Heirs Book Two: American Lady (23 page)

“Charley would like to provide a documentary
on Altobello as a lasting contribution to the House of
Marchessini,” Lorenzo said grandly, watching his smoke rings
disperse towards the ceiling in ever increasing circles.

Henri choked on his brandy, fine golden
droplets sprayed from his lips like a miniature fountain. Lorenzo
leaned forward to thump him heartily on the back until his breath
returned.

“Merde alors!” Henri gasped when Lorenzo had
stopped thumping him. “Merde alors, a documentary film?” he
demanded.

“Indeed a documentary film – the perfect
dowry for our modern age,” Lorenzo took his last satisfied puff.
“Time for dinner I believe.”

* * *

In the blue salon the dinner guests perched
tensely on the delicately uncomfortable Louis XVI lyre-back chairs.
Father Emile was engaging Nikki in conversation about the merits of
the recent Cannes Festival. Aurelie and Charley, clutching sherry
glasses and trying to look at ease, were being dripfed the merits
of modern French art by Prince Gaston and his artist wife
Marie-Francoise.

Oakley and Declan sat together on an
eighteenth century Dutch marquetry settee. Eying the teenager in
her favorite outfit of Doc Martens, tartan leggings and Bodymap
cropped sweater with her hair now fire-engine red and slicked back
to the nape of her neck, Leigh for once favored Aurelie. It was a
shame that Aurelie was so like Henri that her temperament baffled
her and grated on her nerves simultaneously.

“Who’s the pink puffball and the boho couple
chatting up Charley?” Leigh overheard Oakley stage whisper to
Declan before she clocked Maixent sauntering into the room.

At her almost imperceptible nod he came to
stand casually behind his mother’s antique chair. Beside her was a
French kingwood and marquetry small round table with a brass
gallery on which she had placed her sherry glass. On the under tier
of the table sat a classical urn overflowing with miniature pink
climbing roses from the palace gardens.

“I hope my son found you a suitable villa
for your holiday,” Leigh inclined her head towards Declan and
Oakley.

“It’s bitchin’!” Oakley crowed, giving Leigh
a thumbs up.

“She means it has every amenity we could
desire,” Declan hastily added.

“Including a cordless phone which Lorenzo
adores,” Oakley nudged Declan in the ribs.

“Hasn’t technology come a long way,” Leigh
agreed with a smile, letting her attention drift to Nikki. She
looked like hell on heels. Like an Easter egg on the verge of
cracking.

A butler offered Maixent sherry from an
heirloom silver platter, then retired prudently to the sideboard.
Despite the babbling brook of conversation, the room’s atmosphere
was overwrought because everyone knew, although they politely
ignored the fact, that Lorenzo and Henri were discussing the
dowry.

Heavy curtains were drawn back from the
three French doors which led out onto the terrace. The middle set
of doors was open to the evening air and a tepid breeze wafted
through, lifting Leigh’s long slinky silk scarf and staking it on
one of the miniature rose thorns. Maixent bent to disentangle
it.

Nikki ended her conversation with Father
Emile and approached Leigh.

“Would your Highness take a stroll with me
to show me the gardens outside the terrace while we await dinner?”
she asked.

Maixent moved forward to offer himself as an
escort, but his mother waved him back. “It will be a good chance
for the prospective mothers-in-law to catch up,” she agreed and the
two women disappeared through the French doors into the
twilight.

The terrace was marbled terrazzo paving and
along the sides were huge terra cotta pots overflowing with
flowering purple, pink and yellow bougainvillea. Steps led from the
terrace into the gardens. Leigh paused at the top, her scarf
wafting in the breeze, and looked shrewdly at Nikki. In the fading
light her features were blurry, her eyes dark shadows.

“I presume a tour is unnecessary,” she said
quietly.

Nikki drew her down the steps. “Of course
I’m not interested in the garden,” she hissed. “But I don’t want
anyone to hear our conversation.”

Reluctantly Leigh the way towards a
flowering hibiscus hedge behind which was placed a garden seat. “I
don’t want to talk about Maixent’s and Charley’s planned
engagement,” she stated flatly, brushing the wooden seat before
sitting down.

