A shadow flitted across her face for a fraction of a second before she replied with an air of assumed positivity. ‘It’s an amazing opportunity for me. I’ve just finished a doctorate in media studies – my thesis was on powerful female figures of TV and cinema. As you can imagine, Miss Graceland is one of the most significant. Like I say, it’s a terrific opportunity.’ Her voice tailed off a bit at the end, and I couldn’t help giving her another prompt.
‘A terrific opportunity but…? Is the job maybe not quite what you were expecting? Is Miss Graceland not what you were expecting?’
Her cheeks flushed, and for a moment, I thought she wasgoing to give me an honest answer, but then she just produced a little smile. ‘I’m not sure what I was expecting, really. But she’s been very kind to me, and it’s a real privilege being able to work with an actor of her stature.’
I didn’t blame her for her reticence. She didn’t know me from Adam, and if she had opened up to me about any doubts, she had no way of knowing whether I would go running to her employer to pass on the information. I smiled back and transferred my attention to a gondola that emerged from a very narrow side canal and glided sedately directly across the Grand Canal, somehow managing to avoid being bulldozed out of the way by the succession of far bigger vessels travelling up and down. I filed Mary’s hesitation away for future reference. It sounded as though Alice Graceland maybe wasn’t the easiest of employers, but I had heard enough about spoiled Hollywood stars not to be surprised by this. At that moment, we emerged from the Grand Canal into a much wider waterway, and Mary was quick to change back to tourist guide again.
‘On the right are the islands of San Giorgio Maggiore and Giudecca, and up ahead on the left, you can see the famous belltower, and in a few moments, we’ll be able to see into St Mark’s square. Check out the Palazzo Ducale and St Mark’s Basilica, the cathedral. It’s one of the most iconic views in the world. Every time I come past here, I imagine how life must have been for the Doge, the overall ruler of the Republic, back in medieval and Renaissance times.’
I stood and gazed in silent awe at the view. All along the quayside to our left, there were glossy, black gondolas moored against wooden posts, while behind them was a symphony of white stone buildings with countless columns, arches, statues, domes and spires. Towering above everything was the red brick and white marble campanile with a golden archangel Gabriel at thevery top, but with the winged lion, the symbol of Venice, proudly displayed at the top of the façade not far below the angel. I had seen it numerous times in photos and on TV but seeing it at first-hand was stunning. Equally stunning was the mass of people filling the square. There must have been thousands of tourists milling around there, and I spared a thought for ordinary Venetians trying to go about their daily work. Certainly, being a postman trying to do his rounds here was likely to take considerable patience.
The water became slightly rougher as we left the Grand Canal behind us and emerged into the open waters of the lagoon. Ahead of us was a long spit of land covered in buildings that Mary told me was the Lido – effectively the barrier separating Venice from the Adriatic sea beyond. At first, it looked as though we were going to be heading there, but I was in for a surprise. As we approached a small island to our right, more like a fortress built of red bricks with walls the height of a two- or three-storey house, Diego, our driver – or should that be our captain? – slowed the engine, spun the wheel and turned towards it. He drew up alongside a stone jetty below what looked like the only entrance to the fortress – an arched doorway set in the massive walls – and he expertly moored up behind a smaller wooden boat with its outboard motor tilted up out of the water. Mary shot me a triumphant glance.
‘I said it would be a surprise, didn’t I? This is one of a number of fortifications built to defend the city. This one dates back to the fourteenth century and its Italian name is theIsoladei Cigni, literally the Island of the Swans. Miss Graceland bought it two years ago and the builders only finished the total renovation and restructuring of the place last winter. You wait – it’s amazing inside.’ She sounded understandably impressed.
She was right to be impressed. I certainly hadn’t beenexpecting a private island, and for a moment, I found myself thinking of numerous James Bond movies involving evil villains intent on world domination living on private islands. Hopefully, I wouldn’t find Miss Graceland stroking a Persian cat and threatening to feed me to her pet sharks, piranhas or alligators.
I gave Mary a smile. ‘I’ve come across some amazing villas and castles in Tuscany, but nothing to compete with this. Fancy having your own island…’
I followed her out onto the jetty, and she led me to the arched entrance.
‘Welcome to the Swan’s Nest, Mr Armstrong.’
3
The hefty wooden door – about a foot thick and studded with nails whose heads were the size of golf balls – was open, and a stone ramp led up to the daylight beyond. As we climbed the steep slope, I did a quick calculation and reckoned that the walls were probably as much as four or five metres thick and the same kind of height – definitely built to repel even the most determined assault. When we emerged at the top of the ramp, it was to find ourselves in a totally unexpected environment. Secluded by the surrounding walls was an enchanting sub-tropical garden half the size of a football pitch, with palm trees, exotic shrubs and, at the centre, a swimming pool surrounded by lavender and rosemary bushes. All around were buildings constructed against the inside of the defensive walls which, presumably, had once housed the garrison.
