrug. “I do not speak much English.”
    â€œMy son.” It was the marchesa who spoke. “He lives in Italy, looking after our business affairs. But for the moment he is helping Mario on Rastrellamento — as assistant director. I can speak or translate for him, if necessary.”
    â€œNo need, marchesa. I speak Italian, if necessary,” said Moretti. He watched with interest as three sets of eyebrows went up.
    â€œMoretti — you are Italian?” asked Monty Lord.
    â€œMy father was.” Moretti went swiftly through the formalities and then said, “This is a trying time for you. I am very sorry about the tragic death of Mr. Albarosa.”
    â€œMurder.” It was the marchesa who spoke. “Murder, Detective Inspector Moretti. A sick mind playing games, perhaps. But murder. My poor daughter has been informed. She is on her way here, to say goodbye to her dear husband, the father of her children.”
    The Marchesa Donatella Vannoni was, in her own way, as impressive physically as her niece. Full-lipped and full-hipped, with a mane of dark hair streaked with grey, she was an Anna Magnani of a woman, with an aura of raw sensuality about her. But somehow she conveyed an air of austere grandeur, a cold remoteness, a structure built to keep people out. There was a marked divergence between her physical opulence and her conservative style of dressing: her lush curves were controlled beneath a dark grey carapace of a dress, and a bruisingly thick gold necklace lay over the generous shelf of her bosom