“I’m not going to harp on about the past,
but I do think we should formulate a plan to break them up.”

“So you’re still intent on separating them?
But that would break their hearts. I’ve never seen Maixent smitten
over a girl before.”

“They’re young enough to find other partners
to fall in love with. Good heavens, what were the odds they would
ever have met each other!”

Leigh silently agreed that this was a
relationship that should never have happened. Charley should have
married some rich Trust Fund baby and Maixent a European
aristocrat. While Nikki’s qualms about their children’s paternity
were improbable, they were not impossible. Nikki had raised a
specter from the past and Leigh found herself disturbed. “Short of
telling them the truth, how do you suggest we separate them?”

“Charley gave me the idea herself this
afternoon when we were discussing the dowry. She was very upset by
the idea of being married for her money. If we could persuade her
that Maixent didn’t really love her, but only wanted her to boost
Altobello’s finances she might decide to pull out of the
engagement,” Nikki suggested.

“What would make her think that Maix was
marrying her for her money?” Leigh demanded. “And why should Maix
come out of this looking like the bad guy?”

“Charley won’t listen to anything negative I
have to say about the relationship but she doesn’t seem prejudiced
against you, so I thought if you were the one dropping some
strategic hints into her ear she might get the idea,” Nikki
proposed.

“Really, you’ve become quite devious in your
old age,” Leigh commented cuttingly.

“Not devious, just desperate,” Nikki
corrected her. “This marriage was never meant to take place. If
they marry it will mean living on tenterhooks for you and me. Or at
least me since you don’t seem to have any conscience.” In the dim
light Nikki’s face scrunched unhappily. “Do you think we should try
to find out what happened to Jean-Luc that night?” she dropped her
voice even lower.

Leigh shuddered, remembering the anguish and
horror of Jean-Luc’s inert body lying on the bedroom floor, the
neat hole in his chest where the bullet had entered with the blood
oozing through the peignoir that she had stuffed against his
body.

Leigh had felt mounting hysteria at the
thought that he might be dead. What were they going to do? The
suffocating panic had reached into her throat and she had tasted
the sour bile from her gourmet meal earlier in the evening.
Resolutely she had clawed back her composure. Nikki was falling to
pieces and it was up to her to make the mess go away.

“Leigh, should we try to find out whether
Jean-Luc died or not?” Nikki whispered again.

“Absolutely not.” Leigh gripped Nikki’s
hands with vice like strength. “Don’t even think about it and don’t
suggest it again. What happened cannot ever be changed and digging
into the past is not going to make it go away or get better.” Leigh
paused, taking in a huge gulp of balmy night air filled with the
honeysuckle-like scent of the Arborea bougainvillea flowering
nearby to steady her nerves.

For the first year after her marriage she
had lived in anxious supsense wondering if Jean-Luc would resurface
– brash, egotistical and bold enough to demand she become his
mistress again. Slowly, she had come to grips with the fact that he
must have died that night. Bitterly, she was now realizing the
ramifications hadn’t been left at the Ile de Paris Hotel. Nikki was
the weakest link and Leigh didn’t trust her not to spill the truth
if her nerves and conscience got the better of her.

“Alright, if you’re that concerned about
Maixent and Charley getting married and having abominations for
children then I’ll talk to Charley to make her believe my son is an
asshole only interested in her money. Then you can take her back to
America and I hope I never have to see either of you again.”

* * *

When the two men joined the rest of the
dinner party in the blue salon, Lorenzo was a picture of angelic
happiness while Henri, leaning heavily on his cane and signaling
grumpily for Father Emile to assist him, looked stormy. Across the
room Maixent and Charley exchanged anxious glances. Was it good
news or bad?

The butler announced that dinner was being
served in the small dining room. Around the dining table, which was
not extended to its full length, were twelve Italian neo-classical
cream painted and parcel gilt dining chairs upholstered in blue.
The four other chairs of the setting had been pushed back against
the walls under a charming nude painted by Manet and a busy crowd
scene dominated by black-clad party-goers signed Renoir. Behind
each chair stood a servant dressed in red uniforms.