I followed Mary along a paved path through the bushes to the largest of the buildings. A series of arches along the front had been glazed and they looked out onto a charming terrace protected from the sun by a wrought-iron pergola covered in luxuriant vines. She led me along the terrace until she reached aglass door. She tapped on it and, without waiting for an answer, held it open for me.
‘This is Miss Graceland’s study. She’ll see you here.Arrivederci, Signor Armstrong.’ She spoke in hushed tones as she ushered me inside before closing the door quietly behind me and leaving me on my own.
I stood still and took stock. It was a large room for a study, and although there was a bookcase full of books, including one whole shelf of gardening books – presumably the film star’s hobby – the focal point of the room was a massive TV screen mounted on the end wall. Compared to the outside temperature, it was blissfully cool in here and I could see that a new air-conditioning system had been installed. Directly in front of me was a big, old-fashioned wooden desk with a modern office chair behind it, but there was no sign of my host. The desktop was piled high with untidy heaps of paper, most covered in scribbled handwriting, and there was a large-screen laptop closed in the centre of it. There was a fine old wooden door set in the wall to my left, presumably connecting with the rest of the house, and a pair of stylish, modern sofas to the right, facing each other across a glass-topped coffee table. The vaulted brick ceiling had quite clearly been recently sandblasted, and the room had been replastered and repainted. The floor was paved with light-grey marble slabs – probably not original – strewn with handsome Persian rugs, and the overall impression was of comfort and understated opulence.
I heard footsteps approaching, and the door on my left opened. I turned at the sound of the door handle and found myself in the presence of a true megastar. I recognised Alice Graceland immediately, and my first impression was that she surely couldn’t be over sixty. She was casually dressed in a blue skirt and a T-shirt advertising The Eagles’ comeback tour atMadison Square Garden, and she looked stunning. As her bright-blue eyes – either by accident or design, the exact same shade as her skirt – met mine, she produced a radiant smile that threatened to reduce me to a gibbering wreck, fiancée or no fiancée. She was a stunningly attractive woman, and I found myself smiling gormlessly back at her. She walked over to where I was standing and extended an elegant hand.
‘Mr Armstrong, good morning. Thank you for coming.’
Close up, I could see a handful of fine lines around her eyes, but she could very easily have passed for ten or even twenty years younger than me. Mind you, a lot of people look younger than me these days.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Graceland. It’s an honour to meet an actor of your stature.’
She gave me a deprecating smile. ‘You’re too kind. Please take a seat. I’d like to talk to you.’
I sat down on one of the leather sofas facing her and she took a seat opposite me.
‘The reason I’ve invited you here is because, at the end of the month, I’m having a house party, and I would like you to come.’ No doubt noticing my puzzled expression, which had been there since Selena had told me about the invitation, she elaborated. ‘I want you here in your professional capacity. I’m going to need you for your expertise as a detective, and I insist on paying you for your time.’
Conflicting thoughts were going through my head. There was a certain amount of disappointment, although even in my most optimistic moments, I hadn’t really been expecting her to offer to turn my books into blockbuster movies. This sense of disappointment was tempered by the thought of who might be at this party. Was I likely to find myself surrounded by famous faces and maybe even Hollywood film producers interested in turning mybooks into movies? Along with this was natural curiosity to know exactly why she felt she needed the presence of a private investigator at the party. Before I could ask, she explained.
‘It’s going to be a murder mystery weekend.’ I probably looked a bit vague, so she gave me more detail. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever been to one before, but the idea is that, with the aid of a few actors, I give my guests a good dinner and in the course of it, I present them with a murder – naturally, a fictitious murder – and they have to sniff out the culprit or culprits.’
I gave her a smile in return. ‘That sounds interesting, but a murder mystery weekend is a new one on me. I must admit that, during my thirty years at Scotland Yard, I tended to get more than my fair share of real murder investigations without going out and looking for more. It’s very kind of you to think of me and, to be quite honest, seeing as most of my life now as a PI tends to consist mainly of marital infidelity and petty crime, it’ll be good to get involved with a murder investigation where nobody gets killed. Where’s the party going to take place – here?’
She nodded. ‘It’ll be the first opportunity I’ve had to show the place off. The builders only finished just before Christmas.’
‘Will your guests be staying here, or will they be staying in hotels?’
‘There will only be a dozen or so people, so they can all stay here, yourself included. There are twelve guest bedrooms, so there’s ample space. By the way, I gather from Selena that you and your dog are a double act. Do bring it with you, by all means. I love dogs and I’ll write it into the murder mystery script.’