The flower-decorated eighteenth century
Sèvres porcelain plates, set on heavy linen table mats so as not to
hide the beauty of the mahogany table, were dotted with
silver-domed plate covers over sautéed fois gras on brioche.

As the guests assembled to file in, Lorenzo
pulled Maixent aside.

“I have your father’s approval to film the
documentary on Altobello as Charley’s dowry.” Lorenzo grinned at
Maixent’s stupefied look. “I will bankroll the production and
recoup my expenses once the documentary is released. We’ll sort out
the details later but I’m already planning the opening scenes of
your engagement at the Rouge et Rose Ball. So relax – there is one
less impediment to your engagement.”

Anouk buzzed her boss to announce that Police
Commissioner Gilles Beaucopas had arrived for his weekly
appointment. Wearily, Maixent raised his attention from the stack
of papers on his desk. Despite Beaucopas’ deadpan demeanour,
Maixent instantly sensed that he had news. His body was a little
too tense, his gestures a little too buoyant to mask his
agitation.

“Sit down, Gilles.” Maixent indicated the
chairs by the window, open to allow the mellow warmth of the
seabreeze to filter into his office. The two men settled
comfortably and he reigned in his own rising excitement until Anouk
brought their coffee. “Have you found out something?”

The ridges on Beaucopas’ forehead crinkled.
“I won’t bore you with the details of my staff’s efforts, but the
short answer is that there is something to report. Money has now
started to flow out of those eight original accounts we identified
as receiving the suspected laundered money. Two more accounts have
been identified as receiving money from Panama. Altogether the
accounts now hold approximately thirty million US dollars. All the
accounts are listed as Altobesque businesses, but they may in fact
be shell companies.

“My suspicion is that we’ve just discovered
the tip of the iceberg, your Highness. I strongly believe there are
more accounts either in Altobello or elsewhere in Europe that we’ve
failed to discover. But it’s certainly enough to back the suspicion
of money laundering. And the money is still coming in.”

Maixent whistled silently. In America there
were fourteen listed billionaires and in Altobello there were five.
Thirty million dollars was chickenfeed in that regard, but as
Beaucopas said, if this was just the tip of the iceberg the money
passing through the laundering operation could actually be in the
hundreds of millions.

“What’s the amount leaving the accounts?”
Maixent sipped his bitter black brew.

“It’s leaving more quickly than it arrives.
In the last week eight point five million dollars left the
accounts, wire transferred to various accounts in America and
Italy. These seem to be to legitimate business accounts, but again
they may simply be a front for the Mafia. Of course the whole idea
of money laundering is that clean money then starts to circulate
legitimately and cannot be traced.”

“So, we stand the chance of losing track of
it altogether?” Maixent asked.

“Absolutely, your Highness. Once the money
is dispersed from these Altobesque accounts there’s no way my
police service can trace them. In any event my men are not trained
in this field. We’re used to dealing with the occasional bag
snatch, a bit of hotel pilfering and the odd car crash. This scam
stretches my officers beyond their normal range of duties.”
Beaucopas’ sagging features seemed to wilt even further as he raked
a hand through his shaggy, gray-streaked hair which looked to be in
need of a hair cut. “I have been working seven days a week
personally tracking the bank accounts that have been identified as
part of the money laundering operation.

“I am gravely concerned at the extent of
this operation, your Highness. We really should alert Interpol and
let them deal with the matter,” he advised. “At the very least let
me continue talking to Judge Falcone in Rome. I have great faith in
the work he is doing in Italy as he prepares to bring the Mafiosa
to trial. He may be able to advise us on how to proceed from this
point.”

Maixent knew that Beaucopas was speaking
from his police experience and should be listened to, yet still he
stubbornly hesitated to relinquish control of the situation to the
international policy agency. His biggest fear had been that the
laundered money would flood the Altobello economy causing shambles
and rocking its financial base. If what Beaucopas said was true,
then that didn’t seem to be the aim of the operation and the money
was in fact flowing out, so Altobello was merely used as a conduit.
Could it be that simple?